Training My Dog — Lawrenceburg, KY, 2012

Every morning I walk my dog—first through the woods, then along the road. What my dog treasures most is his freedom. It is his true nature. So as soon as he senses the walk approaching, his energy explodes into play. He circles me, challenges me, invites me into a race. And I accept. What begins as running turns into a kind of dance—an unspoken rhythm between two beings moving through life together.

In the woods, he is utterly free. He follows scent, sound, movement. He chases birds and squirrels, traces deer tracks, and periodically returns to me—not because I call him, but to check that I am still present. Still here.

This is my first dog. I am learning as I go. My husband, Wayne, gently reminds me that while freedom is essential, structure is too—especially on the road. The leash, at first, felt like a loss. No more wild sprints up hills, no more spontaneous dives into the creek. But I came to understand something deeply familiar to my yoga and meditation practice: freedom without awareness can become unsafe. Discipline, when offered with love, is not a punishment—it is protection.

So I began training my dog to walk with me on the road. I carry treats and offer them sparingly, as rewards for presence and responsiveness. It isn’t easy. He is young, curious, full of movement. And I am learning too—though no one hands me a treat when I get it right. My reward is subtler: connection, patience, and the quiet joy of shared presence.

On the third day of this practice, something clicked. Training my dog felt exactly like training the mind.

My dog is the mind—restless, impulsive, easily distracted.
The woods, the road, even my home are the meditation cushion.
The treats are the small moments of grace we receive when awareness returns.
And I am the witness—the steady observer learning to stay centered.

I call my dog many names—Ben, Al, Doogie, Buddy Boy—because he doesn’t quite have one name yet. Just like the mind, he holds many identities. And just like the mind, his attention wanders endlessly. I notice my own frustration arise—the desire for immediate results, for progress on my timeline.

And then, as in meditation, I soften.

When I set a clear intention, but release attachment to the outcome, something shifts. My breath slows. My body steadies. The leash relaxes. And almost effortlessly, he comes back to me and sits by my side.

In that moment, I realize: the practice is working—not because I am controlling, but because I am present.

So I ask you:
Where is your mind running free without awareness?
Where might a gentle leash—breath, intention, compassion—offer safety rather than restriction?

This week, I invite you to notice:
When distraction arises, can you pause instead of pull?
Can you reward awareness without force?
Can you walk with your mind, rather than drag it?

Join me in practicing this meditation in motion—on the mat, on the cushion, and in the ordinary walks of your life.

At the end, I can't help but to ponder: Who's training whom?

March 7, 2012.