A Meditation on Grace

Two weeks ago, just after my 50th birthday, we added a new member to our family:  Grace, a 4-month old yellow lab/basset hound mix (the vet calls her a “bassadore”), a rescue dog from the local humane society. 

Adding Grace to our family continues to be a great lesson in family systems theory:  she has definitely disrupted the status quo and changes are inevitable, whether we like it or not, because our collective well-being depends on our capacity for adjusting.  The youngest cat is curious and forgiving; a truce is in sight.  The older cat is taking it hardest; he is creative and persistent in his protests.

My husband is taking it in stride; he has learned to do this after 26 years of marriage, and perhaps adding a dog to the family is a small change after, “Honey, let’s quit our jobs; sell our house; move to Boston; attend seminary; move to New Mexico for the internship; enter ministerial search; and then move to Pennsylvania for our first settled ministry."

Grace is my first dog, and perhaps a mid-life quest to know myself in a different way.  She is humbling me and also helping me be in the world in a different way.  She’s a great little am-bassadore in our neighborhood, and around the Parish House.

She is energetic and often needs to stretch her short little legs (I so identify).  In the last two weeks I’ve spent less time at my computer and more time outside.  We’ve had pre-dawn walks in pouring rain; mid-afternoon walks under breathtakingly blue skies; and misty evening walks softly illuminated by porch lights and street lamps.  I know that  the harsh Pennsylvania winter and deep snow are coming, and that our walks are about to get much more messy, but in the meantime…

I’ve been serenaded by raindrops on the hood of my rain jacket, a surprisingly pleasant ballad.  I’ve spent time revering fall colors in full glory against azure blue.  I’ve actually heard the subtle pop of a single leaf launching into a choreographed descent that concludes in whispered landing on frosted ground.  One late afternoon, seated on the front porch steps, I followed Grace’s gaze and saw a crow flying overhead with a post-it note dangling from its beak.  I thought it a weird sight; Grace seemed nonplussed.

There is so much I need to learn about living with a dog, and I know that further transition is inevitable.  I’m thinking of this effort as a spiritual practice on transition: accepting change; leaning into the discomfort and inconvenience of my disrupted schedule and agenda; trusting that I’m developing more wisdom and  patience about being in relationship; and surrendering to that which is beyond my control (a spiritual lesson the cats have been trying to teach me for many years now) -- including loving and being loved by a creature who -- in the absence of words -- embodies her communications to me.  I have to pay attention.  It is a good lesson in grace.