For years, I’ve dedicated myself to a spiritual practice of mindfulness. My goal is simple: to walk in nature, stay grounded in my senses, and eventually become a sort of Zen master of the "Now."
A few years ago, I took my dog, Mack, for our usual route. Mack was in his element—trotting, sniffing every bush with surgical precision, and living entirely in the moment. I started with the best of intentions, but somewhere between the first tree and the third park bench, I got sucked into the vortex of my own head. I was drafting work emails, calculating my to-do list, and reliving old arguments.
Suddenly, I "woke up." I realized I’d been mentally absent for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t seen a single flower or felt the breeze; I had been a ghost in my own body.
I looked down at Mack, who was currently savoring the complex olfactory profile of a blade of grass, his tail wagging in pure, unadulterated presence. I was instantly reminded of The Fool from the Tarot deck—the wanderer stepping off a cliff while his dog yaps at his heels.
I realized then that I wasn’t the Zen master in this relationship. I was the Fool.
The real master was at the other end of the leash—and unlike me, he didn't need a book on mindfulness to enjoy the smell of a good bush.
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