Pen to Paper

Cultivating Mindfulness in Daily Reflection

When I was about seven years old, my favorite uncle gave me my first diary. It wasn't just any diary; it was a treasure chest of possibilities, with its warm cream color adorned with delicate pink, red, and blue flowers. The golden clasp, complete with its own tiny key, whispered promises of secrecy and sacredness. A crimson satin ribbon, elegantly attached, beckoned me to explore its pages, each one a canvas for my thoughts and dreams.

At that age, I was a dreamer, always lost in my own world of stories and songs. The arrival of the diary felt like a gift from the universe, a place where I could pour out my heart without fear of judgment. With each page I filled, I felt like I was creating something sacred, something that was entirely my own. 

That diary created a lifelong habit in me. Over the years, I have journaled off and on for a good portion of my life. 

Years later, I met Ezekial, a gentle giant of a dog with a heart of gold. He came into my life when I needed him most, a beacon of unconditional love in a world full of uncertainty. With his towering presence and unwavering loyalty, he became my closest companion, my confidant in times of joy and sorrow.

He was a cross between a Great Dane and a Doberman. He looked like a full-bred Doberman who was the size of a Great Dane. Ezekiel was surrendered to the rescue that I volunteered with late in his life. He was more than eight years old, which is very old for a dog of his size. His human, a woman only a few years older than me, had cancer and was going into hospice. She had no family to take him in. Ezekial had been so devoted to his human companion that, as her illness debilitated her, Ezekial learned on his own how to help her to remain independent longer. He became, in essence, her self-trained assistance dog. He fetched drinks for her from the refrigerator and brought her the phone when it was ringing. He pulled her out of her chair when she needed help standing, and assisted her in navigating her apartment. 

When he moved in with me, it was clear that Ezekial understood that his last human had died. He was in mourning. Yet, he also noticed that I was just as needy. Yes, I was physically fit and healthy. But I was an emotional wreck and desperate for love and a sense of safety. He picked up on the fact that I was frightened of the world around me, and took to standing by me silently, just watching. 

His presence was a balm to my wounded spirit, a beacon of unwavering love amidst life's tumultuous storms. With him by my side, I felt invincible, as if his mere presence could chase away the shadows that haunted my soul. In his eyes, I found solace, in his touch, healing, and in his silent companionship, the promise of a brighter tomorrow. He was also very generous with his love, and made it clear to me that he loved me wholly, and would always remain devoted to me. He became my best friend. 

In those days, my household resembled a chaotic zoo, with two cats, four other dogs, and multiple foster animals running amok. I was basically the Noah of my neighborhood, minus the ark. And let me tell you, Ezekial quickly became the superstar of this furry circus, especially when my other beloveds discovered his hidden talent: opening refrigerators and cupboards. It was like having a canine Houdini in the house! Suddenly, I had a pack of four-legged food thieves on my hands, orchestrating midnight raids on the fridge like a furry Ocean's Eleven crew. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear they were plotting their next heist over a game of poker when I wasn't looking.