Everyday, everywhere I go I have this tiny dog with me. Her name is Eva. She sits under my arm in an old camera bag. When people see her they sort of fall apart. They squeal, they gasp, they start to whisper like they are in the presence of something sacred. They become all gentle and ask tentatively if they can touch her. They have their hand up when they ask this, fingers curled and childlike, waiting for permission.
Once granted, they reach out radiating love and wonder. While they look at my dog, I look at them. Their eyes shine with tenderness, joy and often, hurt. They allow something in them to come out that is so unguarded, so vulnerable that my heart grows in my chest and tears arise.
This is my proof of God.
The old, the young, the sick, the well, the rich, the poor – all of them reaching out for just a moment to attempt meaningful contact with this tiny creature. And I fill up with some kind of weird hope, because I’m thinking, ‘well, after all you’ve been through, after all the pain and loss and fear you can still love, you’re still working at it.
I can only feel this exchange when I let go of my shopping list, my rush to get where I’m going and be with them in this moment, in this still circle of peace, light and allowance. By this I am mortally, absolutely, infinitely blessed.
