The Courage to Be Amazed

Today, Chonkie and I took a little adventure.

Well...

Maybe little isn't the right word.

It involved a two-hour drive, a ferry ride, and a trip into the big city to meet with an orthopedic surgeon about his torn ACL.

If you know Chonkie, you'll understand why this was a big day.

He's a seventy-three-pound pit bull who believes he's much smaller than he is.

Loud noises make him jump.

New places make him cautious.

Quick movements, strange sounds, unfamiliar people...

They're all a lot for my sweet boy.

As we drove, I found myself wondering how he was doing.

Was he hurting?

Was he nervous?

Was he overwhelmed?

By the time we arrived at the veterinary hospital, I knew he was all three.

But then I noticed something that completely changed the way I saw the day.

Everywhere we went...

Chonkie was filled with wonder.

The patch of grass outside the parking lot?

Amazing.

The tree he absolutely had to sniff before he could possibly continue?

Fascinating.

The receptionist?

Obviously his new best friend.

The veterinary technician?

Wonderful.

Every new smell.

Every doorway.

Every tiny patch of landscaping.

It was all worthy of investigation.

It was all...

Interesting.

Yes, he was afraid.

But his fear hadn't stolen his sense of awe.

I don't know why that surprised me.

Maybe because, if I'm honest...

fear often steals mine.

When I'm worried, I stop noticing.

I focus on solving.

Planning.

Preparing.

Protecting.

I become so busy looking for what could go wrong that I stop seeing what's beautifully right in front of me.

Chonkie doesn't seem to do that.

He can be frightened...

and curious.

Uncertain...

and open-hearted.

Tender...

and adventurous.

Those things don't cancel each other out.

What Chonkie Taught Me

I used to think courage meant not being afraid.

Chonkie showed me something very different that day.

Maybe courage is remaining open to wonder even while we're afraid.

That's a much more useful definition for me.

Because if courage requires the fear to disappear first, there are going to be an awful lot of things we never do.

Chonkie didn't wait until he felt completely safe before becoming curious about the world around him.

He brought the fear along.

And then...

he sniffed the tree anyway.

There's something wonderfully simple about that.

I think we humans have a tendency to make fear the headline.

Something uncertain happens and suddenly it becomes the entire story.

We stop noticing what's around us because our attention moves toward the future.

What if?

What happens next?

How am I going to handle this?

What if it doesn't turn out the way I hope?

I know that place well.

And on this particular day, I had plenty I could worry about.

My beloved dog was hurting.

We were seeing a surgeon.

There were decisions ahead.

I couldn't control the outcome.

Yet there was Chonkie...

apparently conducting a thorough investigation of the hospital landscaping.

He wasn't pretending nothing difficult was happening.

His body hurt.

He was nervous.

He was overwhelmed.

And the world was still interesting.

That's the part I keep coming back to.

We often think two seemingly opposite experiences can't exist at the same time.

I can be afraid or curious.

Sad or joyful.

Uncertain or peaceful.

Worried or present.

But Chonkie showed me they can live side by side.

Fear doesn't have to disappear before wonder can return.

Maybe wonder is one of the things that keeps fear from taking over everything else.

By the time we boarded the ferry to come home, I wasn't only thinking about surgery anymore.

I was thinking about my dog.

About the way he'd moved through a difficult day.

About how many tiny things had delighted him simply because they were there.

And I wondered...

How much of my own life do I miss because I'm busy worrying about what comes next?

The tree is still there.

The grass is still beneath my feet.

Someone is still smiling at me.

The sun is still coming through the window.

An animal I love is still beside me.

Life doesn't stop offering beautiful things simply because something difficult is happening.

I think sometimes we stop noticing them.

Chonkie reminded me to look again.

Perhaps awe isn't the absence of fear.

Perhaps awe is love quietly refusing to let fear become the whole story.

You May Be Wondering...

How can my animal companion help me through a difficult season?

I don't think our animals always come into our lives with lessons they're deliberately trying to teach us.

Sometimes they're simply being themselves.

And if we're paying attention, we notice.

Watch how your animal meets an unfamiliar experience.

What do they notice?

What brings them back to the present?

Where do they find joy?

What happens after they're frightened?

Animals don't necessarily show us how we should live.

Sometimes they simply remind us that another way of meeting a moment is possible.

That day, Chonkie didn't make my worries disappear.

He gave me something to hold alongside them.

Curiosity.

Presence.

Wonder.

And one extremely important tree that apparently needed to be sniffed before we could continue.

Sometimes that's enough.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.