Anyone who has a dog and walks her in the countryside will be aware that this time of year is particularly frustrating for your dog.

Everywhere they turn, there are little white tails bouncing across the ruts, disappearing down a hole just a few seconds before a happy faced pooch suddenly pulls up short in disappointment.

I have a greyhound called Daisy, who has an incredibly strong chase reflex. If allowed to, she would chase all day or until her heart or lungs stopped.

It’s programmed into her, hardwired to force her to constantly chase the rabbits. Chase every one she sees, running it down until it disappears down a hole.

When it is in the hole, she still has no peace. She will stand to attention, waiting for it to come back.

Daisy the greyhound – ‘look, a rabbit’

But then another movement will catch her attention elsewhere in the field and she’d be off again.

Chasing the rabbit, unable to  catch them all, destined to be eternally frustrated.

Daisy’s frustration with the rabbits is mirrored in our own search for peace and contentment.

We don’t chase rabbits. We could, but we know we won’t get anywhere near them.

We chase our thoughts, though.

They rise unbidden from who knows where and scurry across the fields of our consciousness, grabbing our attention as they go.

We follow them, chasing every one – but before we can catch it and devour it, it’s gone.

We sit and watch, hoping that we will be given another chance to catch its meaning. Then suddenly another thought pops up and we repeat the process.

When we meditate, we learn to stop chasing the rabbits.

We can’t stop the rabbits coming up and running in front of our conscious mind.

But we learn to let them go. We don’t give chase. We accept that the rabbits will come and go, but we know we don’t need to follow them.

We let them run, we watch them disappear down their holes. We smile to ourselves, but we don’t give chase.

We calmly sit, free from their influence and in peace.