I walk with a friend along the left edge of America. We’re wandering a wedge of sand bordered to the west by the Pacific Ocean, and to the north by the town of Yachats, Oregon. We’re separated from the town by a little river that flattens across the beach, and then surrenders to the pull of waves. We talk about the unique habitat created by the confluence of freshwater and saltwater, and the specialized ecosystem thriving there.
He and I are recovering fundamentalists. Our conversation turns to the allure of legalism – the delicious illusion that life’s choices can be neatly parsed into two simple categories: right and wrong. And we wonder together how we might distinguish between legitimate personal convictions on one hand, and brittle dogmatism on the other.
Into the middle of our ruminations bounds a shaggy Shepherd-Lab mix, black with white-tipped ears, feet, and tail. In his teeth he grips the charred nub of someone’s marshmallow stick, plucked from the cold remains of a beach fire. His expectant eyes and wagging tail leave no doubt about his wish. My friend obliges and tosses the spindly fetch-toy. With undiluted delight the dog retrieves the stick and deposits it at my feet. I fling it Frisbee-style, then scrub off the saliva with a handful of sand. This time, instead of bringing it to us, he swerves south toward the wave-muted sound of his name.
In a few minutes he’s back, along with two dachshunds and two humans. The dachshunds appear sophisticated and reserved, and slightly embarrassed by their large companion’s exuberance. The humans look like seasoned veterans of the counterculture, perhaps teachers or writers or potters. They smile toward the mongrel and apologize for his attenuated cognitive faculties. The woman says, “He has a very limited view of the world.” “Yes,” the man adds, “he sees all things in terms of stick-no-stick.”
We laugh with them, and I note the parallel to binary code. My friend says, “Right! It’s all about zeroes and ones…”
We walk silently for a while. I’m not satisfied with our assessment of the dog’s fetching obsession. Could it be that he isn’t really stuck in a recursive loop of dimwittedness? But rather that he’s endlessly compelled to give up the stick in order to feel the joy of having it again? Maybe he’s intuited the balance of possession and generosity, paired together in a spirit of playfulness.
I glance toward my soul. Sadly, it has the look of a haughty dachshund. Embarrassed by possession, afraid of generosity, distracted from the play at hand… I lift my eyes to the beauty of the beachscape and pray for the wisdom of stick-no-stick.
Showing posts with label Legalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Legalism. Show all posts
10/06/2004
3/30/2004
Off Leash
The drizzle has returned. Autumn arrived today without waiting for a proper introduction. This rain is the sort that patiently saturates everything it touches… its misty drops easily penetrating jackets, hats, and hair.
Boomer doesn’t like rain. He’d be back inside on his pillow by now if he weren’t sure we were heading for the Pipeline trail. But getting soaked to the skin is a price he willingly pays for a decent walk.
Once off the street and through the gate to the trail, I remove his leash and let him run. He’s particularly spry today, and launches himself into the scraggly trailside grass. His muscular, ground-hugging gait is comically beautiful. He is propelled by the notion that he can outrun the rain. I call him and he wheels around, coming just close enough to reassure me that he’s not planning to make a break for it. I say, “OK, go ahead” and he takes off again.
My willingness to trust Boomer off leash is a recent development. Since he came to us by way of the Humane Society, I didn’t know what to expect. Frankly, I had serious doubts that he would even stay in our own yard voluntarily! The thought of a dog that would not bolt at the first opportunity was pure fiction to me. I’d never owned a dog trained in the lovely art of obedience.
The first dog I ever met was a hound named Freckles. My parents had adopted her before I was born. She’d been found on the fringe of my grandparents’ farm – a newborn puppy, abandoned and starving. My folks nursed her back to health and she never went hungry again, not even for a few minutes… She was portly from that time on. Her homebody nature most likely had less to do with obedience than appetite, though. She had a strong inner tether to her food bowl.
Next came Buffy, whom we adopted after Freckles had gone to the happy snacking grounds in the sky. She was some sort of Spaniel and Golden Retriever mix – an irresistible little puffball that grew up svelte, pretty, and energetic. Hyper is probably a better word. Her outdoor life was lived at the end of a rope that was attached to a clothesline-style run. If she got loose she got lost. Outta there… See ya… Arrivederci, baby… And then the chase was on, which appeared to please her as much as the escape itself. But at least Buffy had a modicum of respect for automotive technology, which is far more than can be said for Tuck.
When my wife and I were newly married, before our first child was born, I decided we should take a page from my parents’ book and get a dog. Enter “Nantucket of the North”, a purebred “red and white” Siberian Husky. (I should’ve held out for a starving hound dog.)
One of the many important lessons I learned from Tuck was that it is unwise (read: stupid) to own a Husky that hasn’t had obedience training before reaching six months of age unless you also own a yard that resembles the Iditarod dog-sledding course.
Tuck possessed an uncanny knack for breaking or slipping whatever rope, chain, or collar I put on him. He viewed all of creation as his turf, including the paved parts. So, once free, he was prone to carouse the streets, more or less oblivious to the large steel animals speeding back and forth. When a car approached, his thought seemed to be “I’m not sure what that thing is but I know I could kick its butt.” Unfortunately, he was wrong about that.
Needless to say, when we reopened the topic of dog ownership it was with fear and trembling, shamelessly begging for God’s mercy. He heard those prayers and led us to a dog that not only understands English, but also does what he’s told! (Well, most of the time…)
Linguistically gifted as he is, however, I doubt Boomer’s ability to comprehend the fact that outrunning raindrops is usually a fruitless endeavor. So I let him keep trying, full throttle and smiling from one pinned-back ear to the other.
As I watch him dart from grass clump to ditch to fallen branch, I realize a brotherly connection to him. I know what it’s like to be trusted “off leash”. And I suspect that God’s delight in my freedom includes a touch of amusement too. After all, my quirks and antics must make just as hilarious a picture as Boomer trying to outrun the rain.
As a matter of fact, I see myself in the other dogs too. Freckles maintained a tight orbit around her center of security, the kitchen. If I’m honest about it, there have been times when I’ve stuck close to regulated religion for a similar reason: it met my needs. I found food there, and I grew fat there. But there is a difference between obedience and spiritual self-indulgence.
Like Buffy I have felt the pinch of artificial restraint. I’m acquainted with the sense that my life is little more than a length of rope keeping all the good stuff out of reach. Looking back now, I think I better understand the spark in her orange eyes: it meant, “If only I could be out there…”
True, there is a sort of comfort in rules – life’s limits seem predetermined and clear. Legalism promises to alleviate the challenge of learning how to listen, understand, and respond to a living voice. Buffy broke the law of the leash whenever possible. She knew next to nothing about obedience, but she loved being chased, and hearing the sound of voices behind her, calling, “Buffy… Get back here! Hey! Buffy…”
I often wish it were tenable to see life as Tuck did, without borders, boundaries or danger. There is something very appealing about that ideal. But freedom at the expense of truth is not sustainable. More than once I’ve misjudged my own ability to handle the headlights that have come speeding toward me out of the dark.
Boomer traces a wide, leisurely arc back to my side. I didn’t call him this time, but he apparently wants to check in and make sure I’m still paying attention. Somehow he seems to know when I’m daydreaming.
And so I come back to my deep appreciation of this little black-brindled brick of a dog. Like him, I have learned the resonant goodness of hearing and heeding my master’s voice – of understanding his language, and choosing to stay close enough to hear. Like him I occasionally lapse backward into smaller ways of living. But having once experienced what it’s like to run in the divine tension of freedom and obedience nothing else will do.
“’Come and follow me!’ At once they dropped what they were doing and followed him.” Mark’s Gospel Account, 1:17a, 18
Boomer doesn’t like rain. He’d be back inside on his pillow by now if he weren’t sure we were heading for the Pipeline trail. But getting soaked to the skin is a price he willingly pays for a decent walk.
Once off the street and through the gate to the trail, I remove his leash and let him run. He’s particularly spry today, and launches himself into the scraggly trailside grass. His muscular, ground-hugging gait is comically beautiful. He is propelled by the notion that he can outrun the rain. I call him and he wheels around, coming just close enough to reassure me that he’s not planning to make a break for it. I say, “OK, go ahead” and he takes off again.
My willingness to trust Boomer off leash is a recent development. Since he came to us by way of the Humane Society, I didn’t know what to expect. Frankly, I had serious doubts that he would even stay in our own yard voluntarily! The thought of a dog that would not bolt at the first opportunity was pure fiction to me. I’d never owned a dog trained in the lovely art of obedience.
The first dog I ever met was a hound named Freckles. My parents had adopted her before I was born. She’d been found on the fringe of my grandparents’ farm – a newborn puppy, abandoned and starving. My folks nursed her back to health and she never went hungry again, not even for a few minutes… She was portly from that time on. Her homebody nature most likely had less to do with obedience than appetite, though. She had a strong inner tether to her food bowl.
Next came Buffy, whom we adopted after Freckles had gone to the happy snacking grounds in the sky. She was some sort of Spaniel and Golden Retriever mix – an irresistible little puffball that grew up svelte, pretty, and energetic. Hyper is probably a better word. Her outdoor life was lived at the end of a rope that was attached to a clothesline-style run. If she got loose she got lost. Outta there… See ya… Arrivederci, baby… And then the chase was on, which appeared to please her as much as the escape itself. But at least Buffy had a modicum of respect for automotive technology, which is far more than can be said for Tuck.
When my wife and I were newly married, before our first child was born, I decided we should take a page from my parents’ book and get a dog. Enter “Nantucket of the North”, a purebred “red and white” Siberian Husky. (I should’ve held out for a starving hound dog.)
One of the many important lessons I learned from Tuck was that it is unwise (read: stupid) to own a Husky that hasn’t had obedience training before reaching six months of age unless you also own a yard that resembles the Iditarod dog-sledding course.
Tuck possessed an uncanny knack for breaking or slipping whatever rope, chain, or collar I put on him. He viewed all of creation as his turf, including the paved parts. So, once free, he was prone to carouse the streets, more or less oblivious to the large steel animals speeding back and forth. When a car approached, his thought seemed to be “I’m not sure what that thing is but I know I could kick its butt.” Unfortunately, he was wrong about that.
Needless to say, when we reopened the topic of dog ownership it was with fear and trembling, shamelessly begging for God’s mercy. He heard those prayers and led us to a dog that not only understands English, but also does what he’s told! (Well, most of the time…)
Linguistically gifted as he is, however, I doubt Boomer’s ability to comprehend the fact that outrunning raindrops is usually a fruitless endeavor. So I let him keep trying, full throttle and smiling from one pinned-back ear to the other.
As I watch him dart from grass clump to ditch to fallen branch, I realize a brotherly connection to him. I know what it’s like to be trusted “off leash”. And I suspect that God’s delight in my freedom includes a touch of amusement too. After all, my quirks and antics must make just as hilarious a picture as Boomer trying to outrun the rain.
As a matter of fact, I see myself in the other dogs too. Freckles maintained a tight orbit around her center of security, the kitchen. If I’m honest about it, there have been times when I’ve stuck close to regulated religion for a similar reason: it met my needs. I found food there, and I grew fat there. But there is a difference between obedience and spiritual self-indulgence.
Like Buffy I have felt the pinch of artificial restraint. I’m acquainted with the sense that my life is little more than a length of rope keeping all the good stuff out of reach. Looking back now, I think I better understand the spark in her orange eyes: it meant, “If only I could be out there…”
True, there is a sort of comfort in rules – life’s limits seem predetermined and clear. Legalism promises to alleviate the challenge of learning how to listen, understand, and respond to a living voice. Buffy broke the law of the leash whenever possible. She knew next to nothing about obedience, but she loved being chased, and hearing the sound of voices behind her, calling, “Buffy… Get back here! Hey! Buffy…”
I often wish it were tenable to see life as Tuck did, without borders, boundaries or danger. There is something very appealing about that ideal. But freedom at the expense of truth is not sustainable. More than once I’ve misjudged my own ability to handle the headlights that have come speeding toward me out of the dark.
Boomer traces a wide, leisurely arc back to my side. I didn’t call him this time, but he apparently wants to check in and make sure I’m still paying attention. Somehow he seems to know when I’m daydreaming.
And so I come back to my deep appreciation of this little black-brindled brick of a dog. Like him, I have learned the resonant goodness of hearing and heeding my master’s voice – of understanding his language, and choosing to stay close enough to hear. Like him I occasionally lapse backward into smaller ways of living. But having once experienced what it’s like to run in the divine tension of freedom and obedience nothing else will do.
“’Come and follow me!’ At once they dropped what they were doing and followed him.” Mark’s Gospel Account, 1:17a, 18
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