I was walking my dog the other day, and there were about a hundred thoughts going on in my mind: the errands I had to run, the calls I had to make, the emails I had to return, some articles I had to edit, problems with a vendor I was worried about. The day stretched ahead of me, full of tasks to be accomplished and I was already feeling tired from all I had to do. 

Meanwhile, Tula walked beside me, sniffing here and there, stopping to say hi to a small group of people talking on the sidewalk (people always want to say hi to her), checking pee-mail at every tree and hydrant. I increased my pace, trying to knock some minutes off our walk. "Let's go," I said to her as she stopped to pee. She finished up as quickly as she could and gamely ran after me. 

At one point as I walked ahead on our usual path, I noticed she had lagged behind. I turned around and found her staring off into the distance to her right. I followed her gaze but aside from the river across the street, saw nothing of interest. "Come on, Tula," I called out to her, but she remained transfixed by a sound or scent that was beyond my own senses. Her alert concentration made me pause and look again. What I could see was the river, glistening in the distance and the intense blue of the sky. A robin sprang into the air and landed on a bush. Leaves rolled as a lazy wind picked up. A minute later, Tula turned her head and ran to catch up with me. 

As we continued on our walk I was struck by how engaged she was with the world. Every bush was worthy of her attention, every squirrel was an invitation to play. Later that day I would have to drop her off at the groomer's, something she hated. She knew it happened regularly, every 2 weeks, but instead of worrying about it or fretting about how awful it was, she just dealt with it when the time came. At all other times she was totally present in the moment. And right now, the moment involved investigating an empty MacDonald's wrapper on the ground. 

A thought hit me: this is as good as it gets. This moment, this pleasure of walking with my dog on a warm winter's day, the beauty of the bare trees around me. It was a moment filled with fullness. But unlike the fullness of a day of anticipated tasks that loomed ahead, this was a fullness of just one moment. This moment. 

There were still many things to be done, things to check off my list, important goals to reach. But right now, there was nothing but this moment, then this, then this...

I consider myself very lucky. I like my life. Like most people, I have good days and bad days, but in general, I'm happy. I'm happy from the accumulation of events that make up my life, and that accumulation has come about from the quiet fullness of each moment. 

When I was younger, I spent a lot of time working on my goals. It helped me develop discipline and character but somehow, each time I attained a goal, it felt more like a let-down. Is this all there is? I would ask myself. 

Now I believe that goals are still important, but for a different reason. Goals help us determine a path, but achieving those goals are not the point. The path is what really matters. Sages and philosophers have pronounced this for ages, but of course, like most things in life, we usually don't get it until we get it--until we're ready to get it. Or sometimes, until your dog helps you to get it.