Care-giving has a way of pulling the veil off time. With my dog, Minky, the Now is simple because her body is honest. Her heart is enlarged, her breath sometimes falters, and the present moment speaks in clear, tender questions: Is it medicine time? Is it hound-honey time? Does she need my hand on her ribs while her lungs find their rhythm again? Does she just need calm because she can’t control what her body is doing? I don’t get to drift into theories with her. I get to listen. I match my breathing to hers, keep my awareness low and wide, and let love be practical. Animals don’t ask for our explanations; they ask for our presence. And in that presence they give something back — trust, softness, a wordless teaching about how to live at the speed of truth.
With my mother, the Now is sacred in a different way. She’s healthy and aging well, and still, the old scripts stir when I step closer to care. The child-me, the fixer-me, the dutiful-me — each one clears her throat. Presence here means not reliving the past. It means meeting her as the woman she is today, without shrinking back into who I was. I help from my adult heart. I listen from this moment. I let love be boundaried and awake, and I allow our history to soften without rerunning it.
In both places I’m learning that sorrow and joy are not enemies. Laughter is not denial; it’s a companion to reality. It keeps the heart breathable, keeps the room warm, keeps me human while something sacred is happening.
Blessing:
May you let yourself be bright even while something is dimming.
May you let joy sit beside sorrow like an old friend.
May you remember not to make either one wrong.
And may your heart stay open in all directions.