Our sweet dog Mira has an eye infection and so each day for a week, three times a day, we take turns, calling her to the kitchen where she sits against the cabinet as we hold a warm compress to her sore eye. Today, it’s my turn. The sun is rising and I’m on my knees, holding her head, as she looks up at me with her other eye. This is what ailments do: they bring us to our knees where we can hold each other’s head and finally, in the quiet before the day begins, we can look into each other’s one good eye. Now compassion rises like a very light bird fluttering in my throat. I think it wants to fly into the world. I want it to, but it hovers there, keeping everything connected, as if fluttering in our throat is its home.
This excerpt is from my book, The Way Under The Way: The Place of True Meeting (Sounds True, 2016).
*photo credit: Trayana Heaton