Yesterday, we took our dog Mystic for a walk in Tourne Park, one of her favorite activities. She loves hopping in the van, curling up in a seat, and propping her head on an armrest, quietly enjoying the ride.
But when we get to our destination and put her on leash, placid “going along for the ride” is over. It’s sled dog time!
On some occasions, Mystic trots along contentedly, matching her relaxed pace to ours; but most of the time, she seems intent on self-strangulation, tugging mightily on the leash to drive her way forward, like a drag racer straining for the finish line with a permanently-deployed drogue chute.
The irony is, she doesn’t get there any faster. The leash doesn’t change its length, nor do we alter our pace. She simply wears herself out fighting against forces she cannot overcome.
It would go a lot better for you, I find myself thinking, if you’d just relax, get with the program, and enjoy the pace. Don’t fight the leash, or the one holding it.
But then, I realize Mystic is there to teach me, not vice-versa. Who strains against the leash of divine providence? Who needs to stop pushing and let someone else set the pace? Who needs to curl up and go along for the ride?
It’s Sunday, a day for rest. I think I’ll slow down the pace and cease tugging today. All that striving isn’t going to make the future arrive any faster…