Buddha, The Learning Curve, and a Dog
I never had a guru. Not that I didn’t yearn for one, especially during those golden years of the early sixties when the blush of the East was bright on the rose. Like many of my peers, I devoured the literature—The Bhagavad Gita, Tao Te Ching, Siddartha, Be Here Now—that enticed us, so we thought, with the promise of that sweet, perpetual high we sought in drugs and didn’t quite find.
Though there was many a dark night when I would have renounced chocolate for someone who could provide infallible answers to my endless, urgent questions, someone on whose shoulders I could have shifted the burden of will, I felt constitutionally unable to surrender that kind of power to anyone. No matter how exalted the reputation, how seductive the goodies, nor how frayed the rope from which I frequently found myself dangling.
Primed from childhood by parents who were oppressive and heavy-handed, I distrusted authority. Whether it was school teachers, preachers, or cops, control by others became anathema, an attitude intensified into a virtual ideology when I became a college student in Berkeley in 1962. Besides, I’d heard too many stories about false gods, beguilers, and charlatans.
When I was a kid, teachers were old people whose classes I had to sit through. Except for Mr. Major, my high school English teacher, most of their names and faces have become a blur. Mr. Major was charmless and caustic, and bequeathed to his students an uncompromising knowledge of the principles of good writing. It wasn’t till years later that I realized what a gift his classes were.
There were some memorable teachers in college, but the most influential ones were those I encountered outside of academia. From ex-lovers I learned about my tendency to see what I wanted to see and about my fear of being alone. Anyone I got burned by became a mirror for my pridefulness, lack of discernment, or extravagant expectations. From my parents I learned what I did not want to become. And from friends I discovered generosity and constancy.
But spiritually I was on my own, or so I believed. I studied Buddhism, Sufism, Native American culture. At 28, I joined the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers). I was attracted by its non-hierarchical structure—each member is considered a minister—and the mystical silence at the heart of Meeting for worship.
In my early forties, illness knocked me off my feet with such an emphatic thud that there were times I was sure I’d never stand up again. Helpless in a way I had never been before, I realized that my own relentless inner control, or attempts to control my life, had been as restrictive as the outer controls I had always feared. More so actually because I had the illusion of freedom. With illness, surrender was no longer an option but a reality.
Propelled now by desperation rather than curiosity, I looked for more answers. Finding them was no longer some intellectual exercise of the cocky college kid I used to be. It was survival. The journey was arduous, but I did find answers. They were in those books I’d read all along, only, in the brutal light of hindsight, I saw that I had been looking for another high rather than wisdom on how to live. Not until I became seriously ill did I get it, experientially. I learned that I wasn’t on my own. The Universe—what Native Americans call Great Mystery, Buddhists the Void, Christians the Divine—was my ally. That’s the real source of power. That’s where my absolute faith belonged, not in some trendy spiritual leader-of-the-week after all.
I didn’t become suddenly less responsible for my choices, but felt immeasurably less alone in making them. I realized it’s not about accretion, but about letting go and emptying, not about finding answers to questions, but living the questions. It’s mystery, too—“don’t-know” mind. And I saw that the source is many. It’s the wind and ocean and stars, it’s the creatures and, yes, people. I began to see teachers everywhere, could glean gems from the seemingly dullest.
I understood that no matter how hard you fall—if your house burns down, if you get dumped by your lover, if you lose your shirt, your head, your heart—there are jewels in the ashes. I was learning where to look. Indeed, to look, rather than writing those ashes off as useless trash.
Still, despite the plethora of lovingkindess in my life, for which I’m ineffably grateful, I had become distrustful and cynical. Writers I revered, particularly Buddhist writers like Thich Nhat Hanh, Shunryu Suzuki, and Jack Kornfield, consistently articulated the spiritually lethal effect of holding on to negativity. But my anger, fear, and despair had always seemed so compelling I’d had trouble letting go of them. Now, without the physical reserves I used to have, my body was confirming with startling clarity the transformative power of letting go. Exquisitely aware of the internal pull between my perceived need for self-preservation—the ultimate act of holding on—and a more healing receptivity, I knew that the qualities I needed to cultivate most were trust, non-judgment, and joy, no matter how dark the night or long the day.
Along comes Zachariah.
Zach’s my dog, a gangly sweetheart of a Golden Retriever I found through a breed rescue group. Long in the back and leggy, he was teeming with fleas, had sores on his feet, and favored his right shoulder. He’s afraid of loud noises and manhole covers, and has a tendency to try to rescue swimmers at the beach who are not drowning.
Other than that Zach is the soul of mellow. It took him five minutes to adapt to his new home—different environment, our other Golden Retriever, and us. He settled in as though he had been with us forever. It was awesome, a creature totally at home wherever he found himself—and with whomever.
That was how I wanted to do life, and found so difficult. Zach assumes the absolute goodwill of everyone he encounters. He expects the best and that’s what he gets. Gentle to a fault and friendly but not in-your-face, he’s an extraordinary magnet for people. Zach doesn’t sit zazen, practice vipassana, or burn incense, but he has become an incomparable spiritual adviser. Without words or intent, that 85-pound package of gold teaches by the sheer power of his presence. He’s open, spontaneous, delighted, responsive, forgiving, expressive. If only I could begin to achieve that kind of emotional suppleness.
He smiles a lot and is, above all, playful. He doesn’t attach to things or brood. If he chases a squirrel and it runs up a tree, he doesn’t spend hours trying to bark it down. He moves on. To Zach, life is a romp.
And he has no ego. He’s not invested in looking good or scoring points. I’m getting better, but the traps are everywhere. Each time I think I’ve avoided another one I start to congratulate myself on my skill and, whoops, I’ve fallen into another trap.
Maybe Zach’s cerebral cortex lacks the capacity pundits require to designate a creature as super-conscious. And maybe his behavior reflects little more than a biological mandate rather than an evolved spirit. I don’t believe it for a second—I’ve met too many dogs who make algae look evolved—but who cares anyway? If, as the Buddhists believe, consciousness is as much a function of heart as mind, Zach’s is up there with the highest of them.
I never had a guru, but I found some terrific teachers—including one who can balance a biscuit on his nose then flip it in the air and catch it in his mouth, and who doubles as a foot warmer on cold nights. Like a bumper sticker I saw recently says, “May I always be the kind of person my dog thinks I am.”
©Lucy Aron, The Santa Barbara Independent, January 1998
