This week, after years of trying, I achieved a goal I had been reaching for in my work. I had booked the number of clients I aspired to have in a week. It was an ideal day when I realized I had arrived at this place. I walked my dog in the warm spring sun, under the blue sky, alongside the blossoming cherry trees and felt relief and joy. As is my nature, I started to reflect on the ever changing states of joyfulness and suffering. It can't simply be that I get what I want and the difficulty in me goes away. I know better. I walked on and really took it on. I imagined what it would be like if I had the things I think I want. For an American, I think my wants are rather humble. But even so, I played the game of what if. What if I had the relationship I want (even with its innate difficulties), if my one bedroom place suddenly had another bedroom, if I continued to have enough clients. I closed my eyes and imagined them suddenly being a reality and sensed what it would feel like in my body. I asked myself, "would there still be the ache of longing, or a subtle anxiety, an inescapable loneliness, or an underlying restlessness coursing through me, however mild?" I threw the question out there and the answer came boomeranging back, "yes, there would be!" I knew it was true so I threw it back out and asked the bigger question, "what do we do with this perpetual yearning?"
I then thought of my morning's parenting moment and saw my answer. I was walking with my 6 year old daughter to school and she was telling me how she was suffering over the fact that a friend of hers wasn't paying attention to her. That the girl was now playing games my daughter didn't want to play at recess, that she wasn't engaging with my daughter on line or talking with her between activities as she had before. This issue with her friend keeps returning. I could hear my daughter's hurt and how she was turning it into blame. I thought to myself, wow, this human condition of people pushing and pulling at one another starts at an early age. I wished my daughter could see that she didn't need to chase after anyone and yet, I knew the reality that we all go through this struggle throughout our lives. Hopefully we learn from the experiences as we age and handle them more compassionately and gracefully, but ultimately, as long as we are in relationship to others, we will endlessly face the challenge of meeting each others needs. All there is to do is to surrender to what we feel and in the softening find some peace. The answer to the struggle is to simply feel the struggle. Just like the answer to our desire for something more is to simply feel the desire. I know it's not what we want to hear (and I am not at all suggesting that we don't
try to get what we want). Some days I can't hear it and that's okay, too. The gift is still there for us to receive when we are ready. Trying to explain that to a child is another story, but she was listening and often I think children get things faster than adults do.
Whenever I get in touch with wanting something I don't have, I think there is something I need to do about it. Can't I fix it? It is as if I were to fix the outside thing, the inside would be fine again. But, if there's something getting what we want shows us, it is that another want will arise. I could circle around on that never ending loop, or I can sit down and sense what is going on in my body and breathe with it, letting it be there just as it is. It is in practicing staying in the present moment that allows us to feel the unmet need, (longing, desire, unrest), and enables us to bare it and find its fulfillment. Its fulfillment is our own comfort. We can distract ourselves from feeling this
place by keeping ourselves busy or wrapped up in crises (our own or
others), in blaming people or things, or in perpetually fixing. But, if
we are ever forced to settle down by some significant change, this place of yearning
will present itself and when we can bare to stay present, there is an
intangible reward it offers.
Though I may get what I need in life (actually, I often do, but maybe not in the form or time frame I expect it), some part of me is always going to long for something. In that understanding, I can breathe a sigh of relief. There is nothing more I need to do than continually see the gifts I already have. I can enjoy walking by a beautifully flowering tree or some ornate piece of iron on an old brownstone door, or the sensation of rain touching my skin, or cherishing the shared laugh with a friend, or appreciating the fact that I turn on the faucet and water flows. The comfort (peace, love, whatever we call it) we need to make us feel complete, and not in need of anything more, comes from within.
It could be that next week, I will have all the clients I need or it could be that my daughter will have her friend's attention. Either way the wanting will inevitably arrive at some point, but maybe we can find some refuge in the idea that the real answer is not in fixing it, but in feeling it and finding compassion. The rest takes cares of itself.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Breathing With Bears
Last weekend, I took my children to see the Disney film, Bears. I thought we were seeing a typical animated movie, not a documentary, so I wasn't prepared for the 90 minutes of anxiety I had to sit with as I watched a momma bear protect her cubs from other large, four legged animals with big teeth, avalanches, and shortages of food. So much for a relaxing night at the movies. Two days later, I brought my kids to school and as I walked my dog before heading to the train, I again felt a subtle, but pervasive sense of anxiety coursing through me. I had to remind myself, that everything was really fine. The kids were safe, happy, and on time for school. I had a full day of clients to see. I had enough money for the week. I had a roof over my head, clothes, and food. I was healthy. I was going to be able to run. The sun was even out. Everything was in fact really good, so why the anxiety? Bears! That's why. As many experts on the brain tell us, we are wired that way. We live on shaky ground. Even if we're not physically located in an earthquake zone, we are perpetually up against rumbling forces, against inevitable change. So, of course we don't automatically relax just because a fox or tremendous bear isn't preying on us in the very moment. How does our whole being know to let our guard down? This is an interesting challenge and is something I keep exploring in my life and work. It's not enough to have the thought that I'm not in danger, and that I can be at ease, I need to connect the thought to my body. Only then, can I actually let go.
Having the intellectual understanding that I am not in danger is very different than literally saying to myself, "Jean, in this moment, everything is okay; you are safe" and then sense, not think, but sense a softening in my eyes and face, in my shoulders and chest. I can bring my attention to my inhale and exhale and feel my ribs and abdomen move and not hold them in as if wearing an invisible corset. I can choose to soften the shell that holds me and carries me through this life. To think we're okay is not enough, we must physically sense it for change to happen. The best way I know to do it is through conscious breathing. It's the greatest free app we have. All we need to do is click on it.
No matter what comes up that makes my mind and emotions spin like a top, I can come back to my breath, and it's as if I put my finger up against the whirling and the spinning top comes to a dead halt. If I am in a difficult emotional place, it doesn't stop the suffering, but from there, I can create enough space to say, "wow, I am really sad (or anxious, or scared, or lonely, or in deep longing), but even in this suffering, I am okay." From there I breathe in and out the sensations of these feelings with compassionate attention and not have to do anything more. I can feel my chest constrict, my field of vision narrow, my body feel heavy, but I can breathe into it and sense an okay-ness within the difficulty. And, I'll keep coming back to doing that for as long as the feeling is present. It might be throughout a whole day or it may be just an hour, or maybe it's a week, or a month, or a year where I have to keep reminding myself I am okay and can breathe.
When I lived in the city and went to the deep country on artist retreats, I would always contemplate what to do if I came across a bear. It was as if I was simultaneously wanting and dreading the experience. I no longer do that, but, in a deeper way, I am aware that the bear is always there. What matters is that I can breathe anyway; in this very moment, I am truly okay.
Having the intellectual understanding that I am not in danger is very different than literally saying to myself, "Jean, in this moment, everything is okay; you are safe" and then sense, not think, but sense a softening in my eyes and face, in my shoulders and chest. I can bring my attention to my inhale and exhale and feel my ribs and abdomen move and not hold them in as if wearing an invisible corset. I can choose to soften the shell that holds me and carries me through this life. To think we're okay is not enough, we must physically sense it for change to happen. The best way I know to do it is through conscious breathing. It's the greatest free app we have. All we need to do is click on it.
No matter what comes up that makes my mind and emotions spin like a top, I can come back to my breath, and it's as if I put my finger up against the whirling and the spinning top comes to a dead halt. If I am in a difficult emotional place, it doesn't stop the suffering, but from there, I can create enough space to say, "wow, I am really sad (or anxious, or scared, or lonely, or in deep longing), but even in this suffering, I am okay." From there I breathe in and out the sensations of these feelings with compassionate attention and not have to do anything more. I can feel my chest constrict, my field of vision narrow, my body feel heavy, but I can breathe into it and sense an okay-ness within the difficulty. And, I'll keep coming back to doing that for as long as the feeling is present. It might be throughout a whole day or it may be just an hour, or maybe it's a week, or a month, or a year where I have to keep reminding myself I am okay and can breathe.
When I lived in the city and went to the deep country on artist retreats, I would always contemplate what to do if I came across a bear. It was as if I was simultaneously wanting and dreading the experience. I no longer do that, but, in a deeper way, I am aware that the bear is always there. What matters is that I can breathe anyway; in this very moment, I am truly okay.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
If You Could See What I See On The Subway
I was on the A train going downtown on my morning commute today when I found myself doing this thing I do from time to time. I looked at the people sitting on the train and turned them into their kid selves. I imagined what they would look like as 4-6 year olds. I don't know if it is because I have kids or what, but I can picture these strangers of all ethnicities in their childhood suits easily. I immediately start smiling at the picture before me. These people have no idea that I am thinking or even seeing them on the train. I am the only one in on the secret, but gosh, if they could see what I see, they would likely smile, too.
I didn't realize, in the moment, why I had launched into this mind game this morning, but in retrospect, I am aware of the unconscious self-help that was going on. There I was at Penn Station feeling a need for something. I felt a longing and a vague sense that, in some way, I was not okay. It wasn't an awful feeling or a big struggle by any means, but was present enough for me to be aware of it. I walked through Penn Station with my headphones on, with this unfulfilled feeling, my eyes scanning the crowded busyness of people going in all directions. I was taking in the world and seeing details of interactions, as if in slow motion, with my private soundscape playing. I was both in the scene and removed from it. It's like having too much to drink, except it is so much better, because I'm in control. It was when I actually got on the subway that I realized I didn't need to shut the world out just because I was needing something, in fact, it's always better to let people in. So I did by looking at people's faces and seeing their vulnerable, human selves. That's when the kid game began. In finding the child in the serious faces of these adults, I could see others' vulnerabilities and be in touch with my own. It filled me with compassion and warmth for this human endeavor we are all on. I felt so much better. I walked out of the West 4th Street subway and walked with a more open and gentle sense in my body. The world became so much larger than me, which is what it really is.
The next time you are stuck in a feeling, would join me in this game? It might be that transforming who you see into their childhood selves might transform you, too. Please let me know if it does!
I didn't realize, in the moment, why I had launched into this mind game this morning, but in retrospect, I am aware of the unconscious self-help that was going on. There I was at Penn Station feeling a need for something. I felt a longing and a vague sense that, in some way, I was not okay. It wasn't an awful feeling or a big struggle by any means, but was present enough for me to be aware of it. I walked through Penn Station with my headphones on, with this unfulfilled feeling, my eyes scanning the crowded busyness of people going in all directions. I was taking in the world and seeing details of interactions, as if in slow motion, with my private soundscape playing. I was both in the scene and removed from it. It's like having too much to drink, except it is so much better, because I'm in control. It was when I actually got on the subway that I realized I didn't need to shut the world out just because I was needing something, in fact, it's always better to let people in. So I did by looking at people's faces and seeing their vulnerable, human selves. That's when the kid game began. In finding the child in the serious faces of these adults, I could see others' vulnerabilities and be in touch with my own. It filled me with compassion and warmth for this human endeavor we are all on. I felt so much better. I walked out of the West 4th Street subway and walked with a more open and gentle sense in my body. The world became so much larger than me, which is what it really is.
The next time you are stuck in a feeling, would join me in this game? It might be that transforming who you see into their childhood selves might transform you, too. Please let me know if it does!
Thursday, April 10, 2014
What Would It Be Like?
Last weekend, I watched three talented, beautiful, sexy women of different ages perform an evening of songs in an intimate setting of a friend's living room. Golden voices emanating through the microphones. Women sure of who they are and what they were singing about. I marveled at them in dresses which hugged their different shapes and revealed their flawless legs, unapologetic in their presence, confident. I watched them speak, sing, and gaze out to the audience with an artistry and boldness that made me smile with joy and pride as I sat in the safety of my chair.
In the safety of my chair, I wished I possessed that kind of bravura. What would it be like, I wondered? To wear a tight dress with all my curves and to stand before a group and sing confidently of tortured love? What would it feel like to toss my hair to one side and to know I was talented and attractive and not hide? I sat there and beamed with delight at what these others could muster.
A couple of nights later, I was watching a TED Talks video of a psychologist speaking about stress. I wasn't sure if I was captivated by what she was saying or by how amazingly put together she was. Probably both. She appeared articulate, intelligent, charming, and all around beautiful. Her delicate waves of hair naturally framing her face and her makeup subtle and just right. Her voice calm and soothing. Again, I thought, wow, what would that be like? This wasn't the first TED Talks video where I thought to myself, my gosh I am so small in comparison. The women presenting look as though they have it all together, are utterly "successful" and, in my small-minded thinking, must have it all. Their knowledge and sophistication shine; they speak with clarity and assurance; their words come easily and everything appears effortless. Watching, I felt like a bull in a china shop simply sitting in my chair.
That's the honest truth of what goes on in me in some moments. And then...I remember. What it looks like on the outside and what it feels like on the inside don't automatically match up. That is not to say that these women aren't as magnificent as they appear to me, but that they don't necessarily feel that way. How many years did I get on stage and appear strong and confident and look powerful and genuinely at home in my skin? Did it feel like that? Sometimes and sometimes not and no one else knew the difference. It could be that I, too, look like I've got it all together despite what I sometimes feel. Maybe I am really no different from these women who so impress me.
After I do all of that spinning in my head, like a top that finally loses its momentum, I come down to the ground again and my forgetfulness leaves. I close my eyes and breathe. I feel the simplicity of sensation, of my lungs filling and emptying of air. I feel my chest and abdomen riding the wave of each inhale and exhale and I remember that we all do that. We all breathe the same way, on the same earth. We are all making our way with the struggles and gifts of life. We all get old and sick and we all return to the earth in the end. What a relief. From here, I recall what truly matters. I can tap into the genuine joy I felt as the women let the first beautiful sounds fly from their beings that night. I can appreciate the imprint the psychologist made on me and how the gift of her message was captured for us all to learn from. I can admire her courage.
When I get out of my thoughts and come back into my body, I have the space to step back and see our collective human vulnerability and beauty and feel at home again. I can remember that what matters to me is not how much I know, or how I appear, or whether I can impress. What matters to me is that I connect with living things. That I spend my time waking up and being present to whatever happens in this short time I am here. I will touch people simply by doing that. We all have that capacity. Whether I look and sound the part is unimportant and would actually get in the way if that is what I let lead me. That we exist and are awake is enough. So when I get lost in those moments of comparing and feeling less then, as we all do, I want to do what I began doing that night those three women started singing. I want to bask in being delighted with this life and what we are all capable of. And so, when I find myself saying, "I wonder what it would be like if I...," I can respond by saying, "I already know." I simply need to breathe and let my smile remind me of my purpose and that the place that I think is missing already resides inside.
In the safety of my chair, I wished I possessed that kind of bravura. What would it be like, I wondered? To wear a tight dress with all my curves and to stand before a group and sing confidently of tortured love? What would it feel like to toss my hair to one side and to know I was talented and attractive and not hide? I sat there and beamed with delight at what these others could muster.
A couple of nights later, I was watching a TED Talks video of a psychologist speaking about stress. I wasn't sure if I was captivated by what she was saying or by how amazingly put together she was. Probably both. She appeared articulate, intelligent, charming, and all around beautiful. Her delicate waves of hair naturally framing her face and her makeup subtle and just right. Her voice calm and soothing. Again, I thought, wow, what would that be like? This wasn't the first TED Talks video where I thought to myself, my gosh I am so small in comparison. The women presenting look as though they have it all together, are utterly "successful" and, in my small-minded thinking, must have it all. Their knowledge and sophistication shine; they speak with clarity and assurance; their words come easily and everything appears effortless. Watching, I felt like a bull in a china shop simply sitting in my chair.
That's the honest truth of what goes on in me in some moments. And then...I remember. What it looks like on the outside and what it feels like on the inside don't automatically match up. That is not to say that these women aren't as magnificent as they appear to me, but that they don't necessarily feel that way. How many years did I get on stage and appear strong and confident and look powerful and genuinely at home in my skin? Did it feel like that? Sometimes and sometimes not and no one else knew the difference. It could be that I, too, look like I've got it all together despite what I sometimes feel. Maybe I am really no different from these women who so impress me.
After I do all of that spinning in my head, like a top that finally loses its momentum, I come down to the ground again and my forgetfulness leaves. I close my eyes and breathe. I feel the simplicity of sensation, of my lungs filling and emptying of air. I feel my chest and abdomen riding the wave of each inhale and exhale and I remember that we all do that. We all breathe the same way, on the same earth. We are all making our way with the struggles and gifts of life. We all get old and sick and we all return to the earth in the end. What a relief. From here, I recall what truly matters. I can tap into the genuine joy I felt as the women let the first beautiful sounds fly from their beings that night. I can appreciate the imprint the psychologist made on me and how the gift of her message was captured for us all to learn from. I can admire her courage.
When I get out of my thoughts and come back into my body, I have the space to step back and see our collective human vulnerability and beauty and feel at home again. I can remember that what matters to me is not how much I know, or how I appear, or whether I can impress. What matters to me is that I connect with living things. That I spend my time waking up and being present to whatever happens in this short time I am here. I will touch people simply by doing that. We all have that capacity. Whether I look and sound the part is unimportant and would actually get in the way if that is what I let lead me. That we exist and are awake is enough. So when I get lost in those moments of comparing and feeling less then, as we all do, I want to do what I began doing that night those three women started singing. I want to bask in being delighted with this life and what we are all capable of. And so, when I find myself saying, "I wonder what it would be like if I...," I can respond by saying, "I already know." I simply need to breathe and let my smile remind me of my purpose and that the place that I think is missing already resides inside.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Courage, It's Not What It Feels Like
Spring is finally showing itself and I am relieved to feel the part of me that "notices" is awakening again. Coming out of the recesses is my desire to see details and to be delighted and excited. Thank goodness. Nature is about to burst forth and shower us with growth. I think of it courageously sprouting from the saturated ground and popping out from the stiff bark of the seemingly endless bare branches everywhere. That incredible movement is what I would call courageous and is what has surfaced over the past week.
When I hear the word "courage," what comes to mind, however misguided it is, is the description of someone brave, strong and clear, who launches off to do some daunting task without hesitation. When I think of my life and of the things that I did that I could now say took a good deal of courage, I know I did not feel strong, clear, and brave in the moment. Most of the time, I felt scared, uncertain, somewhat tortured, and on unsteady ground. It is only after the fact that I could recognize that what I did was actually courageous. What the courageous person does have in the moment is a deep understanding that something must be done, some change, some action, some step taken. This is done despite not knowing how it will turn out or if she can accomplish it at all. I recognize that it is not my thoughts that are courageous, no matter how detailed I play them out. It is when these thoughts actually move me. It is when I move out of thinking, or fantasizing, or dreaming to living it.
I look around me lately and I see acts of courage everywhere. I see clients who have been physically and emotionally suffering, who come to the conclusion that there must be another way that entails a completely different approach in their thinking and being. I can see the hesitation, the fear, the doubt, the frustration, but then the action, no matter how small, the change in direction, the willingness to try something unknown or simply the ability to stay present. That is courageous, but they don't see it, not yet. I think of the moments in my life where I took an action, like when I decided to double up my 11th and 12th grade years of high school so I could get out early and follow my path in dance. Or, the action of repeatedly going out on stage alone. Or, when I chose my first partner in life, despite the objections of family around me. Or, when I decided to go back to school at night and on the weekends while also working and dancing. Or, being present with a dying parent. Or, coming home from the hospital with newborn twins. Or, a more recent change in my life that disrupted everything comfortable, familiar, planned, safe. In most of those significant events, I felt frightened, or overwhelmed. At times, I was in pain and suffering. The image that comes to mind this week was standing across from Penn Station on a very windy night looking at five American flags waving fiercely in the wind, while the sixth one was all twisted around the poll. Sometimes a brave act actually feels like that tangled flag. If, at any point in my life, someone had said that what I was doing was courageous, the word would have sailed right over me and landed on a character in a book on my shelf. Not on me.
But now, I understand what courage really looks like and I see tremendous amounts of it all around me. I see it in the people who take an action, despite the huge risk of losing something, which we must do. We lose something in the courageous act because we let go of where we were. We leave something behind to stand up for something greater, or to get to another place, or to bring something to fruition, or to risk ourselves for another. The courageous person, unconsciously makes room for loss. Loss of what is comfortable, easy, safe, predictable, known. It is a sacrifice to something that holds hope.
This goes out to all of you who are taking actions that feel frightening, that sometimes feel like driving in thick fog. They are actions that you can't know are going to lead somewhere "good," but call your name and some truth in you responds. You might not feel courageous, but the rest of us watching, can see it. At some point, you, too, will look back an say, "wow, that took a lot for me to do." If you're in the middle of some transition or just stepping off a cliff, I bow to you in the confusion, in the uncertainty, in the determination. We can't know our own courage, but what we can know is trust in some inner, aware, shaky, but unequivocal voice tells us that we must do something and in hope, which, in the end, is what moves us.
When I hear the word "courage," what comes to mind, however misguided it is, is the description of someone brave, strong and clear, who launches off to do some daunting task without hesitation. When I think of my life and of the things that I did that I could now say took a good deal of courage, I know I did not feel strong, clear, and brave in the moment. Most of the time, I felt scared, uncertain, somewhat tortured, and on unsteady ground. It is only after the fact that I could recognize that what I did was actually courageous. What the courageous person does have in the moment is a deep understanding that something must be done, some change, some action, some step taken. This is done despite not knowing how it will turn out or if she can accomplish it at all. I recognize that it is not my thoughts that are courageous, no matter how detailed I play them out. It is when these thoughts actually move me. It is when I move out of thinking, or fantasizing, or dreaming to living it.
I look around me lately and I see acts of courage everywhere. I see clients who have been physically and emotionally suffering, who come to the conclusion that there must be another way that entails a completely different approach in their thinking and being. I can see the hesitation, the fear, the doubt, the frustration, but then the action, no matter how small, the change in direction, the willingness to try something unknown or simply the ability to stay present. That is courageous, but they don't see it, not yet. I think of the moments in my life where I took an action, like when I decided to double up my 11th and 12th grade years of high school so I could get out early and follow my path in dance. Or, the action of repeatedly going out on stage alone. Or, when I chose my first partner in life, despite the objections of family around me. Or, when I decided to go back to school at night and on the weekends while also working and dancing. Or, being present with a dying parent. Or, coming home from the hospital with newborn twins. Or, a more recent change in my life that disrupted everything comfortable, familiar, planned, safe. In most of those significant events, I felt frightened, or overwhelmed. At times, I was in pain and suffering. The image that comes to mind this week was standing across from Penn Station on a very windy night looking at five American flags waving fiercely in the wind, while the sixth one was all twisted around the poll. Sometimes a brave act actually feels like that tangled flag. If, at any point in my life, someone had said that what I was doing was courageous, the word would have sailed right over me and landed on a character in a book on my shelf. Not on me.
But now, I understand what courage really looks like and I see tremendous amounts of it all around me. I see it in the people who take an action, despite the huge risk of losing something, which we must do. We lose something in the courageous act because we let go of where we were. We leave something behind to stand up for something greater, or to get to another place, or to bring something to fruition, or to risk ourselves for another. The courageous person, unconsciously makes room for loss. Loss of what is comfortable, easy, safe, predictable, known. It is a sacrifice to something that holds hope.
This goes out to all of you who are taking actions that feel frightening, that sometimes feel like driving in thick fog. They are actions that you can't know are going to lead somewhere "good," but call your name and some truth in you responds. You might not feel courageous, but the rest of us watching, can see it. At some point, you, too, will look back an say, "wow, that took a lot for me to do." If you're in the middle of some transition or just stepping off a cliff, I bow to you in the confusion, in the uncertainty, in the determination. We can't know our own courage, but what we can know is trust in some inner, aware, shaky, but unequivocal voice tells us that we must do something and in hope, which, in the end, is what moves us.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
A Better Way To Go
I ran in the woods this week for the first time in two months. I've been waiting for the snow that has been so solidly packed down into ice on the trails to melt. There were still white, icy stretches that interrupted the flow of my pace (you know on a summer day when the ice in your drink mostly melts, but there are still pieces floating that just won't give in...it's like that), but it was good to be in the woods again, which feel like my second home. We should all have a place like that. Somewhere familiar we go which, by its sheer nature, gives us space untainted by anything or anyone (and yes, it's usually not our childhood home). A neutral place that holds no judgment, where we can bring any feeling or thought and just be.
On this day, I came upon a stretch of trail that looked slippery for too long, so I veered up a more rugged side trail, thinking I'd catch up with the main trail in a very short while, but I found myself confused when that trail intersected with another wide trail, which wasn't the one I was familiar with. I quickly understood that I was heading on a new path and rather than turn around, I decided to keep going, that maybe this was, unknowingly, the better way to go this day.
It went uphill for a long ways and eventually I saw ahead of me a man walking on paved ground. I knew instantly that I had arrived at a part of the reservation two towns over where there is a loop of paved road. I was delighted. I finished on the easy paved loop after having made a mental note of where the trail was that I should get back on to head home. What I didn't realize was that there was a fork in the path. I didn't know which way I had come. I made a guess and after some seconds, I didn't recall certain trees down or stumps or ice and so I went back to the fork and tried the other way. After 30 seconds that way, I also didn't recognize the landscape. I really had no idea which way I had come.
I was even more delighted that this didn't bother me. I didn't know which way to go and it was fine. Why in this instance of not knowing was I okay and in other circumstances of not knowing in my life do I tremble? The path is going to lead somewhere, no matter what. There is comfort in that. It is not as though I took off into some vast and strange forest somewhere, unfamiliar with the landmarks and without a map. In my life that is also the case. I might not know where a path is leading, but I know enough of what is around me to be safe. If I could remember to rest in that knowledge, I can enjoy the path and not miss it in my fear that there is a better way to go.
It sounds nice, but how do we really do that in the moment of having to make a decision or change? If I think back to that moment at the fork, I'd say that unconsciously there was trust, fearlessness, surrender and playfulness. I trusted myself to find my way if I got lost. That I could, in fact, handle it. I trusted the universe to bring me somewhere or to something I might need to know, learn or experience. In trusting, fear dropped away. Isn't that true? When we trust in something, fear has no weight. Surrender, which I equate with acceptance, is a willingness to be in the experience. There was no use resisting the fact that I didn't know which way would lead me home. I had to pick a way and go. Had I beat myself up for not knowing, or worried about it, or blamed something, I'd be creating more difficulty. It's so easy to do that. Instead I can say, "ah, I am here; interesting; I wonder how this will work." And then, playfulness has its part on stage. There has to be that moment of laughing. For me it was the fact that I carefully noted the tree and rock where the path started so I could find it again. I felt smart and confident in doing that until I got there and stopped in my tracks realizing that I didn't notice the fork. That was funny. I felt humbled in that moment. It's like when you're feeling good about yourself, strong, sexy, confident and then you get home and realize you have a piece of chocolate on your cheek. You know what I mean. It's best to laugh. The alternative is no fun.
The better way to go is to enjoy whichever path I am on and when there is a fork and unforeseen possibility opens up its doors again, I may find myself going in a new direction. I can then enjoy that journey with its ice, mud, and its smooth parts, too. And, when there is chocolate on my face, I will be sure to laugh.
On this day, I came upon a stretch of trail that looked slippery for too long, so I veered up a more rugged side trail, thinking I'd catch up with the main trail in a very short while, but I found myself confused when that trail intersected with another wide trail, which wasn't the one I was familiar with. I quickly understood that I was heading on a new path and rather than turn around, I decided to keep going, that maybe this was, unknowingly, the better way to go this day.
It went uphill for a long ways and eventually I saw ahead of me a man walking on paved ground. I knew instantly that I had arrived at a part of the reservation two towns over where there is a loop of paved road. I was delighted. I finished on the easy paved loop after having made a mental note of where the trail was that I should get back on to head home. What I didn't realize was that there was a fork in the path. I didn't know which way I had come. I made a guess and after some seconds, I didn't recall certain trees down or stumps or ice and so I went back to the fork and tried the other way. After 30 seconds that way, I also didn't recognize the landscape. I really had no idea which way I had come.
I was even more delighted that this didn't bother me. I didn't know which way to go and it was fine. Why in this instance of not knowing was I okay and in other circumstances of not knowing in my life do I tremble? The path is going to lead somewhere, no matter what. There is comfort in that. It is not as though I took off into some vast and strange forest somewhere, unfamiliar with the landmarks and without a map. In my life that is also the case. I might not know where a path is leading, but I know enough of what is around me to be safe. If I could remember to rest in that knowledge, I can enjoy the path and not miss it in my fear that there is a better way to go.
It sounds nice, but how do we really do that in the moment of having to make a decision or change? If I think back to that moment at the fork, I'd say that unconsciously there was trust, fearlessness, surrender and playfulness. I trusted myself to find my way if I got lost. That I could, in fact, handle it. I trusted the universe to bring me somewhere or to something I might need to know, learn or experience. In trusting, fear dropped away. Isn't that true? When we trust in something, fear has no weight. Surrender, which I equate with acceptance, is a willingness to be in the experience. There was no use resisting the fact that I didn't know which way would lead me home. I had to pick a way and go. Had I beat myself up for not knowing, or worried about it, or blamed something, I'd be creating more difficulty. It's so easy to do that. Instead I can say, "ah, I am here; interesting; I wonder how this will work." And then, playfulness has its part on stage. There has to be that moment of laughing. For me it was the fact that I carefully noted the tree and rock where the path started so I could find it again. I felt smart and confident in doing that until I got there and stopped in my tracks realizing that I didn't notice the fork. That was funny. I felt humbled in that moment. It's like when you're feeling good about yourself, strong, sexy, confident and then you get home and realize you have a piece of chocolate on your cheek. You know what I mean. It's best to laugh. The alternative is no fun.
The better way to go is to enjoy whichever path I am on and when there is a fork and unforeseen possibility opens up its doors again, I may find myself going in a new direction. I can then enjoy that journey with its ice, mud, and its smooth parts, too. And, when there is chocolate on my face, I will be sure to laugh.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Fish Out of Water
I know a considerable number of people
courageously (though they may not feel it) braving a whirlwind of financial
and/or career upheavals, adjustments and transformations. Though I am not in a career shift, I have been in a life shift
and it has required a stepping up in what I have needed to do, but also, in
what I have wanted to do. It is both a necessity and an aspiration to
change. There are moments when I panic thinking about the very near future or
the more distant one, wondering how it is all going to work out. I feel like a
fish out of water, at these times, losing all sense of being at home in myself
and in my surroundings. There are other days where I feel at a standstill and
cannot connect to the larger picture that holds meaning and purpose. The lines
and colors are hidden behind frosted glass. There are days where I long to rest
and to not figure out how to make something happen. And, there are times where
I wish I could get a shot of confidence. Something that runs a dose of
"yes, you can do this" through my whole being. And, though I have
never been of the nature to imagine my life a certain way, there is a part of
me that wishes for stability, security, and a sense of knowing that I will be
okay. I also know what the wise teachers
share, that getting comfortable with not knowing is the greater gift to attain.
I write this post not having any answers. What I can do is put together what has gotten me through thus far and what I know will continue to help me swim and to find the current that moves me along, even when the waters are low.
Patience. It is a word kids don’t really like or understand and when I am in a certain place I, too, don’t respond to it very well. Luckily there is also an adult in the room who knows the wisdom of the word. These paths of change inevitably feel like they take longer than they should. Having patience is the only way to bare it. And of course, it is not an ending that the path is coming to, but just an intersection with another path further along, but either way, when it feels like I've been walking along the same gravel road for too long and my shoes are wearing out, I can remember that it must feel that way and that it is still the “right” path. What if, when I awoke in the morning, I started by saying, “may I have patience today.” There is something comforting in remembering that I can choose that state of presence. I can still be fearful, but patient in my fearfulness.
That said, if I really am trying to swim in rough waters, patience alone is not enough. I have learned that it is not my nature to ask for unpaid help on the more serious aspects of life. I can ask for movie recommendations on facebook or where to take my kids for soccer lessons, but to really ask for someone’s help produces a good head shake and a stop sign hand out as if I am going to start singing, “Stop In The Name of Love.” But actually, I do need to stop in the name of love and ask for help. Of course, I need to ask the right people, but if I know who they are, they are most likely wanting to help. We all like to feel like we have something to give. If I can get past myself, I might actually be doing someone good in calling upon him/her. And if the feeling of shame should arise, I can take care of that voice, acknowledge its presence with compassion, and kindly remind myself that I can’t do everything alone, that we are interdependent. The only way I can give is if I also receive. There is an art to receiving. When we learn it, we start receiving so much more because we see the gifts that were right before us. When we see only our difficulty, it is as if we have blinders on and don’t have the wider vision to take in what is being, or has been, or will be extended toward us. I need to be humble enough to ask and grateful enough to receive. So the morning wish goes on…”may I have patience, may I remember that I need others, and may I be grateful and open to receiving.”
But, despite those intentions, I can still slide down that slippery slope and find myself stuck in mud at the bottom. When that happens, I pull out the most reliable safety rope I know. A couple of summers ago, I heard the expression “what else is true?” Much like asking for help, this question helps me to see that there is more to the story. I might wake up on Monday morning and know that my work schedule is too light for the week and rather than enjoy the space, I do the flailing fish out of water thing or have one of the other unpleasant feelings. When I stop flopping along the riverbank or on the hard wooden planks of a dock, and remember to ask myself, “what else is true here,” I might slip back into the water and recall that I actually have a new client at the end of the week, or that I reached out about teaching a workshop and received a favorable response, or that I may not have paid work, but I did do all my bookkeeping and that is part of my business. I might remember that I actually had a good impact on someone last week and that I do meaningful work, that I am valuable despite what I currently feel. I might remember that I may not be reaping in the money, but that I was able to run in the morning and made it up all the hills while taking in the sounds of water flowing through the drains on the streets and the gutters on the houses and that birds were singing. I might recall that I couldn’t take my eyes off my child as she ate breakfast, her perfect, innocent face and delicate lips utterly precious to behold. Or I might remember what a friend reminds me…that I do have enough for today and that I have always been taken care of. What else is true is that my life is rich.
I can’t see the future and it is frightening at times, but for all I don’t know, there is an equal and some days an even greater part that trusts that I don’t need to. This is where faith comes in. For those of us who were brought up feeling the need to control our surroundings lest something bad should happen, faith is not an easy concept. Faith asks us to let go of the reigns and trust. Trust who or what, I can’t say -- that would be a very personal understanding, but I know it rings true in my whole being that having faith is an essential ingredient to finding peace with our very uncertain lives. The nice thing is that if I don’t know how to have faith, I can ask for help with that. “May I have help in finding faith.” That’s all I need to ask and then let it go. And so, the morning wish concludes:
Today,
May I have patience
May I remember that I need others, just as they need me
May I see what I have and remember gratitude
May I be open to receiving
May I have faith, or at least,
May I have help finding faith.
I write this post not having any answers. What I can do is put together what has gotten me through thus far and what I know will continue to help me swim and to find the current that moves me along, even when the waters are low.
Patience. It is a word kids don’t really like or understand and when I am in a certain place I, too, don’t respond to it very well. Luckily there is also an adult in the room who knows the wisdom of the word. These paths of change inevitably feel like they take longer than they should. Having patience is the only way to bare it. And of course, it is not an ending that the path is coming to, but just an intersection with another path further along, but either way, when it feels like I've been walking along the same gravel road for too long and my shoes are wearing out, I can remember that it must feel that way and that it is still the “right” path. What if, when I awoke in the morning, I started by saying, “may I have patience today.” There is something comforting in remembering that I can choose that state of presence. I can still be fearful, but patient in my fearfulness.
That said, if I really am trying to swim in rough waters, patience alone is not enough. I have learned that it is not my nature to ask for unpaid help on the more serious aspects of life. I can ask for movie recommendations on facebook or where to take my kids for soccer lessons, but to really ask for someone’s help produces a good head shake and a stop sign hand out as if I am going to start singing, “Stop In The Name of Love.” But actually, I do need to stop in the name of love and ask for help. Of course, I need to ask the right people, but if I know who they are, they are most likely wanting to help. We all like to feel like we have something to give. If I can get past myself, I might actually be doing someone good in calling upon him/her. And if the feeling of shame should arise, I can take care of that voice, acknowledge its presence with compassion, and kindly remind myself that I can’t do everything alone, that we are interdependent. The only way I can give is if I also receive. There is an art to receiving. When we learn it, we start receiving so much more because we see the gifts that were right before us. When we see only our difficulty, it is as if we have blinders on and don’t have the wider vision to take in what is being, or has been, or will be extended toward us. I need to be humble enough to ask and grateful enough to receive. So the morning wish goes on…”may I have patience, may I remember that I need others, and may I be grateful and open to receiving.”
But, despite those intentions, I can still slide down that slippery slope and find myself stuck in mud at the bottom. When that happens, I pull out the most reliable safety rope I know. A couple of summers ago, I heard the expression “what else is true?” Much like asking for help, this question helps me to see that there is more to the story. I might wake up on Monday morning and know that my work schedule is too light for the week and rather than enjoy the space, I do the flailing fish out of water thing or have one of the other unpleasant feelings. When I stop flopping along the riverbank or on the hard wooden planks of a dock, and remember to ask myself, “what else is true here,” I might slip back into the water and recall that I actually have a new client at the end of the week, or that I reached out about teaching a workshop and received a favorable response, or that I may not have paid work, but I did do all my bookkeeping and that is part of my business. I might remember that I actually had a good impact on someone last week and that I do meaningful work, that I am valuable despite what I currently feel. I might remember that I may not be reaping in the money, but that I was able to run in the morning and made it up all the hills while taking in the sounds of water flowing through the drains on the streets and the gutters on the houses and that birds were singing. I might recall that I couldn’t take my eyes off my child as she ate breakfast, her perfect, innocent face and delicate lips utterly precious to behold. Or I might remember what a friend reminds me…that I do have enough for today and that I have always been taken care of. What else is true is that my life is rich.
I can’t see the future and it is frightening at times, but for all I don’t know, there is an equal and some days an even greater part that trusts that I don’t need to. This is where faith comes in. For those of us who were brought up feeling the need to control our surroundings lest something bad should happen, faith is not an easy concept. Faith asks us to let go of the reigns and trust. Trust who or what, I can’t say -- that would be a very personal understanding, but I know it rings true in my whole being that having faith is an essential ingredient to finding peace with our very uncertain lives. The nice thing is that if I don’t know how to have faith, I can ask for help with that. “May I have help in finding faith.” That’s all I need to ask and then let it go. And so, the morning wish concludes:
Today,
May I have patience
May I remember that I need others, just as they need me
May I see what I have and remember gratitude
May I be open to receiving
May I have faith, or at least,
May I have help finding faith.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
One Morning's Struggle
I am not writing about happiness...absolutely not.
One day this past week, I arrived in the city to go to work. It was raining and I had to pick up the linens at the laundromat to bring them to my office. I stood on the corner with my umbrella open in one hand, a rolling cart with a tremendous bag of linens in the other, and three bags on my shoulder. I looked at the corner across from me where I was heading and saw I had two options, I could wade through a tremendous, deep puddle all around the corner, which would get my bag of linens wet or I could climb over a foot of snow next to it hoping the rolling cart would cooperate. There was no good solution and I was short on time. I reluctantly crossed and chose the snow. I got up onto the mound of snow but then saw there were scaffolding bars blocking the way to the sidewalk. I now needed to squeeze between a garbage can and the narrow opening where there were no metal bars. There I was on hill of snow, with an umbrella, my bags falling off my shoulder, and my bag of linens starting to fall off the cart. I must have looked like a sorry sight. I finally put the umbrella down, cursing inside and looking harried. I was about to lift the entire cart up and over to flat ground when a guy standing under the scaffolding, watching me said, "do you need help?" He was standing there with a large Burnese Mountain Dog and an umbrella up. He didn't make a move. Clearly it would have been a project for him to help me, too. Everyone else was just walking by. I looked at him and laughed because I could finally see the absolute absurdity of what I was having to go through. His acknowledgment of my struggle was such a relief. It wasn't his help I needed, as much as someone to say, "wow, I see what you're going through." It changed my whole mood. I could then see the humor in it all. It was a good start to my day working with people who, in some ways, are also coming to have a witness to their struggles. His simple offer changed my day, for which I was grateful. I believe the other people walking by just didn't see me, as huge as I felt in that moment with all my stuff falling everywhere. I know that when I am "busy" or in a hurry or preoccupied, I, too, don't see.
The next time I am in an impossibly ridiculous situation like that one, I want to remember to look up, make eye contact, and laugh. The moment is going to end and if I don't take it so seriously, I can shake my head and find the humor in what we have to go through. I recognize that the tendency in a struggling moment is to narrow my vision, rather than open and share it where I might actually get relief. I can be suffering, however big or small, and not shut others out, but rather open to a universal experience of living that we all share. I also want to remember to show up for others in the same way as that young man with the beautiful dog did for me. It helps me to know that it doesn't take much to alter someone's day. A compassionate witness is all I need to be at times. As long as I am aware and remembering what is important, my eyes will be open and I, too, can show up that way. And so, the practice goes on...
One day this past week, I arrived in the city to go to work. It was raining and I had to pick up the linens at the laundromat to bring them to my office. I stood on the corner with my umbrella open in one hand, a rolling cart with a tremendous bag of linens in the other, and three bags on my shoulder. I looked at the corner across from me where I was heading and saw I had two options, I could wade through a tremendous, deep puddle all around the corner, which would get my bag of linens wet or I could climb over a foot of snow next to it hoping the rolling cart would cooperate. There was no good solution and I was short on time. I reluctantly crossed and chose the snow. I got up onto the mound of snow but then saw there were scaffolding bars blocking the way to the sidewalk. I now needed to squeeze between a garbage can and the narrow opening where there were no metal bars. There I was on hill of snow, with an umbrella, my bags falling off my shoulder, and my bag of linens starting to fall off the cart. I must have looked like a sorry sight. I finally put the umbrella down, cursing inside and looking harried. I was about to lift the entire cart up and over to flat ground when a guy standing under the scaffolding, watching me said, "do you need help?" He was standing there with a large Burnese Mountain Dog and an umbrella up. He didn't make a move. Clearly it would have been a project for him to help me, too. Everyone else was just walking by. I looked at him and laughed because I could finally see the absolute absurdity of what I was having to go through. His acknowledgment of my struggle was such a relief. It wasn't his help I needed, as much as someone to say, "wow, I see what you're going through." It changed my whole mood. I could then see the humor in it all. It was a good start to my day working with people who, in some ways, are also coming to have a witness to their struggles. His simple offer changed my day, for which I was grateful. I believe the other people walking by just didn't see me, as huge as I felt in that moment with all my stuff falling everywhere. I know that when I am "busy" or in a hurry or preoccupied, I, too, don't see.
The next time I am in an impossibly ridiculous situation like that one, I want to remember to look up, make eye contact, and laugh. The moment is going to end and if I don't take it so seriously, I can shake my head and find the humor in what we have to go through. I recognize that the tendency in a struggling moment is to narrow my vision, rather than open and share it where I might actually get relief. I can be suffering, however big or small, and not shut others out, but rather open to a universal experience of living that we all share. I also want to remember to show up for others in the same way as that young man with the beautiful dog did for me. It helps me to know that it doesn't take much to alter someone's day. A compassionate witness is all I need to be at times. As long as I am aware and remembering what is important, my eyes will be open and I, too, can show up that way. And so, the practice goes on...
Friday, February 21, 2014
If The Title Was "Happiness" Would You Read It?
I ask that question in the title because of how many page views my post "Sadness" received. I was thinking about how unlikely it would be that "Happiness" as a title would receive as many visits. Why? It is a rather popular subject in the mindfulness and positive psychology movements. This
notion that the negative tends to stick to us more and the positive
slides right off. We are, often unconsciously, drawn to what is
difficult and have to consciously practice soaking in what is easy,
good, joyful. This is how I experienced the very subject this week...
As is my usual routine, I went running on Monday. There are many inclines and declines on the paths and roads I choose. The extreme weather this winter has taken its toll, limiting my running opportunities and causing hills to feel more like "exercise" in the hard sense of the word. Running uphill Monday, I had to talk myself through it, agreeing with the voice that said it feels hard and then reminding myself that it is a temporary difficulty and to keep going. It will end, as all uphills do. And then, a greater realization came when I recognized that I was actually going downhill and how pleasant it was. I almost missed it! I wouldn't have missed the incline, but I certainly could have passed right over the decline. Isn't that the way it often is! We see the hardship, feel it, roll around in it, wear it for a while until we shake it off. But, how about happiness? What if we could feel it, roll around in it, wear it for a while (this is the important, often missed, part), and didn't shake it off? If there is one thing I have learned most significantly in the past two years, this might be it. It feels like such a revelation that I keep wanting to share it. Soon, I'll be knocking on doors with pamphlets! The power of recognizing what is good, well, joyful, easy, pleasant and staying with it is profound in its simplicity. It comes in recognizing what gifts I already have. There are always so many when I take the time to appreciate what is right before me. This is also known as gratitude. It can't be an imposed sense of gratitude, it is more like an awakening to awareness. It is humble.
After I wrote my last post where I acknowledged accepting my tiredness and the need to be taken care of without judging the feeling, I suddenly found myself realizing all the ways I have actually been taken care in the past few days. Someone close to me gave me the ability to watch television on my computer, a simple luxury in my cable-less apartment. I'll now be able to watch Downton Abbey on Sunday nights with the rest of you who do. I had the gift of an extra hour before my children arrived for the day so I could run on the first sunny, snow-less morning in a while. I was given a gift for Valentine's Day. My sister and brother-in-law had my kids and I over for dinner, which was fun for my kids and a relief for me to have adult company. I could go on, but you get the point. This morning, I felt grateful for NJ Transit for getting to me to the city on time. None of that was guaranteed to me to happen. All of those are ways I have been taken care of. They are easy to miss. In the past I would have overlooked them and felt my life was constantly lacking and I would feel a deep longing. What a difference it is to take in the good, which is simple in its form and hidden in its obviousness.
On the days or in the moments when I feel a deep lack of something, as if something essential is missing, I take it in and honor the need and the longing with genuine care. Though I might not do it in the same moment, I also try to see what of that very thing I may already have in some form. This is not talking myself out of the feeling, but a gift I give myself, the gift of seeing. That is not to say that I don't reach for what I may still be longing for, but the longing and search doesn't wipe out what I already have. Buddhist teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh would say that happiness is available here in this very moment. I used to think this was an overly simplistic statement, but now, I have to agree. I believe it took some suffering to arrive there, but even at my lowest, I now know that the suffering part is is not all of me. There is still the part of me that smiles and laughs, of which I do plenty.
Happiness. It is a title worth reading about. We have to practice it though. In a society where ownership and the accumulation of things seems to be the goal and there is constant barrage of messages suggesting that we need something else, this other way of being in the world, of recognizing the happiness in what we already have, needs to be nurtured and encouraged. It is infectious, too. The more we notice happiness, the more of it we have. I often write about being able to stay with what is difficult and not running from it. In doing that, I have also learned to stay with what is joyful and not run passed it.
As is my usual routine, I went running on Monday. There are many inclines and declines on the paths and roads I choose. The extreme weather this winter has taken its toll, limiting my running opportunities and causing hills to feel more like "exercise" in the hard sense of the word. Running uphill Monday, I had to talk myself through it, agreeing with the voice that said it feels hard and then reminding myself that it is a temporary difficulty and to keep going. It will end, as all uphills do. And then, a greater realization came when I recognized that I was actually going downhill and how pleasant it was. I almost missed it! I wouldn't have missed the incline, but I certainly could have passed right over the decline. Isn't that the way it often is! We see the hardship, feel it, roll around in it, wear it for a while until we shake it off. But, how about happiness? What if we could feel it, roll around in it, wear it for a while (this is the important, often missed, part), and didn't shake it off? If there is one thing I have learned most significantly in the past two years, this might be it. It feels like such a revelation that I keep wanting to share it. Soon, I'll be knocking on doors with pamphlets! The power of recognizing what is good, well, joyful, easy, pleasant and staying with it is profound in its simplicity. It comes in recognizing what gifts I already have. There are always so many when I take the time to appreciate what is right before me. This is also known as gratitude. It can't be an imposed sense of gratitude, it is more like an awakening to awareness. It is humble.
After I wrote my last post where I acknowledged accepting my tiredness and the need to be taken care of without judging the feeling, I suddenly found myself realizing all the ways I have actually been taken care in the past few days. Someone close to me gave me the ability to watch television on my computer, a simple luxury in my cable-less apartment. I'll now be able to watch Downton Abbey on Sunday nights with the rest of you who do. I had the gift of an extra hour before my children arrived for the day so I could run on the first sunny, snow-less morning in a while. I was given a gift for Valentine's Day. My sister and brother-in-law had my kids and I over for dinner, which was fun for my kids and a relief for me to have adult company. I could go on, but you get the point. This morning, I felt grateful for NJ Transit for getting to me to the city on time. None of that was guaranteed to me to happen. All of those are ways I have been taken care of. They are easy to miss. In the past I would have overlooked them and felt my life was constantly lacking and I would feel a deep longing. What a difference it is to take in the good, which is simple in its form and hidden in its obviousness.
On the days or in the moments when I feel a deep lack of something, as if something essential is missing, I take it in and honor the need and the longing with genuine care. Though I might not do it in the same moment, I also try to see what of that very thing I may already have in some form. This is not talking myself out of the feeling, but a gift I give myself, the gift of seeing. That is not to say that I don't reach for what I may still be longing for, but the longing and search doesn't wipe out what I already have. Buddhist teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh would say that happiness is available here in this very moment. I used to think this was an overly simplistic statement, but now, I have to agree. I believe it took some suffering to arrive there, but even at my lowest, I now know that the suffering part is is not all of me. There is still the part of me that smiles and laughs, of which I do plenty.
Happiness. It is a title worth reading about. We have to practice it though. In a society where ownership and the accumulation of things seems to be the goal and there is constant barrage of messages suggesting that we need something else, this other way of being in the world, of recognizing the happiness in what we already have, needs to be nurtured and encouraged. It is infectious, too. The more we notice happiness, the more of it we have. I often write about being able to stay with what is difficult and not running from it. In doing that, I have also learned to stay with what is joyful and not run passed it.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Did I Really Sign Up For This?
Over recent weeks, I've had this pervading, unwelcomed sentiment. It goes like this...I can't believe this adult thing we have to do in life. No, I don't mean anything x-rated. I mean this unrelenting responsibility that suddenly hits us around a certain age and never goes away again until, maybe, we are very old and become someone else's responsibility. Before I started to feel this about my life, I was feeling it about my clients' lives. I'd think, "wow, this person never gets to be "off duty, never gets to let go until he/she is in here for an hour." I'm speaking of the endless tasks of an adult life. Waking up, preparing meals, getting kids off to school, working, cleaning, bills, scheduling, laundry, buying groceries, washing dishes, cooking more, cleaning more, getting exercise and doing all the other self-care activities, walking the dog, planning, and did I say cooking more and cleaning more (and if you are in business for yourself, well add that responsibility to it). It goes on and on and doesn't stop. Lately, I've had this feeling like, hey, wait a minute, this is not fair. Did I really sign up for this? Having kids makes it even more apparent...wow, they get all that taken care of! No wonder I feel shocked. (Thank goodness, of course. I wouldn't want it an other way).
That is the monologue that one part of me has. Another part hears this and puts it to shame. Who do you think you are!!! It wants to know. Notice the lack of a question mark and three exclamation points. No, this part will tear the other to shreds making her embarrassed for having the sentiment at all, let alone saying it out loud. This side says, "suck it up; it could be a lot worse, and who said it would be any different!" And then, the big daggers come out and say, "where's all that mindfulness you talk about, anyway, you know the part about enjoying washing the dishes and cutting vegetables."
Well, all that chatter was on high volume today until I was actually on my way to lead meditation. Yes, little, unmindful me leading meditation! On the car ride there it hit me. A new voice that simply said, "Jean, you're tired, that's all. This is not about your lack of mindfulness, or your not being in the present moment." This voice was kind and warm. I heard it and said, "yes, that's right, I am tired." It is not a physical tiredness, it is just a temporary life tired and we can all have that at times. Nothing is bad or wrong and my life is really nice just as it is, I'm just a little tired of taking care of everything and could use a little more being taken care of. Suddenly, the rest dropped away. All the thoughts and judgments slipped away like those ghost creatures, the Dementors in Harry Potter that appear and want to suck the life out of you and then something good arrives causing them to slide away. This kind voice had that effect of making the other thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrived.
What came radiating through in all of this today? Many great teachers talk about it, but from a teacherly distance so it feels like they still have it "together," but when you're in it as they have been, it doesn't feel like we've got it together. No, it feels messy. A mindful life is not about not having difficult feelings. A mindful life is not about being good or wise all the time. A mindful life does not mean you enjoy everything. A mindful life is just what the word means: attentive, aware, careful (of). I was aware of strong aversive feelings. I was aware of the judgments that followed and then I stayed with them to hear the compassionate truth under it all. With all of that, I can then offer to anyone else who wants a rest from adult responsibility my understanding and compassion. It is hard. Beautiful and hard. I wouldn't want it any other way. That is a mindful life. So, the next time you feel taken over by a feeling you wish you didn't have and then it gets dumped on with judgments for having it and then you come through to some other understanding and there is even a touch of relief, you, too can rest in knowing that this is what a mindful life looks like and you are just fine. Beautifully fine.
That is the monologue that one part of me has. Another part hears this and puts it to shame. Who do you think you are!!! It wants to know. Notice the lack of a question mark and three exclamation points. No, this part will tear the other to shreds making her embarrassed for having the sentiment at all, let alone saying it out loud. This side says, "suck it up; it could be a lot worse, and who said it would be any different!" And then, the big daggers come out and say, "where's all that mindfulness you talk about, anyway, you know the part about enjoying washing the dishes and cutting vegetables."
Well, all that chatter was on high volume today until I was actually on my way to lead meditation. Yes, little, unmindful me leading meditation! On the car ride there it hit me. A new voice that simply said, "Jean, you're tired, that's all. This is not about your lack of mindfulness, or your not being in the present moment." This voice was kind and warm. I heard it and said, "yes, that's right, I am tired." It is not a physical tiredness, it is just a temporary life tired and we can all have that at times. Nothing is bad or wrong and my life is really nice just as it is, I'm just a little tired of taking care of everything and could use a little more being taken care of. Suddenly, the rest dropped away. All the thoughts and judgments slipped away like those ghost creatures, the Dementors in Harry Potter that appear and want to suck the life out of you and then something good arrives causing them to slide away. This kind voice had that effect of making the other thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrived.
What came radiating through in all of this today? Many great teachers talk about it, but from a teacherly distance so it feels like they still have it "together," but when you're in it as they have been, it doesn't feel like we've got it together. No, it feels messy. A mindful life is not about not having difficult feelings. A mindful life is not about being good or wise all the time. A mindful life does not mean you enjoy everything. A mindful life is just what the word means: attentive, aware, careful (of). I was aware of strong aversive feelings. I was aware of the judgments that followed and then I stayed with them to hear the compassionate truth under it all. With all of that, I can then offer to anyone else who wants a rest from adult responsibility my understanding and compassion. It is hard. Beautiful and hard. I wouldn't want it any other way. That is a mindful life. So, the next time you feel taken over by a feeling you wish you didn't have and then it gets dumped on with judgments for having it and then you come through to some other understanding and there is even a touch of relief, you, too can rest in knowing that this is what a mindful life looks like and you are just fine. Beautifully fine.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Sensitive Superheros
For much of my life, I have been called the "baby" of the family. Though I am in fact the youngest of three, when it was said, it wasn't meant as a simple fact about my placement in the all too significant family order, but as a somewhat ridiculing statement that I am "too sensitive." Far along into my adulthood, I can now say that this label is accurate. I am too sensitive. Thank goodness. This post is for all of those people out there who may also fall into that rich, sometimes complicated, but truly valuable group of humans.
When I am in my "right mind," I am grateful for my sensitivity. There are so many gifts it brings. It's as if we have some "supernatural" powers. We can walk into a room and unconsciously assess the moods of the people there within a few minutes. I know when to say something and when to wait, or if I know the person well enough, to skip the small talk and ask what's really going on. We see, hear, and feel what many other people wouldn't notice at all. We pick up on the details of life in colors, sounds, movements and interactions. We observe how objects are placed and why or who needs something and who is checked out. And then, there are the other "special" gifts. A friend of mine gets weirded out by the fact that we could be talking on the speaker phone in the car and I recognize by his tone and the background sounds that he has arrived at his destination. He always seems surprised and wonders if I've put a hidden camera somewhere. Ever since I was little, being sensitive enabled me to find things in the house. It's as though my eyes unconsciously take in where everything is in the room. As long as I've seen something once, if you were to ask me, I could probably locate it for you. Sensitive people tend to have a great deal of compassion and can empathize because they see so much and they're paying attention. It's not a matter of effort, we're just wired that way. It can all be exhausting, too, but I've come to affectionately understand this "too sensitive" business and think the benefits are well worth the difficulties that come with it.
Okay, in all honesty, it doesn't always feel that way. Ultimately, it's a lot of work to have superhero like qualities. After all, superheros are in tights and can easily be the source of ridicule. Every now and then, I hear from myself the critical version of "you're too sensitive" (yes, I wish it were the tights that were being made fun of instead). It is full of judgment and anger. I say it to myself and then follow it with a diagnosis that something is really wrong with me. I turn it on myself by saying that I'll never have deeply intimate and lasting relationships. People will get tired of me. That I'll never move up or be successful because I am too effected by what or who is around me and how they are. This voice tells me I should "toughen up." It's not fun in these moments. Though, I do know that in every superhero movie I've seen, at some point, the hero falls hard. It has to happen.
When certain critical words surface in my mind, like the sensitive one, I now know the best thing is to say hello to them with kindness. To not treat them the way they want to treat me. Rather than an eye for an eye, I could welcome the voice and try to remember to ask what's really going on. As all my blog posts tend to say, it's usually some fear and if I tend to that fear I'll actually be taking care of myself and the weapons can be put down. The "too sensitive" part has no weight. It's all a facade of muscle. But, if remember to look closely, there's actually a zipper in the back and it's simply a costume that can come off. Without a doubt, when it is stripped down, the underlying source of the loud and powerful sounding voice behind the curtain is some hidden hurt. It could be the way someone responded to me or the lack of affection or attention from another. I might have misperceived the situation and the other person may have no idea how he/she came across. Either way, until it is clear, it hurts. Rather than be hurt and feel it, the voice of childhood booms its thundering call and out come the words, "you're too sensitive!" This is when, in my healthier states, I can respond. I can answer lovingly or, at the very least, go to someone I trust who can do that (usually another sensitive person). A hero must fall in order to know how to lift someone else up. Imagine a movie a where the hero never suffers. How boring would that be.
When certain critical words surface in my mind, like the sensitive one, I now know the best thing is to say hello to them with kindness. To not treat them the way they want to treat me. Rather than an eye for an eye, I could welcome the voice and try to remember to ask what's really going on. As all my blog posts tend to say, it's usually some fear and if I tend to that fear I'll actually be taking care of myself and the weapons can be put down. The "too sensitive" part has no weight. It's all a facade of muscle. But, if remember to look closely, there's actually a zipper in the back and it's simply a costume that can come off. Without a doubt, when it is stripped down, the underlying source of the loud and powerful sounding voice behind the curtain is some hidden hurt. It could be the way someone responded to me or the lack of affection or attention from another. I might have misperceived the situation and the other person may have no idea how he/she came across. Either way, until it is clear, it hurts. Rather than be hurt and feel it, the voice of childhood booms its thundering call and out come the words, "you're too sensitive!" This is when, in my healthier states, I can respond. I can answer lovingly or, at the very least, go to someone I trust who can do that (usually another sensitive person). A hero must fall in order to know how to lift someone else up. Imagine a movie a where the hero never suffers. How boring would that be.
I know many people who are "too sensitive." Yes, they struggle at times and sometimes things take a little longer because they have to process more or, simply by their nature, they ask for others to be more aware, but, wow, they are they beautiful people. I am grateful to have them in my life. They notice details like the rare type of print in a book they pick up or the holly berries partially covered in snow on their walk. They remember the specifics of something you shared with them and remember to ask how you are about it at a later time. They tend to be creative and artistic and often have no idea that they are. They are often perceptive and thoughtful. So for all of you who have ever been told you are too sensitive, I bow to you. And, at times when it feels too much, know that to be gifted requires a certain kind of sacrifice, but that ultimately it is a sacrifice that makes for a very beautiful life.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Holy Smokes
It’s another week of writer’s block. I wrote something, but
a voice in me wasn’t happy enough with it, so it is sitting as a “draft” in my
blog folder like one of those misfit toys that won’t get sent out. I read it to
my kids this morning. They both said they liked it, but I said how it wasn’t
quite right and how I wanted to come up with something else in the day. Well,
evening came and I was sitting with my computer on the couch, still with a blank page
when my six year old son came over to me and asked if I sent out that blog post
I read to them in the morning. I told him how I was stuck and he said, “well,
what did you write about last time?” I replied, “sadness,” to which he paused
and then said, “well, I know what you should write about…goodness.” I said, “do
you mean happiness?” To which he replied, “yes, happiness.” I told him it was a
nice idea and thanked him. I thought to myself, can I really write about
happiness on a day where I mostly felt an unrelenting crabbiness? To my
surprise, a feeling of absolute delight came with the question and, for the
first time all day, I felt happy. In one simple moment and the unexpected help
of my child, I was freed from the rabbit hole that the unforeseen snow day
brought on. Talk about a lesson in happiness! I needed help. I needed the
simple joy of a child who, despite my moodiness, was happy and could call forth
the answer with an obvious clarity. I started writing and reading aloud as I
wrote, as I sometimes do, and he heard me. After a few minutes, he said aloud,
“holy smokes, I’m still so happy that you put me in your blog.” Oh my gosh!
Happiness beamed forth again in both of us.
The day had gotten off with a bang at 5:30 in morning with a
recorded phone call announcing that school was canceled. Before I was quite conscious,
I had a flood of internal questions and then pings started sounding on my phone
as I lied there in the dark. What do I do with my clients, will the babysitter
still come tonight, how was this going to work. Yes, none of that was pleasant
in my semi-conscious state, but none of that was the problem either. The real
problem was fear of not making money, a feeling of lack of purpose if I
wasn’t working, and then the dread of the absence of any quiet or alone time in
the day. That last one I have come to learn is essential to my happiness,
unless I am prepared ahead of time, that there won’t be any. I wasn’t prepared
today for any of the above. And so, a crabbiness descended that even the most
stunning walk in a winter wonderland of the woods with my kids and a thrilled
dog could not pop a hole in. No, what turned it around? A simple question…what
did you write about last time? Sadness? Well, of course, you write about happiness. It felt like
a zen koan when he said it and it still does. There was that “aha” moment
and suddenly I was lying on my back as if I was bounced out of some
nightmare onto a green, grassy field, stunned and relieved and a bit perplexed.
But, such are the nature of koans.
What did I re-learn today? Crabbiness comes and goes.
Happiness can arrive in a split second if I pay enough attention. It’s okay to
let my kids know I am crabby and that it has nothing to do with them, so they
can go on being happy. It’s okay that I need alone time, that I am not a parent
or partner that can turn into water at the turn of a faucet and just go with
the flow and that I need space. Most of all, that I can be where I am, aware of
it, not necessarily liking it, but knowing that it is not all of me and that it
can change in a split second by the grace of someone who shows that what I care
about matters. The fact that it came from a boy only six years into the world is
enough of a reason to smile. And yes, I can write about happiness on a crabby
day.
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