One of the things I love
to do when I am on my evening walk with my girl Juno (my Italian Mastiff dog) is to stop periodically, have her sit, and cuddle. Yes, cuddle. We both LOVE to cuddle.
It is a part of our ritual together on the walk, but only at night. I look down, bend over, wrap my left arm around the outside of her 110 lb body, and gently wrap my right arm around her neck and head. Basically, her head is buried in my chest (she loves to snuggle in there). Then I coo over and over - "good girl, good girl, yes I love you" while stroking the side of her neck and chest with my right hand.
The reason we only cuddle at night is because there is no one around, it is pitch black, and there is a deafening silence that allows us to be totally present with each other.
So last night, the two of us were cuddling in the dark on the sidewalk, and in my moment of rapture, I was struck - no, actually overwhelmed - by the staggering fact that she and I, both conscious beings, could find ourselves in this one brief but incredibly special moment of consciousness and connection. It was Awe at its finest.
Then I remembered this quote I saw the other day:
Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you'd think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise. Lewis Thomas
So true, but so often forgotten.
Normally, standing up breaks the wonderful spell of Awe as my brain goes back online again with its relentless jabbering/cataloging/judging/assessing of everything. Thankfully, I have managed (thanks to the Waking Up app) to get unhooked from the mental leash that used to tether me to all of the verbal nonsense and the trance it creates.
Tonight, however, my brain did me a favor by reminding me immediately upon standing of the quote:
Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you'd think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise. Lewis Thomas
A moment of staggering improbability: Juno and me together, at night, in Minneapolis, me bent over, cuddling.
Then I start thinking about how INSANE it is that an amalgamation of atoms - 7 x 10^27 atoms (which is 7 followed by 27 zeros, or seven billion billion billion atoms) are all working together somehow in a coordinated fashion to allow me to experience that moment.
Then, as we are walking together with me in my cosmic reverie, and her looking up at me hoping for a treat from the food bag latched onto my pants, we turn the corner, and I look up and see this sight:
There is this rock floating out there in outer space, 200,000 miles away. And then there is this whole business of the universe and our minuscule, minuscule presence in it, and the statistical improbability of Juno and me became even more overwhelming.
Some folks find such moments deeply unsettling, as I do. But for me, it is more of a bittersweet sensation. I love bittersweet moments like these where there is such a wonderful, warm, and human experience like cuddling with someone I love or my girl Juno, juxtaposed against the brute reality of the universe and the fact that the only thing permanent is impermanence.
Makes me feel alive, in a most wonderful way.
So, I try to remember to look up at the vastness around us, or look down at the small miracles all around us (personally, I love mushrooms and bugs), with some regularity. It snaps me out of the trance my brain creates, and it helps keep things in perspective. Plus, it feels great.
