Serenity with a Side of Barking

Trying to Find Zen While My Yorkie Has Other Plans

The daily ritual.

“It’s time for me to Namaste,” I say to my boy, Tyson, who cocks an ear and tilts his cute little head at my words. I proceed to fling open my yoga mat, unravelling it in the direction of solitude.

“So Nama-go, please.”

He stands momentarily, eyes locked on mine before abruptly turning, his miniature paws clattering down the hallway.

Probably escalating his complaints to ‘Upper Management’, aka my dad in the other room. Such is life with a needy Yorkie.

Settling into Hero pose, I join my palms together at my heart. Like clockwork, I start my practice with an intention—sometimes an affirmation, but today, a prayer:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I pause to observe the purity of resonance, letting it flood every dark corner of my mind.

Then I sail into my flow sequence, mentally addressing the issues in my tissues one at a time, as I carry my weight through each asana. First, the physical ones show up, then the emotional ones. Those are often the hardest to process.

Each time I practice, reclusive feelings travel out into the open.
Sequestered soul squatters, I say to myself, pleased with the ring alliteration brings.

As I move, I absorb the comforting sounds around me—the creaking hardwood floor shifting beneath my weight and the crackle of the faux fireplace on my living room TV, which also bathes the room in a soft orange hue.

I take a deep breath into all parts of me, visualizing it blotting outward like ink from my chest into my extremities, into each tiny digit at the end of my limbs.

When emotions surface during practice, it’s because we are shaking up our innards—our organs are releasing toxins. It’s a good thing, even if it feels icky. Better out than in. Revealing is healing.

What burdens me today? I mentally inquire, attempting to decipher the discomfort that arises but remains unnamed.

I’m now finding respite in downward dog, taking the opportunity to turn inward, with my eyes fixed on my belly button as if it’s the peephole into my soul.

It occurs to me that I’ve also found respite from my barking dog.

Damn it! Just jinxed it.

I hear the all too familiar yap, yap, yapping of my furry dependent. He bellows his demands in the distance. He wants to be fed, and then properly coddled. He wants to be assured he’s the only one in my universe.

“It’s too early!” I counter, puffing out the rest of the air in my lungs with pursed lips.

It is, in fact, too early for his meal. He’s an hour and a half ahead of schedule.

Best case scenario with a Yorkie: in your space, but quietly napping.

“Give me 5 minutes, Tyson,” I plead, as I make my way into the final resting pose—Savasana—wondering if it will actually be restful.

I really need this. I really need him to know how much I need this.

Just 5 minutes of stillness to wrap up my practice and tie a pretty pink bow around it. That’s all I need. Savasana is the distinct feature that converts my daily practice into the priceless gift it’s meant to be.

I tuck my chin in, lengthening the back of my neck, and sigh deeply. So deep I can feel my body drop into the mat, reducing the soft curve of my lower back as it sinks down.

I glance over to my right side, both surprised and amused to see that Tyson has now wedged his tiny body closely into mine and is breathing in sync with me, lulled into a welcomed hush.

He doesn’t understand schedules or Savasana—he just knows comfort, closeness, and the need to feel secure. His neediness is anchored in the endless pursuit of human touch.

And isn’t that the lesson here? Accept what I can’t change (his unrelenting neediness), change what I can (my response to it), and embrace the wisdom of letting it be.

As I rest my hand on his soft fur, I whisper a quiet thanks. For the closeness, for the moment, for this imperfect serenity.