<p>A tiny white cloud floats almost poetically in my living room as it catches the breeze from our fan, set on the highest possible speed setting, and drifts its way towards the open window.</p>.<p>My clothes, most of which are black, suddenly have a definite white tinge to them, one that sadly has no designer edge to it.</p>.<p>Our normally grey couch looks like a giant, immobile polar bear sprawled out on the floor in our living room, completely out of place in the 39°C heat that the scorching sun relentlessly pours over us.</p>.<p>You guessed right! Fur — here, there and everywhere — like a blanket covering our home, and us with it. It’s April, and yes, the heat is on. So is the fur shedding. All pet parents know exactly what I’m talking about; it’s the most tedious part of taking care of a pet.</p>.<p>Our Sydney is a groodle and the “oodle” part of that breed is supposed to ensure that she doesn’t shed fur. But, as I keep teasing her, we need to apply for a refund, as she sure does. Her fur magically weaves itself into balls that hide within the nooks and corners of every room, and then, at a time only they’re privy to, they set themselves free and float around our flat almost idyllically. I envy them their lightness and freedom.</p>.Paws & Life: Can we be taught how to understand dogs?.<p>There’s something completely liberating about the thought of being able to effortlessly shed something once or twice a year. To be able to let something go, let it float out of your life and out into the world — no resistance, no looking back. And this drew me into making a shedding wish list.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed my inhibitions — my fears and doubts; things that plague me and hold me back. I wish I could let these inhibitions loose, let them fly out of that open window, drift towards our grey, high AQI sky, and never be seen again. To stop second-guessing every instinct, to not rehearse conversations in my head before I’ve even had them, to not shrink myself into spaces I have every right to occupy. To trust that what I bring to the table is enough, and to never question whether I belong, to simply know that I do.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed the weight of other people’s opinions — those who mostly don’t matter. The imagined judgments, the passing remarks that take up far more space in my head than they ever deserve. The need to explain, justify, and almost always defend. To remember that other people’s approval is overrated. To exist fully and freely as me, and to never feel that I have to perform for acceptance.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed the negativity that seems to shroud all the new ideas that float into my head. That voice that arrives uninvited, armed with a list of reasons why something won’t work, why I shouldn’t even try. To let ideas land lightly, like fur in the sunlight —unburdened, unjudged — and to hold onto them just long enough to see where they might go.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed those extra calories. The ones that I knowingly load on (well, hello, ice-cream in my freezer), and the ones where the math seems so off (how could that sandwich possibly have 50,000 calories?) But more than that, I wish I could shed the guilt that tags along with every indulgence — the quiet bargaining, the unnecessary self-reproach. I wish I could eat with abandon, with delight, without attaching a number to it. There’s something deeply enviable about an uncomplicated relationship with food.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed my worries and anxieties. The future looks so grim and seems to be loaded with layer upon layer of disastrous could-bes. The endless what-ifs that pile up, each heavier than the last, until the present moment feels almost suffocated. I wish I could feel the relief of not worrying about tomorrow or yesterday’s mess, and just be entirely, beautifully here.</p>.<p>Perhaps that’s the real lesson in all this shedding, not just what to let go of, but what to hold onto. The now. The lightness of the present moment, like that wisp of fur catching the breeze — unheld, unhurried, and finally free.</p>.<p>The writer is an award-winning children’s author who loves dogs, children, and books — the order changes daily. Write to her at nalinisorensen @gmail.com</p>.<p><em>Paws & Life is a monthly column that reflects on how our pets shape the way we live, love, and learn.</em></p>
<p>A tiny white cloud floats almost poetically in my living room as it catches the breeze from our fan, set on the highest possible speed setting, and drifts its way towards the open window.</p>.<p>My clothes, most of which are black, suddenly have a definite white tinge to them, one that sadly has no designer edge to it.</p>.<p>Our normally grey couch looks like a giant, immobile polar bear sprawled out on the floor in our living room, completely out of place in the 39°C heat that the scorching sun relentlessly pours over us.</p>.<p>You guessed right! Fur — here, there and everywhere — like a blanket covering our home, and us with it. It’s April, and yes, the heat is on. So is the fur shedding. All pet parents know exactly what I’m talking about; it’s the most tedious part of taking care of a pet.</p>.<p>Our Sydney is a groodle and the “oodle” part of that breed is supposed to ensure that she doesn’t shed fur. But, as I keep teasing her, we need to apply for a refund, as she sure does. Her fur magically weaves itself into balls that hide within the nooks and corners of every room, and then, at a time only they’re privy to, they set themselves free and float around our flat almost idyllically. I envy them their lightness and freedom.</p>.Paws & Life: Can we be taught how to understand dogs?.<p>There’s something completely liberating about the thought of being able to effortlessly shed something once or twice a year. To be able to let something go, let it float out of your life and out into the world — no resistance, no looking back. And this drew me into making a shedding wish list.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed my inhibitions — my fears and doubts; things that plague me and hold me back. I wish I could let these inhibitions loose, let them fly out of that open window, drift towards our grey, high AQI sky, and never be seen again. To stop second-guessing every instinct, to not rehearse conversations in my head before I’ve even had them, to not shrink myself into spaces I have every right to occupy. To trust that what I bring to the table is enough, and to never question whether I belong, to simply know that I do.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed the weight of other people’s opinions — those who mostly don’t matter. The imagined judgments, the passing remarks that take up far more space in my head than they ever deserve. The need to explain, justify, and almost always defend. To remember that other people’s approval is overrated. To exist fully and freely as me, and to never feel that I have to perform for acceptance.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed the negativity that seems to shroud all the new ideas that float into my head. That voice that arrives uninvited, armed with a list of reasons why something won’t work, why I shouldn’t even try. To let ideas land lightly, like fur in the sunlight —unburdened, unjudged — and to hold onto them just long enough to see where they might go.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed those extra calories. The ones that I knowingly load on (well, hello, ice-cream in my freezer), and the ones where the math seems so off (how could that sandwich possibly have 50,000 calories?) But more than that, I wish I could shed the guilt that tags along with every indulgence — the quiet bargaining, the unnecessary self-reproach. I wish I could eat with abandon, with delight, without attaching a number to it. There’s something deeply enviable about an uncomplicated relationship with food.</p>.<p>I wish I could shed my worries and anxieties. The future looks so grim and seems to be loaded with layer upon layer of disastrous could-bes. The endless what-ifs that pile up, each heavier than the last, until the present moment feels almost suffocated. I wish I could feel the relief of not worrying about tomorrow or yesterday’s mess, and just be entirely, beautifully here.</p>.<p>Perhaps that’s the real lesson in all this shedding, not just what to let go of, but what to hold onto. The now. The lightness of the present moment, like that wisp of fur catching the breeze — unheld, unhurried, and finally free.</p>.<p>The writer is an award-winning children’s author who loves dogs, children, and books — the order changes daily. Write to her at nalinisorensen @gmail.com</p>.<p><em>Paws & Life is a monthly column that reflects on how our pets shape the way we live, love, and learn.</em></p>