Laughing & Crying & Learning Equanimity

My morning was a typical one. I had gotten the kids off to camp with its usual frenzy of "let's go, let's go, we gotta go" going on, sprinted up hills in the woods, packed my breakfast and lunch for the day and showered. But toward the end of my getting out the door for work, feeling the stress of the morning rush, I started to simultaneously laugh and cry. They both wanted to happen with equal strength, so much so, that neither one had its way. Instead, what emanated from me was the strange sound of both. There I was, looking in the mirror as I put on my minimal make-up, repeatedly checking my phone to see when I needed to stop everything and bolt out the door to the train, while these expressions came out. Tears were at the edge of my eyes ready to jump, when suddenly a smile would find its way on my face with a stunted chuckle of incomplete laughter. All I knew was that the intensity of the anxiety I was feeling was absurd and yet I had to make a train and couldn't stop. It was a most bizarre physical display of stress. The part of me that knew the morning rush was too much for any one person wanted to laugh. She knew the pace at which I was moving was beyond unreasonable; the athleticism alone in multi-tasking was at once heroic and comical. Yet, the part of me that couldn't take this level of going anymore wanted to shut the whole thing down and cry. It didn't matter. I didn't have time to do either one. Instead I got myself to the train. The day went on and I was fine.

A week prior, I was on vacation enjoying waking up every morning doing meditation and yoga on the deck of the cabin I rented overlooking Acadia National Park. I am sure it looked like a picture out of a yoga journal or some spiritual retreat center catalog....the kind you see in stock photos and know to add a grain of salt (or maybe a tablespoon). On the day before we left, I cried. I dreaded coming back to the busyness of my everyday life. But I did. I came back to a week where, in addition to the usual array of work and children, I was also leading two meditations as part of a spiritual project in town. Those two mornings felt great with large groups of people turning up to be guided into meditation for an hour. How could it be that I could be the person guiding people and the person having a seemingly deranged laugh/cry meltdown while rushing out the door two days before? 

This is a mindful life...believe it or not. It looks like that at times. It does not look like a stock photo we can order for a meditation flyer. It is sloppy, uncomfortable, and disturbing as much as it is peaceful and grounded. It is what in Buddhism is known as The Four Noble Truths. What years of suffering (as we all have in varying degrees in life -- The First Noble Truth) and finding my way, with the help of many teachers (looking deeply at our suffering: The Second Noble Truth), has shown me is that what makes a life a mindful one is our ability to see our strong reactions to whatever arises without believing the messy part is all of us, without putting ourselves down when we see it, and our acceptance of all of it (there is a way to end suffering: The Third Noble Truth). We gradually get it. Sometimes it is like a light bulb going off or it may be slower, more like brown rice cooking (The Fourth Noble Truth: the path). We step back and observe without reacting to what we see as if it is the whole truth, nothing but the truth so help me...even if it feels like it is. The acceptance of what comes knocking at our door...the joy, the suffering, and everything in between, is what separates a mindful life from one driven by our ever changing feelings spurred on by an ever changing life. It is not being detached. It is being present. There was a time that I would put myself down over that apparent contradiction of rushing, feeling tremendous anxiety and being able to drop down into the breath, the present moment and to be able to share that understanding. But something in very recent years has shifted. What I thought I needed to be and what is more real, more loving, more kind, compassionate and joyful has made itself known. The teachers and leaders we see who inspire us are no different than us. They experience anxiety, fear, sadness, anger, joy, peace, excitement, wonder, contentment just the same. What makes them inspiring is the part we can't see...that they have all of those feelings and sensations and they embrace all the parts equally...that is learning to view all things with equanimity (one of the Four Brahma Viharas). The stuff of life doesn't change with a monk's robe, a title, a published book, a following. It is a good thing to remember...to keep in check that a mindful life is not a picture. Or if it is, all we need to do is step inside the frame and we are there. What a relief.

What I happily learned in my returning weeks home is that I do not need to be any different than I am. I can love the part of me that runs around like the Tasmanian Devil filling water bottles, washing the dishes, feeding the dog, drying my hair all in the same moment and the part of me that can be still like a Bodhisattva. Since I started writing this entry, I have had more anxiety ridden moments trying to figure out how to get everything done and everyone where they need to be as school starts, business picks up, doctors appointments get handled, and a kids' birthday planned, along with laundry, meals, dog walks, etc. But, in the midst of all of that, something stops me somehow and I get a moment to simply sit in Washington Square Park. I look up at the wind moving through the leaves in the trees on a hot day with the returning NYU students navigating their way on overcrowded sidewalks. As I sit there, I take in the anxiety of the morning rush still simmering inside, the peace that also exists in me, and so much joy. It is all beautifully there to enjoy...one sensation after another and all of which make us alive.