Can I get a Witness?

Humans crawling around on all fours. Sticking our arms out left and right, snapping our tongues tasting the air. Craning our necks, cupping our ears to listen– I mean, reallllllly listen.

Wouldn’t it be funny, I thought the other day, if we really did have to heighten all other senses when one diminished–without the addition of fancy inventions? Had to adapt to our surroundings without contacts or glasses or hearing aids? What if, like every other species on the planet, we relied on the rest of us to sense and acclimate? Kinda wild, right?

When our first westie, Bailey Braveheart, became blind and deaf from diabetes, he bumped into walls for a while. But he eventually got used to it (for the most part).

Those innate senses make a profound impact. To see, to hear, to touch, to smell is how we make memories. It’s also how we bear witness to something, to someone. That’s what Ferguson was to me. A powerful witness of eleven years of my life. I’ve spoken before of that lightbulb moment last year: the reason our bonds with our animals is so strong, so deep is because it’s the most uncomplicated, purest kind of love. There’s no resentment from their hiding the truth, no baggage from affairs or betrayal. They don’t need us to explain or fine tune our thought patterns in order to fill their hearts with content. And in turn, we never ask that of them.

Think about it. When’s the last time your dog gave you too much unsolicited advice? Cat bombarded you with pings and notifications and ad promotions you didn’t ask for? We live in a world damn focused on fixing. On fine-tuning and figure outing and improving and helping. On advice-ing and suggesting and shortcut-ing and planning. SO much planning. They may be a little shaky on those back legs. Or missing a tail or a handful of teeth. But still, they stand to bear witness with all of themselves just the same.

To me, this comfort is completely unmatched. Why does it matter so much for someone to just sit and be there with us? It’s all we can truly do for people we love when the unthinkable happens. No words or fixing mentality can ever fully take away our pain. But a witness to help us feel seen and heard can hold space for it, giving it a soft landing pad, making it feel a little more bearable. Making us feel less alone. We need to be each other's "therapy dogs" more often.

And in contrast, what is the first question we turn to our friends, our neighbors when seeing the spectacular? Unbelievable, incredulous, thrilling or shocking? A shooting star, a perfect gymnastics landing. A fleeting whale tail breaking the ocean’s surface. “Did you see that!?”

We turn to validate what we just took in. To feel seen and heard on another level. We do this innate tribal ritual of ensuring we’re not left alone.

I’ve been placed in front of some incomprehensible scenes that make no sense to the mind. A few years ago, I watched as a family of four, including two young girls, was forced from their home in an act of deportation. There I stood at the airport, on the plane, in the heart of a Caribbean paradise feeling like I was surrounded by hell instead. Unable in my role at the time to do anything to stop it. To make it any better. Except, to bear witness, lock eyes, and ensure they knew they were not alone. That I saw them for more than the objects they were being treated. That I heard their stories through my eyes and heart when their voices were rendered silent.

That’s all I could do. Stand and bear witness.

So when Rebecca asked me this week what she always does at the top of our coaching sessions, “What is it you need today?” – a question I have often wrestled with, I finally had a clear answer. One that became obvious pretty darn fast when I sat and tuned in. I had more than enough in my head already. The not-so-magic elixir to stop the swirl of information overload would be the steadiness of her completely and utterly present ear. To hear the questions. And to see the joy worth celebrating, too.

A few years back, I drove Ferg to the beach for a picnic lunch. Burger and fries for me, carrots for him. Piddly sticks, Mom. You think I’m gonna settle for that? Right on cue during my first bite, a gust threw my beach tote yards away, catapulting me from beef towards bag. And wouldn’t you know it, that quarter-pounder was suddenly half gone lickety split beside his ketchup smeared beard.

Just then, a white-haired fellow strolled leisurely from the water line toward us, a wide smile growing across his face to match his crinkly eyes.

“You see that?!” I laughed. The hilarity was contagious, his eyebrows jumping up an inch.

“Oh,” he said, “I saw! How’d he do that?!” I shrugged.

A witness to revel in the stun, a buddy to share the moment with. Sensing the memories when sense can’t always be made.