My land in New Mexico speaks to me when I walk it. As I walk with the ranch dogs I feel its power and knowledge. These ancient rocks and flat-topped mesas remind me that this land, now nearly 7,000 feet high, was once under water.
Years ago I was told by a shaman that a dog would come, a spirit dog with one blue eye and one dark eye, and that he would circle the ranch house for a few months and then come in and claim his right to protect it. That’s exactly what happened. Spooky is a mixed breed, the one male in this harem of females. Not far behind him is Sheba, a mix of German shepherd, malamute, and husky. Magnificently dignified, she can also be short-tempered, which is her prerogative as the oldest female. Daisy is an Australian shepherd collie, kept young by Sandy, an obstreperous, delightful, and totally untrainable retriever. And of course there’s Terry the Princess Terrier, who never leaves my side.
The dogs and I are walking among the ghosts and spirits of the past. There are Indian ruins under our feet, where tribal people traded turquoise and beads for livestock and grain. A stream runs alongside our mountain rim-walking, as we make our way toward the petroglyphs, carvings in the rocks that some say are over three thousand years old. I wonder if I lived here long ago. And was Terry with me then? Could that be why I was drawn back to call it my real home?
Terry seems to understand the ancient energy. She leaves no rock uninvestigated, as though listening within them for messages from bygone voices.
I remember J. Krishnamurti, the Indian sage and writer from New Delhi who returned from a long walk not unlike this one and reported that he had not had one single thought along the way. Oh, to quiet my mind like that! First I’d need to dissolve negative thoughts, then anxious thoughts, then regretful thoughts, and let’s not forget guilty thoughts. I can’t really imagine an extended stay in a no-thought state, but on long walks I do feel my mind settling into a state of detached composure, the way I imagine Terry, or a hawk wheeling overhead, or even a boulder might feel. And sometimes when Terry freezes, gazing at a point I can’t see, I try to enter that space and as I do, an extraordinary sense of peace comes over me. In that moment I feel that no matter what madness we humans bring upon ourselves, the animals, the sky, and the mountains will watch in dignified silence, hoping we will come to our senses.
According to Buddhism, life is an illusion, a dream we have created in our three-dimensional “reality.” Am I recognizing in Terry that she is having her own divine reality, which is infinitely less judgmental than my own?
Buddhists say we live in a state of blissful nothingness but we don’t know it, because we think that what we have created is real. Have I limited my body’s eyes to seeing only those images that I think are real? If so, then the illusion I’ve created is like a curtain hiding the real reality from me. I know something about creating illusion, because that’s my business. I know something about creating reality too, because when I play a part, that’s my task. But image-making is not the same as seeing the truth.
Is the ravaged world far away from me also my own creation? When I turn on CNN or the news shows on Sunday, am I creating those journalists and those politicians and those people who speak about how much trouble we are in? Am I encouraging them to do that in my dream? If my thoughts are negative and fearful, perhaps that is the reality I will create. If each of us in our varying states of distress and fearfulness creates our own world, it’s a wonder we’re not in more collective trouble!
Perhaps on his walk Krishnamurti touched upon what Terry has known since she was born. Maybe Terry is not seeing the world as I see it, my garden as I see it, this land as I see it, my clothing as I see it, or even her toys as I see them. Perhaps what I sense in her is that she is seeing beyond image-making to the Big Truth. As I get older and spend more time with Terry, I want to see what would happen if I changed my illusions. Is that possible? If I radically shifted my illusions would I perceive the world in a whole new way? Could Terry and I ever see the same sunset? I believe she sees more than I do, and sees it more deeply, but maybe even that thought is just part of the dream I’m having. Maybe I’ve even created this little dog who is my profound teacher.
I don’t want to leave Terry to make a movie because she gives me peace and laughter and puts me in touch with how different she is from goal-oriented moviemakers. In the main, the movies my industry makes cater to the lowest instincts in people. Of course movies have to make profit, but by glorifying violence and preying on people’s fears they’re just perpetuating the problem. I’m beginning to fear a breakdown of society. When people believe their governments don’t tell them the truth, different factions may take matters into their own hands and fight each other. We are so afraid of terrorism from abroad that we may fight and kill each other right here, at home. But when I stop walking and gaze into Terry’s eyes, she gives me a deep sense of comfort—telling me that everything is happening just as it should in order for us to learn who we really are. So why do we have to learn with such suffering and fear?