New Meditation of the Month is HERE.
We met a very foolish lady in the dog park this week.
She was with her silent husband.
And they had an incredibly cute golden retriever (1-2 years old) I later learned was named “River.”
The River Family was on the outskirts of the park.
Vlad and Malibu immediately ran over to greet River.
Exuberant puppy play began.
After the merest moment, however, River’s mom had a huge, borderline hysterical reaction.
Bobby (Malibu’s dad) and I turned to each other and simultaneously inquired, “She’s just kidding, isn’t she?”
Alas, no.
She was babbling something incoherent, so we just walked over and reclaimed our dogs from the River rendezvous.
They found immediate alternative playmates near second base in the baseball field.
Bobby and I simply shrugged, surrendering to the mystery.
Twenty minutes later––after Malibu left–-Vlad again ran over to River.
Their frolicking was delightful.
River’s mother seemed slightly less frenzied but still hovering on the borderline of panic.
Realizing this was a losing battle, as I approached to take Vlad away once again, I asked her what the problem was.
In a nearly indecipherable British accent she rambled on a bit about how one dog was sometimes fine with River but two were way too much and utterly traumatizing.
This was, of course, in direct contrast to what had actually happened and was happening.
Throughout, the husband remained silent, looking embarrassingly off into the distance, using all his willpower to teleport himself out of the scene.
As we parted, I felt compelled, however, to ask her the obvious and only question:
“If your dog doesn’t get along with other dogs…
why are you bringing her to the dog park?”
Not surprisingly, she had no answer worth repeating.
My ancestry DNA is incredibly boring.
It’s 100% Eastern Europe: Poland, Russia, and the Baltics.
Plugging into these roots, let me reveal my favorite Polish saying:
“Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy.”
Or in English:
“Not my circus, not my monkeys.”
That’s the embodiment of the particular aspect of Surrender that I’m trying to practice right now.
And that’s why Surrender is the theme of the new Meditation of the Month HERE.
Surrender can be a tricky, even controversial, concept.
There are so many famous historical quotes––often distorted and out of context––attributed to everyone from Winston Churchill to Vince Lombardi about never giving up or giving in.
And, of course, I’m authentically a firm believer in the power of persistence.
I’ve seen its effects in my own life firsthand.
Thus, surrendering not only feels defeatist, it also feels you’re also adding on a moral failure to your already lost cause.
I do, however, very much like the Angel Card’s definition of Surrender and the direction it suggests:
“The ability to be with what is going on rather than remaining preoccupied with what might, should, or could happen.
Let go of the need to manage life
and deepen into the peace of acceptance.”
Or as I tried to tell River’s mother:
Stop trying to choreograph the puppies.
Inspired by this, this week I resigned from being General Manager of the Universe.
More specifically, my branch office.
I decided a situation I’ve been saddled with was now stable enough that things could play out without my constant supervision and unpaid, unthanked management.
While at one point decency had made intervention necessary, it was now possible for me to punch the clock and check out.
Prior to this point, when my involvement was required, it was helpful to reminded myself when it came to this particular brand of chaos:
- I hadn’t caused it.
- I can’t control it.
- And I certainly can’t cure it.
Having done my best, in other words, it was now the appropriate time to depart, silently invoking that, once again, this is truly:
Not My Circus…Not My Monkeys.
When I think about Surrender, I can’t help but remember something I often said in the yoga classes I taught.
Namely, in a restorative pose when someone was lying on their back, I’d often suggest “Cactus-ing Your Arms.”
That direction mostly worked but what was even better––and usually got a chuckle––was saying:
“Arrange your arms like you’re surrendering in a stage coach robbery.”
Everyone instantly knew exactly what that meant.
The imagery was clear.
And practicing it allowed the chest to open, the shoulders to release, the breath to deepen, and the nervous system to relax.
In other words, the physical embodiment of surrender.
I’m writing this right after getting back from a noon dog park visit.
I’ve just rinsed Vlad off since he was covered with mud, the effect of the now melted midweek blizzard.
And I’m surprised and delighted to report that we’ve also just hung out with (…drumroll…) River, also drenched in mud.
Fortunately, River’s Mom was absent.
Just River’s Dad, who also has a complicated English accent and, when solo, is jovial and chatty.
Every time Vlad approached and I felt compelled to semi-apologize, River’s Dad (or RD) ended up saying things like “That’s quite alright” or “They really are perfectly delightful together.”
RD even showed no adverse reaction when Mink, a black lab we’d all just met, got involved in the fun.
Unlike his wife, RD had no desire to choreograph the puppies.
Trying to do so, results in nothing but panic and defeat.
Indeed, it’s vital to realize that in life, extremely few monkeys actually belong to you, much less are subject to your control.
In other words, allow your circus to shrink.
More importantly, consider that sometimes surrendering is not defeat.
Sometimes it’s the vehicle that allows puppies to play-wrestle in the mud.
And, as I now wash my own very muddy jeans, I can testify that such an experience of surrender might be difficult to control––and incredibly messy––but magnificently and gloriously joyful.
Ultimately, surrender means giving up the illusion of control––something that none of has ever actually had.
Namaste for Now,
P,S. The Meditation of the Month is HERE.
And just FYI I’m currently moving all Vlad photos and videos to our IG HERE.
That’s where I’ll be sharing daily aspects of journey––that is, until he decides to run for office.
