Dr. Cynthia Cameron holds the Keenan Chair of Religious Education and is an Assistant Professor of Religious Education in the Faculty of Theology. Prior to coming to St. Mike’s, she taught undergraduate students at Rivier University and graduate students at Boston College and Loyola University New Orleans. Her research focuses on adolescence, particularly female adolescence, and the history and mission of Catholic schools.
Based on the title of this post, you’d be forgiven for thinking that I am about to offer deep spiritual insights from the matriarchs and patriarchs of the Bible. But I am not. In this case, Levi and Hannah are my dogs. And while they are awfully adorable, they are not, by nature or vocation, spiritual guides. Except that they have taught me a great deal about what it means to try to cultivate a spiritual life.
As do many people, I often find it a bit of a challenge to maintain my spiritual journey in the midst of the busy-ness of modern life. Writing syllabi and planning class sessions; writing for publication; tending to my personal relationships with family and friends; keeping up with the mundane tasks of day-to-day life. And, while attending Mass is a part of my regular schedule, the other aspects of a spiritual life can sometimes fall through the cracks. But, I find that living with dogs is deeply connected to my spiritual life. Lots of other folks have reflected on daily walks (with or without dogs) as a spiritual discipline and others have noted the ways that dogs invite us into the dynamic of spirituality. What I find is that my two dogs teach me two different things about cultivating a spiritual life.
Levi is my nine-year-old, blonde, goldendoodle; I adopted him when he was about a year old. Levi is an easy-going, calm, snuggly dog. He mostly just wants to be where I am. He sits next to me on the sofa when I watch TV, sleeps under my desk when I’m working, and snuggles up on the bed at night. He is predictable: he pees and poops at the same times every day; he loves meeting new people; he hates thunderstorms. And Levi is gentle; when he wants a pat, he lays his head in your lap.
Levi reminds me of the times when the spiritual life is relatively easy. When prayer comes easily and regularly and when things are predictable. Levi is the mascot of a spiritual life that is both uncomplicated and full of the rich experiences of love. It is a spiritual life that brings warmth and comfort to my life. It is a spiritual journey that reminds me of God’s love for me and that is full of joy in healthy relationships, satisfaction in my work, and a focus on the day-to-day-ness of life.
Hannah is my standard poodle; she is five years old and I have had her since she was a small puppy. Hannah is a princess. All of those stereotypes about poodles being divas are embodied in this dog. On the one hand, she is bouncy and energetic and silly; she loves to run and play and she always has an eye peeled for squirrels. On the other hand, she is weird and high-maintenance. Yesterday, she would only pee on the sidewalk; today, she will only pee on the grass. She doesn’t like her feet to get wet (except for when she wants to play in a puddle) and every day is like the first day she’s ever had to wear a leash. Hannah likes meeting new people, but, when she is done with being adored, she walks away.
Hannah reminds me of the times when cultivating a spiritual life feels slippery or hard to catch hold of. When the regular practices don’t work, when no one seems to be listening to my prayers, when things seem bouncy and a tiny bit out of control. Hannah teaches me that the spiritual life isn’t always easy and snuggly and predictable; that sometimes I need patience to find that thread between me and God. She reminds me to try new things and to walk away from practices that don’t work. She also reminds me that a practice that doesn’t seem productive today might be productive tomorrow. She is calls me to be more patient, kind, and self-controlled. These are the virtues that I need when Hannah’s diva-ness plucks at my nerves or when my spiritual life seems disjointed and unproductive.
And both dogs together teach me – on a daily basis – that the spiritual life is never all one thing. It is never all comfort and warmth and rainbows; it is also never all challenge and frustration. It is both. And, like walking these two dogs together, the spiritual journey is sometimes comfort and frustration at the same time. I never thought I could learn so much about myself and about my spiritual journey from two silly and delightful dogs.
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