On Equanimity, and Letting Things Be As They Are

A few weeks ago, Becoming Jackson Whole concluded its first annual Summit, called “Giving Rise to a Mindful Community.” It included a spellbinding talk by Dr. David Creswell on equanimity, a byproduct of mindfulness practice.

His research underscored how focusing your attention on an anchor such as the breath, with intention to be open and not critical or dramatic, strengthens the neural networks in the brain during the practice period enough that those same neural networks can be called upon for stability in tough real-life situations. Equanimity is simply an ability to find balance in the face of stress or big emotional swings. It is having a sort of composure when the world is upending or reorganizing itself under your feet.

I found the strength of my own equanimity tested just last week. 

More than a decade ago, a beleaguered small white dog found her way from the adoption center through my office doors, well before small dogs were in vogue. I tried to send her back immediately because she was, as my friend Sharel pointed out later, “not on brand.” I liked to project “in control” and “tough as nails.” Poodle-esque Roxy definitely wasn’t tough, or useful in any sort of dog way: she was not going to skin the King with me or swim in the Snake or do anything remotely cool by Jackson dog standards. 

But as soon as the office door closed, Roxy raised herself up on her hind legs and pawed the air, completely refusing to be coy or guarded. “I choose you,” she said with her paws. “Please, choose me back.” 

She became my constant companion, a guide through a decade of hard stuff, as I had to let go of things…loved ones, a full nest, a marriage, a best friend, innocence. Roxy brought lots of joy with her greetings: whether I was returning from days away or a trip to the ladies room, the reunion was the same. We should all try to make people feel that important. She also walked the grief and confusion with me, usually in a backpack because, let’s face it, fluffy white dogs are not meant to climb mountains.

In February, Roxy’s heart began to give out. Of course it did, I thought. The need for a bit of emotional support in my life had become a Clydesdale-sized job, something that becomes true for most of us at some point. Roxy and I managed a few more precious months. I gave her weight in my lap my full attention each morning as I practiced focusing on my breath, on gratitude, on compassion practices. In simpler terms, I devoted my mindfulness practice each morning to sending her appreciation and love. I tried to imprint her care and devotion to me strongly enough that it could reverberate beyond her quieting heart.

Last week, my older son came with me to the vet, where we laid her on a soft cushion and wept grateful tears into her face and over her body. My sons had said for years that no one would or could survive the day that Roxy and I would have to part, and I believed them until this moment. We patted her and petted her and let the tears and love wash over every bit of her tiny dog body, and we gave thanks. We let it all be as it was.

The strangest thing happened next. I went to dinner with my family, as planned. I celebrated my uncle’s 90th birthday with my parents there, as planned. I felt tender, of course. My eyes were red-rimmed, of course. Something in me went beyond queasy when I crawled into bed later that night with an empty spot on the pillow where she liked to sleep.

I was as surprised as my friends were, my sons and sister especially, that even in the deep sadness of loss, I could find a way to touch the whole of the experience. Sadness was – and is – a big part of my waking thoughts, but in the acceptance of it, I found a lot more freedom to touch other parts, too. The boldness of that little dog’s faith in me. The opening of a heart, any heart, when someone makes clear that they value you beyond words. The fact of the tapestry that extends beyond what begins with birth and ends with death. 

The simple practice of focusing my attention, over and over, on the breath, allowed me to then focus my attention on what my breath allows, which is life.