I read somewhere that our perception of the rate of the passage of time increases as we get older.
In other words, we perceive time going more quickly as we age.
Well. I must have aged a lot this year because I cannot believe it is May. Things are moving quickly. Change is afoot.
And with that change, right now, comes a litany of to-do lists, strategizing, organizing. Which means today’s post is a bit shorter, maybe even a bit less rambly.
But it’s a charming story, I think. And it’s true. And it’s been on my mind lately.
I had a transcendent experience with a dog at the corner of West 72nd Street and Broadway in New York City.
Oh gosh. That sentence might suggest a totally different kind of scenario. Oh gosh. Well, I’ll keep it for comedic effect.
This is a story about those unexpected moments of deep knowing, of feeling somehow known.
It was a bright sunny weekday afternoon. There was hustle and bustle all about.
I don’t remember why I was at that particular intersection that day; it was likely for a doctor’s appointment in the area.
If you know that intersection, you know that the subway station and a small park, Verdi Square, make a strange sort of triangle, with the subway station in the middle and on the east and west corners of the surrounding streets.
I was waiting to cross Broadway, heading east. I was probably planning to get a coffee and walk in the park. It was warm; I wore shorts and sensible shoes, chunky rubber sandals with an enclosed toe.
As I waited to cross, something furry leaned against my leg and pushed up under my right hand. I startled and looked down.
An enormous black, fluffy dog pressed me, attached via leash to a petite, older, blond woman in a blue and white twinset and capri-style white pants. Its head nudged my hand, wet nose on my fingers. The movement was deliberate and inviting, if a little pushy. Sweet but also strange.
In all my years living in NYC, I saw a lot of dogs. I petted a lot of dogs (with accompanying human permission), made small talk on street corners, in parks. But only once has a dog in NYC demanded my attention in this way.
I asked its accompanying human, “Is your dog friendly? Can I pet them?”
She turned and laughed, “wow! Yes. I’ve never seen her do that.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name is Shakti.”
I petted Shakti until the light changed. She nuzzled against me, licked my hand, leaned hard against my leg. Her human and I made small talk about the weather.
When they headed south, Shakti turned back to look at me twice, longingly, and I had a sudden and deep feeling I had somehow, somewhere, known that dog, or her essence.
I cannot explain it. I never saw that dog or her human again.
Maybe I was just the lucky recipient of a primal need to connect.
Maybe I just smell like the kind of person who walks around with the unending desire to pet all the dogs.
It was one of those “only in New York” moments where something beautiful and unexpected comes into focus, fading seconds later.
I had a similar moment one afternoon a few months after I moved to Amherst, MA, more than twenty years ago. I was on a run in my neighborhood and I passed a woman walking hand in hand with a toddler, a small wagon trailing behind them. I don’t know what made me stop after I passed them, but at the next driveway, I turned around. They had turned to face me. The woman and I tentatively smiled at each other.
Suddenly, the toddler tore away and came barreling towards me, flinging their arms around my legs in an enthusiastic embrace. Not wanting to look like a creeper, I gingerly patted their back and told them they should run back. Kindly but loud enough the woman could hear. She laughed and apologized. I laughed as well, “no problem!” We went our separate ways. I never saw them again.
I think many of us have stories like these, of brief, unanticipated connections that, for whatever reason, shift something in you or dislodge a holding or release a tension or just remind you, even for a moment, that we all, all of us, all beings in the shared space of our world, are connected.
I’m sure Shakti and her human have not spent even a small fraction of the time I have reflecting on this. The toddler is now older than most of my students. Wouldn’t it be wild if they grew up and came to a school where I taught and sat in my class and we never knew?
These small, meaningful, fleeting experiences stay with me. Linger. I hope they always do. They remind me of the opportunities for connection all around us.
Transcendent, like I said.
They still make me smile, even years later.
I wish you many similar moments as the seasons unfold.