What does my dog know that I don't?

So, me and my dog Laddu moved to a new home in July.

As in our previous home, there’s no elevator in the building. We live on the third floor, which means it’s not that many stairs, but with Laddu, it takes us a while to get upstairs.

And downstairs, too.

Not because she isn’t fit enough, but because she finds the staircase absolutely fascinating.

“Did you hear that?” She seems to be asking, looking at me with her big, excited eyes.

And we stop to listen after every few steps.

​I don’t hear much. I don’t even know what I’m missing.

But for Laddu, there is a whole world of sounds and smells here.

She notices everything.​

I, on the other hand, am the ignorant human who just wants to get where I’m going.

Which makes me think about the practice.

How many times have I simply hurried forwards because there was somewhere to go? Something to do? A next posture to get into?

And how much has the practice slowly taught me to notice?

Sensations. Patterns. Fears. Habits. Even pleasures.

​Things that were there all along, but that I couldn’t see clearly.

This, to me, is one of the gifts of practice.

Not simply becoming more flexible or stronger, or learning to do more difficult postures.

But learning to see.

​To notice what's actually happening, rather than immediately believing our first interpretation of it.

To recognise what is true and what is habit.

What is useful and what is no longer serving us.

​What is fear, what is desire, what is conditioning — and what is simply there.

In other words, cultivating discernment.​

I’ll never hear or smell the world the way Laddu does.

But I can keep practising becoming a little less ignorant of my own experience. Want to practise together?

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