My desk is cluttered with paper, a pen pushed behind my ear, and a paperclip at the corner of my mouth as it often is when I am concentrating too hard. Marker stains the inside of my left index finger as I stand back from the oversized poster chart paper on the wall in front of me, and I regard the conceptual framework I have been drafting for the better part of fifteen minutes. With a thought tugging at a corner of my mind, I spin the marker in my hand and try to pull the idea forward but it will not move. Not yet. I catch my head tilting to one side and then the other in the attempt to stretch my neck into releasing the tension that forever seems to reside in my spinal column, hearing the buzz of my phone buried in my workbag, alerting me to one message or another. Capping the marker, I reach back with one hand and fumble in the depths to locate the offense, never taking my eye off the text in front of me.
I glance at the text quickly to see if it is emergent and prepare to drop my phone on the chair but stop. I look at it again and swear quietly under my breath. It is another one. I think about the email I received the night before. And the message three days prior. I see the bubble and telltale dots letting me know more is coming and the marker falls to my side as I wait. As I read, more comes. And then more. As the sadness wells up inside of me, it is replaced with another feeling I am unable to name. I place the phone carefully in my bag and return to my work, but I am distracted. My focus is disturbed for the rest of the day, frustrating me as I periodically look at the “to do” list next to me and try to reply to emails or address phone calls. I have a grant narrative to draft and an application to the human subjects board to write, but neither are receiving my undivided attention because of the text.
As I arrive home, the dog bounds down the steps, her energy reminding me that a walk in the cool air might be the best approach for addressing what is on my mind. Quickly changing clothes, her leash is loosely in my hand as we head outside and down the path toward the pond and woods, getting lost among the leaves. She seems to sense the chaos that is churning inside me and instead of her usual pace, she takes off at a slow trot and then begins to burn faster, encouraging me to run. I can feel the energy transfer from her legs to mine as we wind around the birch trees and among pines, picking up speed, allowing the early evening air into our lungs. After about a mile she churns to a sudden stop with her nose to the ground as she picks up a scent, and I stop next to her glancing up to figure out where we have landed.
She is working a piece of sod with her snout when the realization of my aggravation occurs to me. She is doing the work. This dog, my companion after multiple surgeries and medical appointments, across road trips and in the loneliest hours, who would rather stroll gently and take in every scent, sprinted for my benefit. She knew what I needed and responded for me. She didn’t push it off on someone else or expect someone else to bear the load because it was too much or she didn’t know what to do or say. She is doing the work. Hard work. The work of being there. The work of showing up.
My chest heaving with the effort of our sprint after a 10-hour work day and barely remembering the last time I slept, the familiar pain edging in the base of my spine, I look down at her as she pauses in her efforts and gazes up at me with her chocolate eyes. My own stare back at her in common understanding of the extreme difficulty of the task, and I hope my gaze offers her the gratitude she deserves. Gratitude for showing up. Love for doing the work. Doing the hardest work of showing up.
fakingamazing 