Me, My Yorkie Zeke, and the Universe

Zeke. My little Yorkie. My companion, my shadow, my teacher. When I look at him — really look — I am reminded that consciousness does not belong to us humans alone. We do not hold a monopoly on awareness. Through Zeke, I see a perspective so unlike my own, and yet, in that difference, I glimpse a more complete picture of what consciousness is doing here, what it means to be alive, and what it feels like to simply be.

In that first image, his eyes are wide and bright, locked onto me with a mixture of curiosity and unconditional love. His small tongue peeks out, playful and trusting, as if the entire universe exists in that single, fleeting moment between us. And perhaps, in a way, it does. For Zeke, there is no past to regret, no future to anticipate — only the now. Every flicker of sunlight, every sound in the breeze, every subtle shift in my expression is registered, absorbed, and reflected back through the prism of his awareness.

I sometimes wonder: what is it like to be Zeke? What does the texture of his consciousness feel like from the inside? If, as I believe, consciousness is the ground of being — the source from which all forms arise — then Zeke’s awareness is not separate from mine. It is not less, and it is certainly not lower. It is different. It carries qualities I have long forgotten in the clutter of human thought: immediacy, trust, and the miracle of presence.

To be Zeke is to know without needing to think. To sense without the burden of language. To love without hesitation. His awareness is rich, textured, and alive — just not in the way we humans measure it. When he looks at me, I don’t see a “lesser” form of consciousness. I see another facet of the infinite experiencing itself.

And then there is that second image — the one where he sleeps, curled tightly into himself on the soft couch cushions, perfectly surrendered to rest. There, in that simple act, Zeke teaches me something profound about letting go. Humans carry so much — anxieties, regrets, ambitions, and identities layered one upon another until we hardly remember who we are beneath them all. Zeke carries none of that. He embodies the Sabbath rest I so often write about. Not just the cessation of work, but the deep soul-rest of trusting the Source completely.

In his sleep, there is no fear of tomorrow, no shame about yesterday, no compulsion to perform or prove. He doesn’t “try” to rest. He simply is rest. And it’s in that stillness that I begin to see how consciousness experiences itself in ways I rarely allow it to in my human form. Through Zeke, the universe explores simplicity, vulnerability, and peace. Through me, it explores complexity, meaning-making, and spiritual longing. Both are sacred. Both are necessary.

But the truth is deeper still. It isn’t just Zeke and me. Consciousness is flowing through all beings — every animal, every insect, every plant, even the rocks and rivers. When I sit with Zeke and quiet my own mind, I can almost sense the larger tapestry in which he and I are threads. The tree outside the window, rooted and silent, holds an ancient patience that consciousness feels through its wooden form. The bee hovering near the blossoms outside, moving in perfect synchrony with thousands of its kind, experiences life through a collective intelligence, a kind of group-mind purposefulness humans can barely comprehend.

Even the stone beneath my feet — seemingly inert, cold, lifeless — participates in this great unfolding. Its awareness may not resemble thought or sensation, but it resonates with a kind of timelessness I can only glimpse in meditation. Through the stone, consciousness explores endurance, stability, and the slow dance of geological ages.

When I hold these truths together — Zeke’s immediacy, the tree’s patience, the bee’s collective hum, the stone’s stillness, my own restless searching — I begin to see the beauty of the divine experiment. God, Source, the Logos — whatever name we give it — is not sitting “out there,” separate and apart, watching creation unfold. No, God is here, as creation, experiencing itself in infinite forms, tasting every possible perspective, living every conceivable life.

Through Zeke, consciousness knows what it feels like to trust so completely that love is never questioned. Through me, it knows what it feels like to wrestle with meaning, to deconstruct dogmas, to seek awakening. Through the owl in the night sky, it learns what it is to move silently and hunt with precision. Through the blade of grass, it experiences bending beneath the morning dew and stretching toward the sun. Through the river, it knows flow; through the mountain, it knows permanence.

We are all apertures of the same infinite awareness.

This is why I can no longer see the world as dead matter and isolated selves. I no longer believe in a cosmos of cold randomness, where life is accidental and consciousness is a byproduct of biology. That story never fit me, not really. The deeper I go — the more I watch Zeke, the more I listen to my own heart, the more I lean into mystical traditions that refuse to separate Creator from creation — the more I see that all of this is alive. All of this is God, dreaming itself into form.

Even science, in its own language, is beginning to brush up against this truth. Quantum physics whispers that particles “know” when they are observed, entanglement defies distance, and information weaves the fabric of reality itself. If consciousness is fundamental, as thinkers like Donald Hoffman and Bernardo Kastrup argue, then matter is not primary. Matter is what consciousness looks like when filtered through perception. Which means Zeke, the tree, the stone, the river, and I are not separate at all — we are the same awareness, refracted into infinite experiences.

And yet, there is something particularly humbling about seeing this truth through the eyes of my Yorkie. Because Zeke doesn’t need to know any of this. He doesn’t need philosophy, scripture, or quantum mechanics to embody divine presence. He is divine presence. He carries the spark of the Logos just as surely as I do, but without the fog of forgetfulness that plagues the human condition.

When Jesus said, “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin,” I think he was pointing to this same truth. The lilies, the sparrows, the bees, and yes, even little Zeke — they do not forget their source. They live in effortless alignment with it. It is only we humans, with our complex egos and layered identities, who wander far from home. And yet, even in our wandering, we are the Logos seeking itself.

Sometimes, I catch myself wondering if consciousness ever “tires” of all these perspectives. But then I think of Zeke sleeping peacefully on the couch, the way his breath rises and falls in a rhythm older than time itself, and I realize: there is no fatigue in wholeness. Every moment of joy, every tremor of fear, every bark of delight, every sigh of longing — consciousness wants to taste it all.

Through us, God experiences what it’s like to feel separate from God. Through Zeke, God remembers what it’s like to rest in God.

That’s the paradox and the gift.

So I hold him close, this little furry embodiment of divine awareness, and I let myself learn. I let him remind me of the immediacy I too often forget. I let him teach me that there is no hierarchy of consciousness, no ladder where humans stand above animals and plants and stones. There is only the One, dreaming itself into infinite perspectives, and each is precious.

And maybe that’s what salvation really is — not escaping this world but waking up within it. Remembering that the Christ, the Logos, the spark of divinity, has always been here. In me. In Zeke. In the trees. In the stones. In the rivers. In the stars.

The Kingdom of God is not somewhere else. It’s curled up beside me, breathing softly, dreaming in fur and warmth. It’s wagging its tail when I walk through the door. It’s licking my hand as if to remind me: “I am you, and you are me, and all is well.”

And in those moments, I finally believe it.