Our son’s dog Graham looks worried. He was rescued as a puppy, his litter left behind a dumpster, so maybe his earliest memories are of hunger and fear. His default expression is a wrinkled forehead, ears up with worry lines running between. I often cradle his head in my hands, rubbing the worry lines smooth. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. For that moment, head in my hands, he relaxes, and the worry lines go away.
What sort of worries might a two-year-old dog have? Well, he is afraid of steeply sloping storm sewer openings that drain the runoff from the street. I never noticed those sewer openings until he stopped walking one time and refused to move, crouched as if the slightest step forward might send him tumbling into the dark hole under the curb. From my perspective, he’s safe: I’ve got him on a leash, and I’m not going to let him fall into the sewer opening. He knows this but has forgotten. From his limited perspective, he thinks that the only thing keeping him from the dark underground is himself. I pick him up and carry him for a few feet until the street evens out and the storm sewer is out of sight. He’s eager to continue our walk then, forgetting the fear of the dark unknown.
I often say that I would like someone to rub the worry lines from my forehead. So far, no one has taken me up on it. But like Graham, I’m often afraid of the dark unknown, an uncertain future, and a loss of control. When I take time to remember, feeling my feet on the ground and the breath in my belly, I know that I, too, am held, and for a time, I can forget my fear of the unknown, relaxing into the peace that is always there, waiting for me to notice.