402: Running With Kismet
January 4, 2010
by Jeffrey Pierce
It's been exactly one month since I last laced up my running shoes and hit the early morning pavement of my neighborhood. When I first began this journey back in December, I'd managed to run four out of the first five days, no day longer than a mile and a half, before my running was interrupted by severe cold and then the long hours of getting Old Ways back online and filled with new content. Over the last month, I ate my share of holiday pies, cookies, and chocolates. Hours were spent at the keyboard, writing code and editing pages. The gym and my running shoes were forgotten for an entire month.
We're told that we are limited as individuals, that we need to respect our limitations. With that in mind, we're then told that the possibilities before us are only limited by what we believe, that we can achieve anything, that our options are limitless.
Which are we supposed to believe?
After a month of almost complete physical inactivity, including a stretch where I didn't leave the house for a period of more than two weeks, I got up to run this morning.
In any other corner of the world, this would be a blog about how it's so hard to start from scratch again but that it's ultimately worth it. Or maybe it would focus on the idea that when we have a goal in front of us, like my desire to run forty miles to celebrate my fortieth birthday, that setbacks are part of the overall process. We need to be strong. We need to persevere.
But here, in the pages of Old Ways, we're working on believing that anything is possible, that we're limited only by what we believe to be limitations.
So I went out and ran six miles this morning.
Or four times longer than my previous distance - after not training for a month.
And that's not the really crazy part.
I could have kept going. I felt great! My legs were getting a little tired toward the end of the run, but I honestly felt as if I had another six miles in me.
It was actually our dog that got tired by the end.
We have this wonderful dog, Kismet. (Her name, Kismet, is roughly translated from Arabic to mean, "fate" or "destiny"). If you've ever watched the old show "Fraggle Rock," Kismet looks an awful lot like Sprocket, the dog from the show. The main difference between the two of them is that Kismet has a curl in her tail, like a husky.
our dog, Kismet, taking a snow break
I believe in what I term "fluid reality." The idea is pretty simple. If we believe in limitations, we put walls in place to mark those limitations. With walls in place, you have "static reality." Static reality says, "You can do anything you want within these walls but you can't go past them." Fluid relality, on the other hand, places no limitations on anything. Each breath, each heartbeat, each moment is filled with endless possibility. All we have to do is embrace it.
It's actually much easier to embrace fluid reality than we think it is. The key? Stop holding on to your limitations. When we relax our grip and listen, our inner core, or as some call it, our higher self, can finally be heard. And that inner core has a much broader view of reality than we do.
I rolled out of bed this morning and, as I was dressing for my run, I relaxed and opened my mind. It's not that hard to do. Instead of thinking, "I'm tired" or "This is going to hurt" or any of the multitude of things we constantly throw out to define our reality, you simply take a deep breath and let those thoughts flow away on the exhale. Once my mind was clear, the first thought that came along was about writing today's blog. As I stepped into the bathroom, the title of today's blog, "Running with Kismet," came to mind and I realized that I should take the dog with me.
Moments after accepting that path, I our dog and I standing on a street corner far from my normal running route and new that I was embracing a reality that would somehow lead us to that place.
Kismet is unbelievably well-trained and well-behaved. I slipped through the darkened house, past where Kismet lay quietly on her bed on the border between the dining room and living room. She lifted her head as I passed and I scratched her idly, Kismet not moving from her spot. I stopped inside the front door and gently slapped my hip twice with the flat of my hand. Kismet was instantly up and walked to my side. As I collected her collar and leash, she sat patiently while I fastened them on and then followed me out of the house, politely stepping aside as we reached the door at the same time.
In moments, we were running, Kismet liking just a little bit of tension in the leash (recalling her sled dog ancestry, I imagine) but never pulling or being rude. A slight pull one direction or the other and Kismet would take the appropriate corner. When we encountered a solitary pedestrian, a simple spoken command of "Close," and Kismet pulled up to my side, running almost close enough to touch me until we passed the person and I released her from the command with a "Good dog, go," and she returned to the end of her leash.
Why mention all of this?
Because this isn't the Kismet that I first encountered.
Bri found Kismet as an adult dog. When she came into Bri's life, Kismet was neurotic. She rubbed all over the furniture. The dog would steal food off of the kitchen counters if left alone for any length of time. Kismet was an escape artist that no yard could hold and kind hearted neighbors were constantly calling to say that Kismet had gotten out again and was hanging out with them until I could pick up our dog.
And while that's reasonably normal behavior for some dogs, there was more to it than that. Kismet hid her passings. She wouldn't go to the bathroom unless she disappeared deep into the bushes. Loud noises caused her to jump and cower. If you said her name too loudly, Kismet would immediately void her bladder all over the floor. Kismet was terrified of loud machinery, regardless of whether it was a loud truck or the neighbor's lawnmower.
The reasons behind her behavior turned out to be pretty simple. Kismet had been severely abused by one of her prevous owners.
And much like any of us who have gone through traumatic times, Kismet bore those emotional scars.
Everything happens for a reason. When I was in junior high, I found myself the proud owner of an adult golden retriever that had been beaten with an open hand. Brandy was a wonderful, happy dog until you went to pet him and the moment you raised your hand to reach for him, Brandy would cower and whimper.
So I studied canine body language, both in dogs and wolves. I became the local expert in pack behavior. Using my hands as ears (holding them on top of my head) and mirroring wolf sounds and body language, I talked to Brandy and convinced him things were okay. Within a few weeks, he was happy and whole.
Kismet took more work, but the same principles applied. Slowly, as time went by, she healed. She learned that she was loved. She learned that she was part of our family and that our family was her pack. Kismet discovered that she wasn't the Alpha Dog, that she didn't have to protect herself or fear for her safety, because there was someone stronger who would protect her, feed her, love her, and keep her safe. There's a certain, weird joy in taking her out to pee and watching her proudly urinate in what, to her, is a very public place after having watched her lurk in the bushes and shadows for so long. After all, dogs lives are very scent based and it's one of the ways they announce their presence to their world.
In other words, Kismet had reached the place in her own journey where she could proudly announce, "I'm Kismet and this is MY family."
So we ran, Kismet and I. She's the perfect running companion. Kismet has just enough lead in the leash that she can pause to pick up a scent and get back in front of me quickly enough that I don't have to break stride. If my feet hit a metal grate on the sidewalk, she'll veer away, still touchy about loud noises, but she doesn't jump or cower - just as she now tolerates the sound of loud trucks that pass us by in the early morning hours when we're on our run.
We hit the five mile mark and Kismet began to tire, so I changed our route and headed toward home. The last mile or so, I found myself encouraging her. "Good dog, Kismet," I'd offer, surprisingly well-rested and not even slightly out of breath. "We're almost home. Just a little farther."
Before I knew it, we were at the corner I'd seen us at together as I started our morning, my waking world catching up with fluid reality.
Six miles successfully ran after a month of complete inactivity.
Who knows what tomorrow holds?
All I know is that, once again, I'll be running with Kismet.