Walking the Dog or "How I found my Beginner's Mind"

As many of you know, our dog is getting on in years. This means that her get-up-and-go is starting to...well, you know. I've started walking her on a lead so I don't have to worry that she'll wander into the road if a car comes by, instead of going off the road like I need her to. We used to walk three miles every morning at a nice, brisk pace. Now we walk maybe a mile, and the walking part is punctuated by frequent stops to sniff, root around in undergrowth, and maybe lap some water out of a mud puddle.

I don't rush her. I listen to her being her dogly self while I enjoy the sunshine, the gorgeous meadows, the cows in the neighboring farm's fields. I suspect the lead makes her feel connected to me. I know I feel more connected to her as she ages. I feel like I have to care for her more, look after her more, love her more. What strikes me, though, is the amount of time I have now to really look around me as we meander down the road. There is only one side road near our house and it is more heavily travelled than ours. We don't generally walk that way. If we were to walk a loop from our house, it would be about six miles long. That's a little more time than I want to invest, and I don't think she'd survive the trek. Instead, we walk south along our road for maybe a half mile. And then we walk back north along our road.

As we walked along in the glorious sunshine yesterday evening, it struck me that I've been observing this stretch of road through the seasons for over seven years now. I'm starting to notice things changing. Little things. Neighbor's got a new combine. There are three calves in the upper field. The county road crew doesn't know how to patch potholes very well. The farmers down the road rebuilt part of their stone wall. The former councilman has his garden in. The new folks have someone to mow for them. Little things that punctuate country life.

I like having a history with these little things. It is the stuff of living. They say not to sweat the small stuff, but actually, I think the small stuff is kind of the point. Did you ever notice that practicing your instrument is like walking the same stretch of road every day for a year? You focus on the little things until suddenly they're automatic, and then you're really free to look at (or listen to) the bigger picture! One day you're grinding away in a session because they're playing one of the six tunes you know and you'll be darned if you'll miss your chance to play it! You keep going to sessions, you keep playing at home, you take your lessons, and so on. And then it happens...one day you realize that you're not struggling to keep up! You're actually trading variations with someone and smiling and you're ready for the tune change. Or you're just listening because the people you're hanging with are so much fun to listen to...and...YEAH! This Irish Music stuff is so cool!!!!

That's when you realize that, now more than ever, those stupid scales and breath- or bow-control strategies and interval exercises are critical. And suddenly you're focused back on the little things. When you reach that point, you've achieved what Zen Buddhism calls "Beginner's Mind." You don't need to know it all, but the simple choice to focus on the little things changes everything. When does it happen, you ask? Well, it's that moment when you discover that knowing the scales in every key makes it quicker to learn a tune. It's the willingness to revisit a sticky spot in a tune, whether you're adjusting your fingering or breathing or bowing or phrasing, to see if there is a new way to play it. It is the ability to hear the pulse of a tune in someone else's playing and to know that you will give your all to get that same sound.

Above all, it is the patience to hear the music from all the players that surround you, good or bad, new or old, and respect their journey and incorporate it into your own experience.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read what I have to say. I'm sorry, but I've got to go now. I have to walk the dog.

The Trad