This morning I woke up to the sound of Scout clicking—his nails on the floor outside my bedroom, the familiar sound of a slow spin. But Scout died yesterday. I closed my eyes and listened. Finally, it came to me: it was a bird nearby, chirping an unmelodious song, or cracking a nut, or talking to himself. It is amazing, our capacity to turn one thing into another: for instance, the sound of a bird into a the footfalls of a dead dog.
This is why we practice, we buddhists, isn’t it? To see it—the birdsong, the dead dog, the hurting lover—for what it is? Not only this misery, this misunderstanding. If only I could stop giving it a name.