The task is not to guess
To read life, and dogs, what we need is to stretch the eyes and observe
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I write this text while manoeuvring my arms.
Caju, my newly adopted dog, has a habit of snuggling up to me or my partner when we sit on the couch. One paw on the leg, head on the arm, her little body leaning against the hip.
I adapt, temporarily, to her position, allowing myself to be contorted. I could even get up and sit at the spacious desk if that were a real problem - it isn't. I enjoy the effort, which is small compared to the joy of petting her neck every 10 (or 2) minutes.
Since Caju moved in, not only my position on the couch has changed, but also my routine.
Before Caju, I could have breakfast, go to the bathroom, and work in random order and without that many rules. Now, I even stop cooking rice halfway to accommodate her needs.
(I wonder how you there, with one, two, four children, would write this text).
When we're in a routine, the stitches that connect the small events of any given Monday are almost invisible.
Life goes on, and directs itself.
When something new comes into play, unpredictabilities come along.
We find ourselves having to readjust the stitches, loosening the threads and accommodating (or trying to accommodate) the thousand moments not scheduled in the internal calendar.
Beginnings and their unpredictabilities carry a bit of discomfort. It doesn't have to be a problem, the discomfort, but it demands profound energy and time for us to rediscover ourselves in this new place.
At the same time, beginnings are a good place for us to open our eyes wide and observe.
Observing is a quality we possess, we, human animals.
It's a skill that comes with us by nature, but it can grow into a tree or wither into a worm. Whether it develops or atrophies: it depends on how we take care of it.
Learning to observe is crucial for experiences that come without instruction manuals. Like adopting a dog. Being a writer, doctor, or train driver. Having a child. Living life itself.
Experiences come without prescription.
In Caju's case, we only had the basics of information. How much food, some commands, and the importance of training her to pee and poop outside.
But information never saved anyone from the chaos that a new experience throws us into.
Even if you rent all the books from the library: even then you won't be immune to the suddenly-unexpected-can't-believe-it!
In Caju's first week, the feeling I had was of losing the ground. The control. An inch after another. There was too much unpredictability.
As the days went by, the anxiety of wanting to control her seemingly random behaviour slowly changed, not because suddenly I knew much. But I began to realize that she knew.
Caju, from time to time, repeated certain behaviours because she knew, or felt, I don't know what verb is actually good here, when she wanted to pee, or was tired, or hungry.
My task wasn't to guess, but to observe.
We sometimes rush, right? We think we know and start doing things just to hit with the head against the wall. We forget to take the crazy productivity clock off and just wait and notice.
Observing is a state that precedes action. And that informs the decision about our actions.
If, in Caju's case, my action is to take her to pee in the yard, observation educates me. She lets me see that, before Caju opens her hips and squats to pee, she sniffs the ground several times and takes some turns.
Observation also educates us about mistakes - which are inevitable. And also teaches us to have a little compassion for ourselves in this learning process. Because, many times, we'll think she's just sniffing the ground, it's all right, and 10 seconds later, it's already too late. This just happened.
Observing means looking outwards in the same way that it means looking inwards, to ourselves.
That's how we collect information about the nature of our mind and our internal landscapes.
Thoughts, emotions, those body sensations when and while this and that: we only unravel these pieces of ourselves when we train our eyes to observe.
With the eye turned towards ourselves, we can discover our intense desires, our timeless values, and how we want to stitch our days, our lives.
Observing is a practice of adulting.
It helps us get out of passivity. Out of the dependence that someone else makes decisions for us. Observing pushes us, not always gently, towards self-responsibility.
It's no wonder that observation is one of the foundations of several meditation practices.
It's also no wonder that, from observing nature, came the rules of physics.
That from observing people and their relationships, psychology was structured.
Science built its castles on observation.
Observing is basic for us to learn to deal with the non-prescriptive nature of life. It seems like a big problem, but that's where our creative strength comes from.
Through observing we learn to walk through the forest with our own feet, not with the heads and feet of other people.
It's what helped me stop and notice this morning the three ducks walking up there on the tree.
Or that the newborn sun in spring feels good. Or that today the eye pulls a little.
In the end, learning to observe is, in a way, like learning to read. Except that instead of letters, what we learn to read is life — and, eventually, puppies too.
Thank you all for reading this letter, I really appreciate your attention!
If you want to get to know more about my work, check my website marianahilgert.com or drop me an email at hello@marianahilgert.com!