Dear Friend,
In the park, I saw snow drops and daffodils for the first time this year. But it’s not Spring yet. January has a reputation for being a tough month. February the same.
How are things with you?
The parts of my mind I’m calling the false self has been planning an uprising. The aim of the uprising is, for my own good, to stop this crazy project.
But instead I thought I’d write to you and see how you are.
Today is the last day of Murphy’s stay. His owner Lucy gets back off her work trip.
Murphy started his life on the streets of Romania. He’s like a cross between a sausage dog and shepherd. He’s got short legs, which means he can out manoeuvre lankier dogs. We call him Maradona the way he twists and turns, changing direction like a fish.
He’s no push over.
A strong will. We believe he may be Napoleon re-incarnated, working through the karma worked up with all of the commanding and dominating he did last lifetime.
We love him. He sheds hair so you find these little balls of fluff blown into the corners of the kitchen and behind the pot plants. He has this way of glowering at you. You’ll have no idea what he wants. Food probably, and a way to raise an army and retake Prussia.
The uprising of the false self, the first tactic is to find the well of being and cut off the underground spring that fills it. There is beneath the surface a supply of warmth and happiness that flowed since the moment we came into this world.
It can’t be found out there.
The stuff out there that we mistake for the source of our wellbeing are more like notes we’ve left for ourselves. “Remember to look inside, I love you, I’m here, don’t forget me.”
I’m remembering Romania, one particular day which ended with Chiara and me, yelling for help, lost in the pitch black of a forest at night. We were hiking in Transylvania, and were following a guide book written by a fairly extreme kind of guy. At the end of the guidebook you find that the author died by falling off a cliff in the fog.
The book was also full of stories about hikers being attacked or held prisoner by sheep dogs.
This particular walk had been pretty spectacular. The shepherds in Romania have packs of dogs to guard the sheep. We were climbing a fairly steep open path with forest to our side. Through the early morning mist I saw a cute young dog hovering around the tree line, the feeling of being watched, the dogs curiosity about us was a physical force. He or she looked cute enough, and there was only one of them, but something inside was stirring, an unfamiliar feeling, like deep down somewhere I sensed we were prey.
The cute little dog disappeared from sight returning moments later with a rag tag pack of sheep guardians. The pack rushed at us, snarling and barking, a circle of flashing teeth, and flattened ears. What do you do?
The coordination of the pack chilled the blood. The intelligence of it. They circled us, taking turns to lunge, controlling us. Chiara and me back to back, waving walking sticks and yelling for the shepherd. It was a Scooby Doo moment. An imagine of Shaggy and Thelma imposed itself over the scene, except they were facing werewolf goons and they had blazing torches in hand.
In such circumstances you’re forced into an alert state, despite the danger I was strangely serene inside. On the surface, I’m the one frothing at the mouth, brandishing a pitifully inadequate tree branch, yelling for the shepherd to come call off his dogs, inside accepting the situation, knowing it will work out.
Finally the shepherds voice rang across the hillside. Some piercing whistle like the call of a hunting bird. Tension dropping like a cloth from the dogs, instantly cute sweet looking, they turned - did I perceive a bow, a nod of recognition? - and trotted happily off into the tree line.
Layers of consciousness. The surface changes according to the weather - stormy, calm, languid, rippling, surging. Deep down, the place we meet our joyful selves, calm. Still.
The shepherd was annoyed with us for all of my shouting. He seemed to be telling us we’d been drowning out his calls to the pack. I suspected he’d been having a bit of fun with the tourists. Who knows.
I’ll miss Murphy when he goes home.
Then something else will come to occupy my attention and it will be weeks before I think of him again.
We’re odd creatures. Enjoy your quirkiness today.
Thank you for reading. That’s a whole month of letters.
If you’ve enjoyed getting these daily musings, would you consider granting a favour?
Would you consider sharing this article with friends? I’ll keep showing up everyday for the rest of the year, no matter what my false self has to say about it.
This button should make it easier:
It helps to know you’re here.
Writing to you.
Connecting to the heart.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey