The Barking Collar

My dog has a barking collar. Not the kind that shocks or hurts—just a collar that emits a gentle ringing sound when she barks too loud. It’s enough to let her know there’s cause and effect. She’s learned to use it. She’s actually happy when we put it on because it means she gets to go out in the yard, to roam and explore and be free.

I often think I need a Sacred Noticing collar.

When I Forgot to Listen

Several months ago, I had what I can only describe as a misfortune—talking to a lot of people who had already made up their minds on an issue and didn’t want to discuss it. They just wanted to walk by and be done with it. Political conversations, mostly. The kind where you can feel the door closing before you’ve even finished your sentence.

And I barked at them.

Not literally, of course. But I might as well have. I felt the tightness in my chest, the heat rising in my face, the defensive thoughts forming: Why won’t they listen? Why are they so closed-minded? Don’t they see how important this is?

I didn’t pause. I didn’t take three breaths. I didn’t ask myself what this moment needed from me.

Instead, I pushed. I made my points more forcefully. I tried to open their closed minds with the sheer force of my rightness. I quoted sources they wouldn’t trust. I used logic they weren’t interested in hearing. I barked louder, hoping volume would succeed where gentleness had failed.

And predictably, spectacularly, it accomplished nothing except creating more distance.

Later, sitting with my journal, I asked myself: Was it really their minds that were closed? Or was it their hearts? And if their hearts were closed, what made me think my barking would open them?

More uncomfortably: What about my own heart? Had I been truly open to them, or was I just frustrated that they weren’t open to me?

The collar had been ringing the whole time. My jaw was tight. My shoulders were hunched. My breath was shallow. All the physiological signs were there, the gentle warning that I was about to create damage I’d regret. But I’d ignored every signal, pushed through, responded quickly because quick responses feel decisive, productive, right.

Except they’re often just barking. And barking rarely opens hearts.

When I Remembered to Pause

Years earlier, my daughter came home from school upset about something. The kind of upset that announces itself with a slammed door and heavy footsteps up the stairs.

An earlier version of me would have launched into immediate parent mode. Either “Let me fix this” or “When I was your age…” or perhaps the always-ineffective “It’s not that bad.”

But this time—maybe because the weekend’s failures were still stinging, maybe because I’d been writing about Sacred Noticing that morning—I caught myself.

She came into the kitchen, grabbed a snack with more force than necessary, and said something about a teacher being unfair.

I felt my fixing instinct activate. The urge to advise, to solve, to make it better with my parental wisdom. The impulse was so strong, so automatic.

But I paused.

Three breaths. Feet on the ground. What does this moment need from me?

And in that gap—that brief, sacred gap between stimulus and response—I noticed something I would have missed entirely if I’d barked: her face. She wasn’t looking for solutions. Her body language wasn’t asking for advice. She was hurt, yes, but underneath that, she was scared. Something about this teacher situation had touched a deeper wound.

From that place of noticing, from three breaths of pause, what emerged was completely different than what my initial reactivity wanted to say.

I simply said: “That sounds really frustrating.”

Then I shut up.

She stood there, eating her snack, and I could see her deciding whether to say more. The silence felt long. Uncomfortable. Every parent-instinct in me wanted to fill it with wisdom, guidance, questions.

But I stayed in the pause. Stayed present to her, not to my need to fix her.

And then she started talking. Really talking. Not just about the teacher, but about feeling like she didn’t fit in, about a friendship that was hurting her, about fears she’d been carrying for weeks that I’d had no idea existed.

We stood in that kitchen for over an hour. I mostly just listened. Occasionally asked a gentle question. Mostly just created space for her to find her own way through what she was feeling.

When she finally went upstairs to do homework, she hugged me and said, “Thanks, Dad. You really helped.”

I hadn’t done anything except not fill the space with myself.

Later, I heard her tell her brother on the phone: “Dad’s gotten really good at listening lately.”

The gift had been shared. Neither of us had noticed it happening in the moment.

The Collar I Actually Need

Here’s what I’m learning: The difference between the political conversations and the kitchen conversation wasn’t that I cared less about politics than I care about my daughter. If anything, the issues we were discussing felt enormously important—life-and-death important.

The difference was that with my daughter, I heard the collar ringing. I felt it activating—the tightness, the urge to jump in, the parental rescue instinct—and instead of ignoring it, I let it interrupt me.

With the political conversations, the collar was ringing just as loudly. But I was so convinced of the importance of being heard, of opening their closed minds, of winning the argument, that I ignored every signal my body was giving me.

Tight jaw. Shallow breath. Defensive thoughts forming. Rush of heat in my chest. These weren’t problems to push through—they were my body’s way of saying: You’re about to bark. This is your chance. You can choose differently.

What the Collar Teaches

My dog’s collar doesn’t punish her for barking. It just gives her information: This is cause and effect. Your barking creates consequences. You have another option.

My internal collar—when I’m paying attention to it—works the same way. It’s not about shame or failure or being a bad person. It’s information. It’s feedback. It’s the universe, or my body, or the Spirit, gently saying: You have another option here. You can pause. You can notice what’s actually happening instead of what you think should be happening. You can respond from wisdom instead of react from wound.

The practice of Sacred Noticing is learning to hear that gentle ringing and trust it. To let it interrupt me before I create damage I’ll regret. To believe that those three breaths will give me access to wisdom I can’t find when I’m in full bark mode.

The Medicine Within

Here’s what the political conversations and the kitchen conversation taught me: I don’t need an external collar. I already have one. My body is constantly giving me feedback, constantly offering me the chance to pause.

The tightness, the heat, the shallow breathing, the thoughts that come too fast and too sharp—these aren’t enemies. They’re not problems I should be strong enough to overcome. They’re the ringing. They’re the signal that says: This is your moment. Right here. You can bark, or you can notice, pause, and respond from somewhere deeper.

With my daughter, I heard it and chose the pause. Three breaths. That’s all it took. Three breaths to let my nervous system recalibrate, to let my amygdala calm down enough for my prefrontal cortex to come back online, to create enough space for wisdom to catch up with my racing reactivity.

With the political conversations, I heard it and ignored it. Pushed through. Barked louder. And created exactly the kind of closed-heartedness I was complaining about in others.

The Freedom of the Collar

My dog loves her collar because it gives her freedom. With it on, she can roam the whole yard, explore, play, be fully herself. Without it, we have to keep her on a short leash.

The collar doesn’t restrict her freedom. It makes freedom possible.

Sacred Noticing works the same way. Those three simple movements—Notice, Pause, Respond—they’re not restrictions on my authenticity or my passion about things that matter. They’re what make real freedom possible.

The freedom to respond from my best self instead of my most reactive self. The freedom to build relationships instead of constantly defending positions. The freedom to leave traces I’m proud of instead of traces I apologize for later.

The freedom to have the political conversations differently next time. Not abandoning what I believe, not pretending the issues don’t matter, but coming to them with an open heart instead of closed fists. Asking what their fear is instead of why they won’t see reason. Creating space for actual dialogue instead of just waiting for my turn to talk.

I don’t know if that will work. I don’t know if open hearts can penetrate closed minds. But I do know that barking doesn’t work. I tried that. Multiple times. This weekend proved it—again.

What I’m Still Learning

I’m getting better at hearing the collar with my daughter. With my family. In quieter moments when the stakes feel lower.

But in the moments when I’m most triggered—when the issues feel most urgent, when I’m most convinced of my rightness, when someone’s closed-mindedness feels most dangerous—that’s when I most need the pause, and that’s when I’m least likely to take it.

The practice isn’t about achieving perfect presence. It’s about the practiced return. Notice when you’ve lost yourself. Feel the collar ringing. Choose to pause, even mid-bark. Even after you’ve been barking for ten minutes. It’s never too late to stop, take three breaths, and say: “Wait. Let me try that again from a different place.”

Sometimes that looks like going back to those political conversations and saying: “I was pretty forceful the other day. I don’t think I was really listening to what matters to you. Can we talk about this differently?”

Sometimes it just looks like noticing faster next time. Barking for thirty seconds instead of ten minutes. Creating five seconds of pause instead of zero.

The collar is always there. The body is always giving feedback. The question is whether I’m willing to hear it, trust it, and let it interrupt me before the barking does its damage.

That’s the practice. That’s the collar I need. That’s the gift I’m still learning to receive.

Lord, help me hear the gentle ringing—in my body, in my breath, in the moment before I bark. Give me the wisdom to pause even when I’m convinced I’m right, especially when I’m convinced I’m right. Help me remember that opening hearts matters more than winning arguments, that creating space for others matters more than filling it with myself. Let me wear this practice like my dog wears her collar: not as restriction but as freedom, not as burden but as gift. Amen.