"It scared me, the word 'vibrations,' " Brian Wilson once said, remembering how, when he was a boy, his mother, Audree, tried to explain why dogs barked at some people and not others.
"A dog would pick up vibrations from these people that you can't see but you can feel. And the same thing happened with people."
"Good Vibrations," Wilson's crowning achievement as a songwriter and producer, harnessed that energy and turned it into eternal sunshine.
"This is a very spiritual song," he said after its release, "and I want it to give off good vibrations."
— RollingStone.com review of the Beach Boys’ "Good Vibrations" from the album Pet Sounds
My resolution: Be more like a dog.
Because dogs react and rely on instinct; physical and emotional instinct. Dogs don’t think when the appropriate action is to feel, or just to be. In the absence of every discordant thought, distraction, ego trip and neurosis that prevents humans from picking up that unknown thrumming, dogs get the frequency with radar that has been bred into their DNA over a thousand-thousand years. They hear it on a cellular level.
Why do I talk myself out of something good, when what I should have been doing is following what my gut and heart is telling me? Because I ignore the signals.
When writer’s block is holding me back like a choke chain, isn’t it always because I am thinking too hard about what to write, instead of manifesting in words what should be instinctive?
“Our world requires that decisions be sourced and footnoted, and if we say how we feel, we must also be prepared to elaborate on why we feel that way,” Malcolm Gladwell said in his book “Blink.”
He added, “We need to respect the fact that it is possible to know without knowing why we know, and accept that — sometimes — we’re better off that way.”
Without realizing it, Gladwell, who is an intellectual, almost academic writer, has his ear cocked and is listening to the inaudible call of dog whistle consciousness here. His book is all about plugging into unconscious decision-making and letting your mind off the leash, so to speak.
I watched The Dog Whisperer last night. He made three important points:
· First, a dog's natural instinct is to be happy.
· Second, dogs live in the moment.
· Third, dogs act unnaturally when they repeat destructive habits from past conditioning or have been traumatized or abused. The only way to correct this is to create balance.
Exactly, I thought. Right on the cold, wet nose. Anyone that has ever had a great dog would tell you. It’s all about doggy Dharma.
For 11 years, I had a dog named Bear. He was full grown when I got him – a huge 120 lbs. half-Labrador half-Newfie mix with short, shiny black fur, long dancer’s legs and a cinder block-shaped head. He was so handsome; people would stop us in the street and make a fuss over him, which he would encourage by nudging with his big snout.
He rarely barked, but always seemed to be listening. He had an uncommon congenital disease that limited his ability to produce adrenaline, so he wasn’t overly aggressive and he never humped like other dogs. Because he was at a disadvantage that way, I believe it heightened his sensitivity; with limited ability to react into fight-or-flight mode, he had to be ultra-aware of his surroundings.
You could tell when he was thinking. He would give you a deep look and then sigh, with a great gust of air out of his nose. He was majestic but clumsy. He was gentle and intelligent, except when it came to cats and skunks.
He was a happy boy.
Bear never met me without being ecstatic to see me. Typically, when I would get home from work, he would be waiting at the door and start dancing on those long, muscular legs, weaving back and forth with excitement, his tail beating the air. Then the nudging. It wasn’t in his nature to hold back affection.
We would walk for miles in the canyons, early in the morning when the air was wet and heavy with sage brush and wild fennel. It made him cross-eyed happy to roll in coyote shit. I tried to discourage that behavior with a torrent of swearing, tried to outsmart him — but he was following the instructions of something deep and ancient.
He could tell if you were depressed or anxious and would stick close, if you wanted him; just having him there would lower your blood pressure. When the other dog Peg got sick with cancer, Bear stayed up with her at night, and when her legs got weepy with edema, he relentlessly licked the fluid off. Before we took her to the vet to put her down, Bear barked frantically. Afterward, he was quiet and lonely without her.
When he went lame in his hind legs and time had come, we spent the last day at the only place where I could think of where his legs wouldn’t matter. We went to the beach, and I helped him into the water with a sling around his useless hips. He pulled himself along in the shallows on his front legs for awhile, until I realized that he was indulging me as much as I was trying to indulge him. He wasn’t able to chase seagulls in a flat-out run across the sand anymore. So, we went for hamburgers and ice cream. Bear was happy, and then he was gone.
Putting him down broke my heart. I can say, without a doubt, that it hurt so badly because the relationship I had with Bear was pure good vibrations. He was my friend because it never occurred to him that there was any other way, except to be loyal and near, true and joyous. In his dog way, Bear was the embodiment of total consciousness.
But he never realized what he was doing, in the human sense. He was a dog, a killer. He killed other animals and would stand his ground, and that also was in response to the will of instinct.
He wasn’t perfect. But you don’t have to be perfect to be happy. You just have to trust your instincts to take you toward bliss.
You can say that I’m anthropomorphizing, that dogs are animals and not capable of understanding complex emotions like happiness. But that’s the whole fucking point: You don’t need to think or scheme or rationalize or analyze how to be happy — you just are. You just feel it. It doesn’t have to be complicated.
Bear was a Bodhisattva, a canine conduit of Universal energy that flowed straight from the unconscious. We didn’t need words or intellect — all we did was tap into the dynamic bond between us that reverberated with unlearned goodness; a true soul connection that was laid down effortlessly, as natural as breathing.
It was one of the most profound experiences of my life. The masters don’t know what the big dogs understand.
I wish it was that easy with people.
So what’s all this got to do with resolutions? Here’s my new dogma, my pit bull mentality.
Especially now, when it seems like there are "gathering clouds and raging storms" all around — it is crucial to make the unconscious decision to be happy.
But — because emotions like happiness, anger, love, hate, fear, joy are intangible and difficult to grasp without confronting obstacles like ego or the distraction of thought — it’s even more important to connect with Universal energy, the wellspring for artists, writers, poets, philosophers, prophets and mutts everywhere. It’s the eternal sunshine that Brian Wilson tapped into, though I’m sure he couldn’t explain the process to you anymore than a dog can explain why it barks at the moon. That energy is real, powerful and it exists, underneath the veil of emotions.
I know a lot of people that try to plug into it with meditation, yoga, religion, music, drugs, booze, dance, sex — and those are all a path, some better than others. I've gone down many of them, but I’m ready for the dog spirit to lead me to the source.
In terms of balance, I’m not talking about achieving the sort of unbearable happiness you encounter when you meet someone trying so hard to be totally positive. That’s an illusion.
Real balance is accepting the side that lurks in the shadows, integrating the fears and dark desires with the light, to make a whole. There’s no sunshine without darkness; otherwise how could you see the difference? It’s sensing when to bare your teeth back and bite, or roll over and show belly. While heeding instinct, you can still master impulse. When the night is darkest, I’ll follow the Dog Star.
Without the cosmic flow or the ability to balance, is it ever possible to live in the moment? I don’t think so. You’ve got to tap the unconscious to have complete awareness that each moment is the only reality, and it’s up to you how you use it. There’s no time to think in a moment — only to be, to rely on instinct. But you have to trust your own nature to come shining through.
That’s mad dog yin & yang for you.
There are many historical references to dog mythology. Here is a story I found that think proves my point:
“One version of a memorable dog story from Indian literature involves the heroic Pandava brothers of the epic Mahabharata. When King Dharmaraja, his brothers and all their families set off on their final journey up the Himalayas, each one fell until only Dharmaraja and his companion dog were left.
As they neared the top of the mountain, they were greeted by the god Indra in his chariot. The god lauded Dharmaraja and said that he had earned a place in heaven. He bid the king to board the chariot and as he did Dharmaraja beckoned for his canine friend. However, Indra protested saying that dogs were not allowed in his heaven.
Upon hearing this Dharmaraja said that he could not abandon such a faithful companion who depended on him. He declared he would rather stay on earth than abandon his dog. Finally Indra relented and both were taken to heaven. Upon arriving the dog was transformed into the god Dharma, the lord of the correct way of living.”
Without hesitation, I will tell you that if Bear and Peg don’t greet me at the gates of Heaven, then I’m not going in. Not that they want me there anyway.
This bitch has learned a New Year trick or two, but I’ll let Iggy howl the last word.
