Benji, My Teacher

Benji, September 2022

You snuggle your skinny body up to me, press your back into my belly. I can almost feel the bony ridges of your spine through the covers. It’s rare we cuddle this way, and this may be the last time.

Ever.

So, I wrap my arm around your once strong chest and hold your heart in my hand. It thumps under the rib cage, under your silky fur, under your skin and muscles, now soft with age.

You rest your head near mine, and on occasion you press it back into my face. I kiss the top of your hard, bony skull. We lie there and I feel your breath move in and out and notice you take some longer, deeper breaths. I naturally follow your rhythm and take a longer inhale, exhale.

You’ve always been my teacher.
“Breathe” you seem to be saying.

As we lie here, I remember why we called you Benji the Bullet. How you took off in the woods after deer one day in the middle of winter. How I was alone with you and Zara, how the landscape was bleached by snow, how my fingers were frozen, how I had no sense of direction. How I thought I’d lost you.

I remember the days of tug of war with the blue Kong toy. You and Erez on the living room floor, rolling and tossing, jumping, and you growling – all for effect. Both of you gripped the blue Kong tug of war toy for life. Fierce, strong, determined. You drew sweat and grit from Erez. And most of the time you won! You taught me to never give up.

I remember keep away in the living room, how Erez and I would station ourselves at either end, no furniture in between us, and we’d throw the ball back and forth, you’d run this way and that to catch it and then leap in the air, pirouette, and snatch the yellow ball out of the air like a crocodile snaps up its prey. You taught me to keep my eye on the ball.

I remember all your nose nudges to my elbow while I sat at my computer. You’d tell me, “Time to take a break. Let’s go play, let’s go for a walk,” and me always answering with “in just a minute. I have just one more thing to do.”

As you’ve aged, you’ve taught me to chill, to sit still, to watch life go by, look out the window, watch the leaves flutter, listen to the birds.

Yes, as I lie here, you teach me again to be present. Present to this last moment with you, arms wrapped around you, feeling your heartbeat, listening to you breathe, feeling the warmth of your body pressed against mine.

Present.
With this.
Here now.

Practice

I am practicing.
Practicing being here.
Not there.
Not somewhere over there
far away in some other land
full of warm, wet air
and large shiny leaves.

Yes, I am practicing being here.
Now.
Walking icy paths,
cleats on my boots,
wool hat covering my ears,
my neck wrapped in soft wool.

But, sometimes, because
of the well-worn pathways of wanting
something other than what is,
I long for another life.

Over there.
Somewhere.
Not here.
Not cold.
No cleats necessary.

So, I count my blessings
when I remember to.
The simple ones.
Strong legs.
Warm mittens.
Cozy sweaters.

And when the sun beams
through the winter sky
and drops a golden ray
on my head
I soak it in.

Blessed.

Right here.
Right now.

by Diane Sherman

My Teacher

Night’s curtain fades,
becomes a thin sheath
between dreamtime and wake.

It is our time together
when you press your back
into my belly.

Sleep lingers, muscles
twitch, your breath
heavy.

I wrap my arm around
your barrel chest
hold your heart
in my hand.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Torrents of twitches
convulse your limbs.

I imagine you running
in the other world
chasing balls
catching them mid-air.

Your breathing quickens
heartbeat steady
in my hand.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.

Again and again, 
you teach me to rest.
To luxuriate amongst
the pillows and stretch 
askance on the bed.

You teach me to focus.
Keep my eye on the ball.

You teach me to look 
out the window
and enjoy what’s arriving
moment by moment
day by day. 

Getting Present!

It’s 1999, I’ve just been hit by a car as a pedestrian and left in the middle of a busy street as the car zooms off. The sirens I hear are for me. They’re never for you. This time they are.

Fast forward to August 1999, after rahabbing for six months at my parent’s house in Oakland, spending inordinate amounts of time healing my body, journaling, praying, and moving through a slew of feelings.

I decided it was time for a vision quest, with no other than Roshi Joan Halifax, of Zen Hospice in Santa Fe, NM. It was a 12-day Zen retreat, 4 of which would be spent solo on some part of a mountain with only water, no shelter and a lot of time to contemplate.

I was ready to contemplate. 
I had been giving another shot at life after being left for dead in the street. 
My biggest question was “What am I here to do?”

That is the question I sat with for 4 days. Four days in which I had prayed so much for sun, because of my fear of being rained on, that when we got so much sun, I was praying for rain. Right? 

As I chased shade moving from one rock to the next around the skinny coniferous trees, I kept asking: “What am I here to do?”

The answer? 
“Get present.”

“No really, what am I here to DO?” I asked. 
I wanted specifics. 
“Become a nurse. Or become a civil rights social worker. Or become an interpreter.”
I got, “Get present.”

That is all. 
Four days. 
Chasing shade. 
Begging for rain at the end of those 108 hours.
“Get present.”

I’ve chewed on that answer for years. I became a yoga teacher the following year. I’ve spent thousands of hours on my mat, “getting present.” But I’m a fast mover, a hummingbird, someone who flits from here to there. Erez, my former spouse, used to tell me, “You have thorns up your ass,” meaning you can never sit down. 

Yes. 
Thorns up my ass. 
Indeed.

Well, THIS year, 22 years after that retreat, I got the best inoculation of “getting present” when I got COVID in March. Though I have practiced getting present for years through yoga, dance, writing, art – being knocked on my ass, with no energy, no ability to talk, no real ability to DO anything, I got present.

I really got present. 

Here at home. 
With nowhere to go. 
No, with no energy to GO anywhere. 
Nothing to do. 

I got present and my dogs sat with me. 
My garden bloomed and morphed all around me over the last six months. 
I watched it all.

I got present with what I was going through. 
The low energy. The shredded lungs, the coughing. 
I got present with gratitude, with appreciation for the love in my life. 
For my mom, my friends, the resources I have – my home, my beautiful things.

I got present with the enough-ness of it all. 
It’s enough to just be. 
Here. 
Right now.

Watch Tower

We lie together on the bed
Looking out of the second-floor window.

Maple leaves flutter.

A blackbird with a yellow beak
Pecks at the grass in the front yard.

From this vantage point
The lawn looks like a spotted
Toad with yellow markings
Covering its body.

I open the window and he
Lifts his head, sniffs the air.
Who’s coming?
What does he smell?

We both jerk our heads to see
The walker who strolls by
Buoyantly chatting with someone
On the other end of the line.

I see why he spends hours here
In the “watch tower.”
Bits of life happen all day long.

I lay my head on a pillow
And listen. It’s all I can muster
After an hour of weeding
And pruning the huge hair bun
On the grape vine.

My old self has faded;
The one who squeezed in laundry,
Making dinner, walking the dogs,
Weeding and pruning in between
Teaching, writing newsletters,
Calling people back and posting
On Facebook.

It’s been three months
On this new journey.

I’ve unraveled.
Unfurled.
Dissolved.

I’m happy now if the laundry
Gets done in three days.
If I pull weeds once a week.
If I have food in my refrigerator.

I’m most happy sitting
Among the plants, watching
Them grow. Listening 
To birds chirp.
Watching my dogs lounge in their beds
Observing what’s right in front of them.