Since the days of the Roman Ampitheatres and the classic thumbs up or down, we have been conscious, cautious and concerned about other people’s opinions. In the old days, a thumbs down meant your death. Today a thumbs up means you reposted someone else’s witty comments, a photo-shopped, rainbow laiden, Unicorn-riding Obama, or simply manifested 100 characters of your own brilliance. Either way, we seem to mind quite a bit whether, and whomever, someone notices.

I post status updates for 30K Twitter Followers and 6K Facebook followers every day. It started out as a social experiment a few years ago and now, I find myself wondering why some people LIKE my posts and others don’t. Every morning I send birthday wishes to a dozen Facebook friends and I rarely know them personally. I feel guilty when I go on vacation or life becomes such that I simply can’t write the birthday notes. I stopped blogging last year when it seemed like the same handful of beautiful friends were the only one’s reposting my work on their Facebook pages. Perhaps I had run out of things to say that you would like?

Many people use the word addiction far too loosely so in the auspicious days of Woods, Weiner, and Sandusky, I think it is very important to be careful not to get confused when it comes to real addiction (process or substance notwithstanding) and mild obsession. I would say that while a small fraction of our society is truly addicted, most of us are mildly obsessed when it comes to the whims and fancies of our friends and families. Mild to moderate, at least.

A friend of mine’s mother recently posted photos of her grandchildren playing in the pool. They are, admittedly, particularly cute. When her fellow octogenarian Facebook friends failed to “Like” the slideshow, she exclaimed: “What, their grandkids are cuter than mine?!? Stupid people. Maybe I’ll try Twitter.”

A very wise man named Fred Rogers once noted that “(t)he connections we make in the course of a life–maybe that’s what heaven is… We make so many connections here on earth. Look at us–I’ve just met you, but I’m investing in who you are and who you will be, and I can’t help it.” Leave it to Mr. Rogers to put things into perspective when it comes to social networking and our cultural need for external approval.

I do believe it comes down to that sacred space between us, the meeting in the middle between your light and my own. Somehow the pull to hear your praise or simply see your “Like” affirms the magic and beauty of life that I feel within my Self and for the rest of the planet.

In my experience, most things on this planet come with an ending.

I find that there is often some resistance within myself to prevent natural completions, terminations or transitions even though I am conscious that everything and everyone has an end, at least in this physical manifestation.

Sometimes it is holding on to a job simply because I don’t want to accept it is over or deal with the fact that I’m no longer stimulated or challenged by it.

Sometimes it is gripping hard to a relationship that has long served its purpose and only exists because I, or we, keep pumping life into it in fear of the alternatives or in laziness based on what is comfortable and familiar.

Then, there is the obvious and biggest example of this. Death. Yes, death. The big one. The end of ends. The Grand Farewell.

In my work and in my own experience, I find that our anxiety with regard to our own physical termination has a great deal to do with many of our often times silly obsessions, patterns and hang-ups. What is most notable, however, is that our anxiety about death tends to be largely unconscious as most of us simply do not wish to think about it let alone discuss it with others, lest we make it ever more real.

So, what are we so worried about? There are of course the obvious questions such as will it hurt… will we be scared when the plug is pulled… will our loved ones miss us…will we be judged for things we messed up while alive?

For some, adherence to particular spiritual or religious doctrines helps place death within the specific context of our belief system. Our cosmology, the map we create and nest in that explains our universe and extrapolates for us beyond the flat line, seems easier for those who believe in a clearly defined religion as most theologies inherently answer the matter of life and death as one of the foundational purposes.

Which brings me to my dog.

Chaco is now 15 ½ years old. He wobbles and hobbles, pees and poops wherever it moves him, eats when he feels like it and only that which appeals to him at the moment. We have to hide his incontinence pills in balls of Wonder Bread and cream cheese, otherwise, no go.

He stares at himself in the mirror for long periods of time as if lost in the picture of who he has become. He spends several hours in a day standing at my side, staring into my eyes, panting.

He is, by all intents and purposes, nearing the end of his dog life.

Some folks would have “put him down” by now, claiming it is just “humane.” Others discuss the notion of “quality of life,” asking questions about his ability to run and play, making assertions that a dog that can not catch a Frisbee any longer may not be in possession of a good enough quality of life.

However, Chaco lives.

I’m not sure if he enjoys a particular cosmology, if he is conscious of a life after death or if he believes he will just “STOP” when the ride ends.

I do know, that he melts when we pet him. I know that he loves some good wet food and tuna fish makes his heart sing. I know that there is still a gentle skip in his gait when we get to the dog park, even though he stumbles around and makes his mark by sometimes lifting the wrong leg. I know that my best friend for over 15 years, though mostly deaf, always knows when I am leaving for work and makes his way to the front door to peer his sweet head around and wish me a good day.

I know that Chaco is not finished with this life. I am basing this belief on the sense that he will let me know when it is no longer worth it. I am basing this on 15 years of history together that has proven that my dog communicates his needs pretty darn well.

And, I suppose, I’m basing this on my own cosmology. The way I perceive life and death is the way I move through my existence, making decisions and choosing paths along the journey. I believe that Chaco contracted with me long ago to walk this walk together, to enjoy the journey for as long as we decided it was working for us both. It’s a relationship, after all.

And relationships are a two way street.

I’m sorry.

I say this tiny little phrase all the time. Sometimes out loud, oftentimes in my own head.

I’m sorry.

I have heard it repeated to me throughout my life. Sometimes out loud, oftentimes implied through remorseful eyes or pursed lips.

What does it mean, really? Do I mean it when I say it? What could it mean to truly be sorry?

In many languages, “sorry” is equivalently translated as “excuse me.” Yes, oftentimes the way I mean “I’m sorry” is akin to bumping into you at Starbucks and accidentally spilling your coffee. There may be a stain but it’s not life or death, so get over it.

I consider the prevalence of “I’m sorry” in our whack-a-doodle culture. Everyone from priests to politicians, professional sports figures to movie stars, all seem to find their way in front of a camera to utter the requisite mea culpa. Back in the day, folks even used to throw in a “maxima” between mea and culpa, offering “my most grievous fault.”

However, who really means it anymore? And why do we seem to expect public figures to go on global TV and utter those empty words as part of some inane PR process required to return to box office or golf course power? Who are you really saying those words to? Me? You?

A spiritual teacher once told me “everyone will hurt you at some point, so you might as well get used to it.” Well, then. That’s not a fun concept, is it?

Yet, the truism has seemingly had some legs in my life. Sometimes they have been little hurts, other times they have been some culpae maximus… Oftentimes, however, they are accompanied with “I’m sorry.”

If it is a simple fact of life that we will inevitably step on grass and bugs, even killing them, what does it mean to be “sorry?” If I choose to do something hurtful, malicious, even premeditated, what does it mean to be sorry?

Excuse me.