Wrapped Around My Finger

Last fall, a woman was referred to me through a colleague I hadn't seen in a long time. It was one of those introductions that happen where, in the moment just after you meet, you say to yourself, "what was that all about?" Her energy was bubbling and elegant and she looked 20 years younger than her age. While she is of the air, I am clearly of the earth. Our styles were so very different that I felt odd next to her, like a bull in a china shop. I was fascinated by what our purpose was in this meeting. I gathered that she was talented in many ways, but it was her artistry as a jeweler and her passion to help people connect that was coming through most clearly. As could be expected, the conversation quickly went off track from its original purpose of showing her my office space. That clearly was not what was meant to be here. Before I knew it, I was telling her that I was in search of a life-partner and struggling with the process. She looked down at her hands and she pulled off a thin, gold ring. She asked to see my hands so I held them out. She placed the first ring back on her finger and took off another one that looked the same. She told me it was her signature love knot and that I should wear it on my left hand. She explained that because I was someone who gave out a lot, I should wear it on my receiving hand, not my doing hand. I was stunned at the generosity of this woman whom I had just met. Here she was handing me a delicate, handmade, gold ring and was more or less promising me that I would meet someone. I had no sense that she was expecting something in return. 

That night I rode the train home and looked at the ring with gratitude, awe and delight at the unusual encounter, and then...confusion. If I wore a gold ring on my left ring finger wouldn't it look like I was married? How would I possibly meet someone that way? For a week I wore it with greater and greater bewilderment. I soon started changing hands, sometimes wearing it on my right out of fear and sometimes on my left. I felt silly at my bafflement, but it wouldn't go away. Though I was afraid of sounding ungrateful, I did finally text her and expressed my perplexed feeling. Her simple text back said that I should wear the ring on whichever hand felt right in the moment. If I felt like giving, put it on my right and receiving, on my left. So that's what I did and I wore it consistently.

This post isn't about whether I met the man of my dreams. Sorry to leave you hanging. This is what I ultimately learned after several months with this ring...I stopped being so concerned about what it would mean to others. Appearing married or not did not matter. Instead, I found myself genuinely asking what I needed in the moment I was putting it on. In the moments I felt needing of love, support, help, energy I would place it on my left. That part was clear. It felt like I was taking care of myself and that alone was a welcomed reminder. What became far more interesting over time was what it meant to wear the ring on my right. I realized that there were many times I felt needing of something, but the "right" action still felt like to wear it on my giving hand. Thinking about it now, I am often "needing" something, but I know it isn't necessarily getting the something that quenches the need. It is often in giving that I am truly fed. Of course, I don't mean giving from a place of emptiness, or from a desire to be "good," or martyr-like, or giving ultimately to get something back. It is not goal oriented in that way. I know now that when I start thinking in some contracted way about my life -- trying to figure out details, or wondering how things will work out, or what needs to be done, or whether I  am enough (to myself or anyone else), I have gone under, like a turtle going inside its shell and seeing only itself. In that place, I have stopped seeing and taking part in an exchange of giving and receiving. Now, when I move the ring to my giving hand, it is the simplest reminder to open up, to look around, to see the eyes of the people around me on the train, on line, in the store. I am asked to awaken, to be present and to see the depth of life around me and to appreciate this very life as it is. In that very basic act, I give -- it comes in the form of acknowledging another, in the simple meeting of eyes or a smile, in genuinely listening to someone, in taking in the beauty of the red sky at sunset. I understand that "giving" is all of that. When we are present, we naturally give.

This ring still alternates hands. In case you are wondering, yes, I did meet the man I was looking for. How could I not? I had a ring on my finger showing me the way and he was literally around the corner. My understanding of wanting, needing, giving, and receiving will never be the same. I know now that when I am open and in the moment, there is no separation between them. In her own form, this radiant woman, who visited me in my office, had this understanding and she passed it on in a ring.

Love Walking Backwards

Staring out the train window, I watch an image from the morning play itself out, its imprint forever left in my heart. I kiss my daughter goodbye as she takes her lunch bag and runs toward school. My son, who I no longer have permission to kiss in public, takes his bag and quickly backs away from me with a big, sheepish smile on his face that says, "no way you're going to kiss me!" I laugh and stand there with our dog by my side as my boy starts walking slowly backwards toward school not taking his eyes off of me. He usually runs in full force leaving my "goodbye" trailing behind him, the words left lingering in the sky, as if unable to keep up with his pace. Not today. He walked slowly backwards keeping his eyes on me as I stood there wondering if he would really go the whole length of the school's driveway like that. People passed him by in both directions and I just stood there in the distance meeting his eyes with my own. He finally stopped when he could go no further, at which time the bell rang. He raised his hand in a slow gesture of goodbye, turned, and ran to find his class line. I stood there, my heart in awe. In awe at the way we heal. In awe at the complexity of relationships and the power of love. 

The night before, my son and I hit one of those all time lows. A power struggle moment where frustration, anger, resistance, and pain come down like an avalanche. Quick reactions fire like a gun out of control. Bullets fly without the space of a breath before the trigger is pulled. The moment passes leaving destruction in its wake. In the aftermath, with my son in his room, myself stunned in the living room, and my daughter terrified at what she is not used to witnessing, I think to myself in shame, "and you taught a mindfulness class today?" How can this happen? I comfort my daughter and apologize for my actions and for frightening her. Then, I know I need to comfort myself before I can return to my son. We both need to let the embers cool. I reach out for help, knowing that if I don't, the old ghost of self-loathing will soon take over. Nothing good comes from that place...for anyone. On the phone, my co-parent reminds me that it is okay if our children see us lose it. It is okay if they lose it, too. It is a part of life. Though it feels awful, I do know we will heal from the moment. A mindful life does have this suffering in it. Just like forest fires cause regeneration and growth, these moments of rupture can do the same. I am told that studies show that relationships that have rupture and repair are healthier than those that have no rupture. In each experience I learn about love. It is tougher than I think. It can handle arrows. 

In his 7 year old body, my son seemed to know something of this. He would not let me kiss him, as he normally doesn't at school, but he also did not want to turn his back to me this day. He showed me his forgiveness, his apology, his love in those slow, backward steps. As the space increased between us, my heart was opening more. I blew him kisses and we both went on with our day, his heart in mine and mine in his. I am reminded that a mindful life also looks like this. Perfectly imperfect. Walking backwards, I can bow humbly, again and again, at the lessons I am here to learn. 

The Gift of a Horn Honking

I was running on this cold, gray, February morning using music to boost me along like engines on either side of my ears. I have been running over the past year without any music, but these winter days are asking more of me to get out there. I do what is requested and kindly feed the need until I am inspired enough to take them off. Today, this need was replaced when I heard a car honk its horn from behind me. I turned to look as it passed and saw the driver giving me a thumbs up. A huge smile instantly found its place on my face and I felt a surge of happiness and gratitude for his acknowledgement. I thought about what kind of a person it takes to do that. The driver saw me running and didn't just carry on with his business. He must have had a quick succession of thoughts that went along the lines of, "wow, a woman running even in this freezing cold" and the recognition of the will, the effort, the discipline, or whatever it was he thinks that it takes. Some part of him was saying, "right on!" That is a person who can't be self-absorbed. His world is larger than his concerns, problems, or tasks. Though I don't know him from Adam (whoever that is), I feel confident to say he takes in what is around him, feels it, and shares his positive response. What a beautiful thing.  

What I was left with by this simple gesture of encouragement by a stranger was the reminder that we can all offer that magic to people everyday if we take the time to look around, to wonder, and to be grateful and inspired by what we see. I ask myself, why not offer support abundantly? Why be stingy with love? What is the fear that gets in the way of my ability to give out? And, what gets in the way of my being able to receive? There are gifts all day long. My train was on time. That was a gift. I had my usual breakfast with my kids at the town diner and though my daughter spilled orange juice all over herself, my co-parent dropped off clothes on the way to work so we wouldn't be late for school. That was a gift. The news reporter stopped me with a camera on the train platform to ask my opinion on possible fare hikes. Her smile in the rush of the moment of the train arriving and her trying to get my answer was left imprinted in my head. That connection was a gift. We can take in these moments and be filled and we can fill others. I'm taking in the reminder by the driver honking his horn. It was a bell of mindfulness to wake me up. I ran on and felt the rush of this life, of the train flying by, of the snow starting to fall, of the artist sharing his music in my headphones, of my heart beating, and of how greatly I can affect the beating of another's. 

Laugh With Me

I was told that Mercury just came out of retrograde. I really have no knowledgeable understanding about what that means, but I will concede that there has been a flurry of obstacles and scheduling messes lately, so why not blame it on a planet's backward movement. By far, the best cinematic scene from this period of time was this one...I was on a late train home from the city when it stopped moving and we were told to get off in Newark and wait for another train. No big deal...yet. It was a freezing, windy, February night. We were crowded like sardines in a stairwell waiting. The next train arrives and we all get on and soon this train, too, starts to falter. We are told at the next station that we should get off or take our chances to see if it makes it further. I have a few more stations to go. After a chorus of mumbling and cursing throughout the car, with the shared looks of "you're f#@!g kidding me, right" or "what are we supposed to do now" half the train gets off. I stay on because I can't picture how the alternative would turn out. In the middle of this, I get a recorded call from school announcing a delayed opening for the next day. Today was already declared a snow day, requiring major adjustments. It is now 10:00 pm. I think of who might be willing to get me at this hour and my awesome, young neighbor from my old block comes to mind. She's the one who will show up with her baseball cap on, in good spirits, willing to help. I quickly text her and she agrees to come get me at the next stop, bearing that we get there. We do, so I get off, not realizing in my fast effort to come up with a plan that I would probably get to my station if I just stay on. The station I get off at is deserted. No one gets off with me. The wind is blowing the snow off the roof top of the station and I am freezing. Not a soul is around with the darkness lit only by the station-lamps. I don't know on which side of the tracks my friend might arrive and I can't see the parking lot on the other side. As I stand there wondering why I got off and how crazy this scene feels, I look at the station and the icicles hanging off the roof and the shimmering sparkle of the icy snow blowing past the station lights and I think, "I have to take a video of this; it is too wildly beautiful." I take my phone out and it is dead. I laugh out loud at the moment I am in. Fortunately, it was too cold for unsavory characters to be out, so that fear quickly left like my steamy breath into the frigid, night air. There won't be a video to share and now I realize I'm waiting a bit too long, and I can't reach anyone. I climb up the stairs of the overpass, which turn out to be treacherously icy, to get to the other side of the station. I'm going slowly and I'm afraid she will leave if she has been sitting there long. To my warm relief, there is the minivan I recognize with its Obama sticker on the back. Thank goodness. I got in the car, grateful for my friend's presence and help, and laugh some more at the absurdity of how the first day of the week is going. The rest of the week continued in this fashion. Life is made up of these kinds of moments, days, weeks, for some, even years. It is what we do in them that is of interest to me. 

Of the great spiritual teachers, writers, or healers (for lack of a better word) I know of who talk of suffering, the ones I trust the most have a common trait. They know how to laugh and when you meet them you smile because you can see in their smile an abundance of genuine joy. They might talk about suffering with great seriousness and yet, they have a great sense of humor. This is no coincidence. They know pain and so they can know joy.

When I was in college, I had to give what was called a senior colloquium to graduate. We had to present a thesis of sorts to four professors sitting around a long table. What mine was about doesn't matter so much, but the overall feeling had a gravity to it. The hour or more was supposed to have the feel of a conversation, but I remember not being interrupted very much. I can still feel the palpable stillness in the room after I finished my closing statement. I wasn't sure what it meant. The only comment that I remember was from a professor who had a voice and a look of an older Sean Connery. With his full white beard, in his tweed jacket, and that very particular voice he said something to the effect of, "well Jean, for someone who can take such a heavy stance, where does that smile of yours come from?" For years I thought it was just nervousness and sometimes it most definitely was. But, as I look at photos of myself throughout my childhood and even today, I hold the same smile and it does not feel like nerves setting it off. I can speak of suffering and stay with discomfort because I can also smile and laugh easily. Without seeing the joy and humor in moments like standing outside a freezing train station with a dead phone and a delayed school opening to start the next day, this life would feel like too much to bare on a regular basis, let alone the more significant issues that arise in sickness, divorce, financial insecurity, and war. In retrospect, I think my smile always held self-healing and, maybe even unknowingly, healing for others. And the great thing is now, I can actually cultivate it. We all can.

How do we laugh? How can we find our smile amidst so much daily stress that comes our way? I do better when I can see my life in its larger context, like a movie. Things are not happening to me. Things happen and I can look at my life as an observer and marvel at what is there. In moments like the ones that night, to be able to step back and change the stance from what feels like a personal affront ("NJ transit sucks"...I heard it around me as if the transit company was intending harm), to "wow, we are all in this together and what a mess it is," without blame, is what makes it go from hell to humor or at least to wonder. As I got off the train, I wanted to wish the conductor an easier day tomorrow. He still had the rest of the stalling train ride to get through. For me to get through, it took a kind of inner pause button to see beauty, even in the uncomfortable moment, and to want to take a picture. It's like pausing a movie to digest a scene. When we can be still for a moment, we have room to see, to remember what matters, to recognize that we are not alone in it all, and maybe even to laugh at the intensity of the moment instead of react in upset. I was exhausted and I did not like the way the night was going, but it was my life in that moment and I'd rather be there experiencing all of those sensations and emotions than not be alive to feel them at all. I might as well stay present to my tiredness, to my frustration, to my fear, to my anxiety and to touch my interconnectedness to everything around me. From that place, I can smile. My teacher would say, "and this, too." How can we welcome this, too. We might as well since we are here in it. With that acceptance, we start to see what there is to marvel at and enjoy right now. In the end, everything worked out that week. People showed up and helped. Everything got done. Gifts were given and received, as crazy as it all felt. 

I write about subjects like pain, struggle, loneliness, and sadness and if you've been around me, you also know I smile and laugh a lot. I love people who bring that out in me. As I write that, I feel inspired to bring it out in others more. As the week went on and more obstacles came my way, I definitely had moments of thinking I had to "get through" this week, which I never like to feel. But still, I "rolled with it," as one friend described it. In the rolling, I laughed much like I did as a kid rolling down the grassy hill in my backyard.

Remembering Love

I wrote a blog post two weeks ago and it has been sitting here as a draft for too long. It was hanging on to me like a bird not quite ready to fly. It held on so long it started to feel more like an albatross than a dove. I wasn't sure why, but maybe it was because I needed to have more of the experience I was writing of before it could really take flight. Or, maybe it waited because it is a good topic for Valentine's Day week. Either way, I am back again to share more humbling life experiences. One came in the form of feeling pain from a struggle in a significant relationship. The other came from going on a date, two very different experiences that required the same remedy. They are experiences of trusting in overall goodness and recalling the intention to love. These ways of seeing have such depth to them that they trump everything. They silence all my objections. They quietly reign over all other beliefs I may have.

Like most do, these deep thoughts came to me when I was running. My mind was fluctuating between a difficulty I was having in a relationship and of sensing my heart beating, hearing the sound of my sneakers on the pavement, feeling the sensations of a cold, gray, New Jersey day. The alternating mind states brought to light the trap I had fallen into. It happens when I am in a struggle with someone I care about. I can forget seeing what is positive and that love is the most important element. It is as if a tsunami suddenly washes away all the positive and leaves only destruction. In my insecurity, I can lose a sense of the person's genuine affection and deep regard of me because I am hurt. I might even construe the person's action(s) as intending harm. Running, I reminded myself that I could stop that train and get on board another one that asks what else is true about the person and his/her action and, more importantly, of the larger whole that we are a part of. In doing that, my heart opens a bit, enough to let light back in. It gives me the space to see and feel myself and the other person as vulnerable and human and therefore perfectly imperfect. I can sigh a breath of relief and remember that this one difficulty, situation, or pain is not the whole of it, (let alone even true). I can recall that my deepest desire is to love and care for that person and to want good things for him/her, for us. The same is likely true in return. It is not that there should be no fights or disagreements, but that ultimately we get back to what really matters and often it is a choice to do so.

To assume the goodness in another and in a relationship, and to remember love...I want to recall these intentions whenever I find myself in the rather hellish state of feeling hurt, angry or unloved by someone significant to me. I hurt so much because the person is significant. That is a beautiful thing. It doesn't mean I let someone walk over me or simply dismiss some hurtful action, but that I don't assume the worst. I can pause and comfort myself and then go back to that person and have a conversation that comes out of a place of care and the desire for deeper connection. In every moment, when we question someone's intention or find ourselves struggling with his/her actions or choices, we can assume goodness behind them, even if it comes out in odd or confusing ways. We don't have to like how it comes out and it might still hurt but we can tap into our deep wish for mutual love, happiness, and intimacy between us. We can rest in that and feel the tremendous freedom that comes with it. We are not bound by our pain. The great thing is that even when our past hurts get stirred again and if the person is no longer in our life, we can still recall the goodness and have the inner conversation. We can heal now.

The second experience, which was the reason for the delay in this post, involved going a date. That day, I was nervous and excited and anxiously curious about what the experience would be like. To calm my nerves, I kept reminding myself to allow goodness to be part of it, that ultimately I wish for good for this person and myself. The date went very well, which is wonderful news, but what happens next is a miniature flood of fears. What if this, what if that, what if the sky comes crashing down? Again, my busy mind found itself alternating between those anxious thoughts and recalling love and goodness. I could tell this was a man I liked. What matters most, though, is not that I get what I want, but that I wish goodness for him, for me, and for us. Whether that means we end up together or not, these beautiful intentions reign. Throughout the week, until our second date, I would find myself feeling anxious at times and so I kept recalling the higher road I could choose to take. And, it really is a choice.

I want to keep remembering to view the goodness in others as the primary lens through which I see and to keep, at the forefront, the intention to love. We can all choose to cultivate this ability, not just when we are suffering over a disconnection but even in easy times. The world needs this. We choose what we see. It is a powerful thing and it is what makes us free. With that, I am letting this one fly.

Be Hopeless...If That's What You Are

Warning, this post will unintentionally sound like it is romanticizing hopelessness. Whenever I read some wise words on a difficult state of being, it seems I so clearly identify with the path and the way through it that the actual struggle seems manageable or not so bad. I sympathize with the heroic nature of the struggle as I would with a character in a block buster drama or an action action adventure flick. It makes me think, "yes, that's how the struggle feels. I've been there and there is a way through; I am also wiser now and I will recall these teachings more quickly. Next time, I'll get through it like a true peaceful and brave warrior." In reading about it, it feels so easy to be removed from it because we usually are. There is some space between ourselves and the issue. The truth is that in the actual state, hopelessness, despair or depression feel awful. There is no space. I want to talk about hopelessness as it really is in the moment...dark. There is no film crew setting up a heroic scene, no book being written, no accolades being rendered. What we have is ourselves and a state of mind that can't see possibility. Sounds like an unsavory invitation, but would you stay with me in this darkness? Just for a few minutes?

I awoke one morning this week from a disturbing dream, starting my day on an "off" note. As the morning went on, I found myself sinking into increasing hopelessness. What it was about matters little. Hopelessness is a monster of an emotion that eats everything in its tracks. Still, I managed to get my reluctant body outside running, though I had as much desire to enter the cold as I had hope. Somewhere along the trails, I recognized my spinning mind finding all kinds of negative thoughts to reinforce my hopeless state because that is what it so cleverly knows how to do. This went on until suddenly there was another voice being piped in over a loudspeaker, as if making an announcement for everyone in the wintry woods to hear. I think even the deer stopped to listen. It said, "listen up! Everyone on board here...this is just what hopelessness feels like. Let it be! You don't need to add to it, fix it, find a reason for it, predict the future by it. Just feel hopeless." And then it was silent except for the crunching of the frozen leaves and earth underneath my sneakers. I did what I heard. I just felt hopeless. I ran and watched the negative thoughts run by me. And they did run by because they are faster than my physical body. Each time they would pass, I would say, "yup, that's hopelessness, too."  

Eventually, I was home, eating and showering and getting things done and, though I wasn't sparkling, I realized I was no longer hopeless. It came and went without me controlling it. I am convinced that it was because I allowed it to be that it was also allowed to leave. Of course, running helped, too.

If we find ourselves alone in this windowless, door-less, space of despair, what do we do? We often do what we think will stop the suffering, but tends to make it worse. We resist it by blaming ourselves or others for being here. We tell ourselves we will always be here, that we are more or less doomed to this place. We look for evidence from the past to explain why we got ourselves here, driving the nail deeper. And if we do seek help, we are often misguided and told why we shouldn't feel hopeless, which has a shaming effect in and of itself. What if instead, we felt the hopelessness and let it be? In doing that, we are taking care of our despair. In essence we can positively mother our pain and hold it. The thoughts that want to drive the blame inward can be cut short simply by saying, "all I need to do is feel hopeless and not think about it." We drop the thoughts around it and bring it into a bodily sensation. We create a space for it and tenderly hold it. In that process, I have found that it passes much more quickly and I am amazed, once again, that everything changes, even when we don't think it possibly can. It has no choice.

How do we learn to do this? We do some type of practice that teaches us to stay present with what is happening right now and to be less reactive. We do it when life feels good, when it feels neutral, and when we are suffering. The more we practice this kind of presence with ourselves and with others, the greater ability we have to tend to ourselves in these darkest moments that have no apparent redeeming scene about to take place. These temporary experiences are still as painful as ever, but they don't outstay their welcome.

No, there is no film crew setting up in our hopeless and depressed places. But maybe, if someone else brought in some lights, he/she could see the film playing out behind our darkness. Later on, it is true, we can see our lives as the movies they are and appreciate the courageous warrior that always emerges. But, there is no need to look for the film while it is being made. Instead, we simply need to live the scene out. When hopelessness strikes, as it may at different times throughout our lives, if we are living fully, we can hold it instead of run from it. It won't feel sexy. It isn't glamorous. It won't feel like a high spiritual road we are taking. It will feel awful. And then, it will change. Be hopeless, if that is what you are. I mean that in the kindest, most compassionate way possible. I send a bow to the courageous warrior in you, especially when you have no sense that this person resides inside.

Patience

When I lived in Florida, I remember waiting, as I often was, for my parents at their cafe so we could leave for the day. The largely outdoor restaurant was near the water so it was not uncommon for an egret to come walking by. I remember watching one move ever so slowly, placing each foot carefully down, eyes fixed. At just the right moment, it would dive its beak down in a pointed flash and capture its prey. If it missed, it didn't squawk around or stomp its webbed feet. It would simply resume its slow, calculated walking and try again. From my viewpoint, it seemed as though these birds were equipped with an extra dose of patience.

Patience. It is not a word I heard a lot of in my life, but the longer I am here, the more I am coming to see what a blessing it is to cultivate. If I had greater patience, I might not be so fearful. If I want something to happen or to pass in my life, I could remember patience and trust that what needs to happen will when the conditions are ripe. If I had greater patience, I might be at ease in my body as I wouldn't be clinging with tension in the desire to have something happen right now. I could soften in my musculature, loosen its grip around my bones, and surrender to time. With patience, I might actually receive more than I expected. By not striving so hard for some future happiness, we are inherently present to what is around us now. In the waiting, possibilities make themselves known as there is an openness to what may come. This is the recipe to receiving. If it is a truly important gift we want, we must be present and open to receive it first. When I look at patience this way, I enthusiastically think "yes, this is a quality I want to develop." I can keep calling upon that image of the egret and be reminded of what it looks like in living form.

What I do know is that to nurture patience, we have to start by noticing that we are clinging to something in the first place. Whether it is to an idea of how life should be, or to something or someone we want, a career move, a gaining of something, a pushing away of something. Once we notice what we are doing, the second step would be a deep bow of acknowledgment and of compassion to this longing place inside us. Without this loving presence with ourselves, we cannot genuinely go on. We can choose to be kind to our suffering and not brush it off as insignificant or give it tough love. Rather, we can hold the place of longing in our hands and breath in and out with a deep recognition of its value. It has something we need to know. From here, we can take the next step and have patience, knowing that our presence and compassion to the issue will allow for change. And change it will, because everything does. The practice I know that goes with developing patience is to be aware of my breathing. I can follow my inhale and exhale and stay put with whatever arises. This is having patience and we can nurture this ability by practicing it wherever we are. 

Of course, we won't always get it "right." Some days, we just need to stomp our feet and give that our full blessing. It is too bad our feet are not webbed like our feathered friends or we would make a nice clapping sound as we stomped. There is something calming about the word patience. It is not the kind of harsh parental heeding to be patient as we might have received as kids. When we can wish it for ourselves as adults, it has a positive mothering kindness to it. "May I have more patience for whatever arises." It seems like a warm wish to bestow on oneself. I am going to practice patience in 2015 and it could be that I will be at greater ease and my world will open up more than it already has. I can actually let go. Is there anything you could wish yourself patience with this New Year? I realize now that when I sat waiting outside that cafe as a teenager and watched the egrets go by, I actually did have patience. I was practicing even when I did not know it. Now, I can step it up to a new level where the issues seem more significant than waiting for parents. I wish us all greater patience this year. Gaining it could be our gift to the world.

A for Effort?

I can't remember my parents ever saying it, but somehow I managed to grow up taking in the notion that if I work hard, I'll succeed. So, I always worked hard. I remember for the longest time it seemed I couldn't make the Honor Roll, which implied that you were smart, but I always made the Headmaster's List, which implied that you worked really hard. Eventually, I made both and surprised myself, assuming it was all the effort that got me that scroll of paper and a handshake in front of the school. There's nothing wrong with the idea that to make something great happen, we need to apply great effort. It certainly did bring me places in my life. But in my adult years, I have learned that there is another way to look at this and it threatens a deeply rooted way of being. If I keep digging, a part of me that fears the tree might fall. What I have been reconfiguring is that when I really want or need something these days in work, in social life, with family, it is not by trying hard that will make the thing come to fruition. Of course, that is not what it feels like. It feels like I must do something. It has a kind of panic to it, that if I don't take an action, not only will I not get what I need, but I will fall endlessly backwards down a rabbit hole. So how do I, or any of us, have a goal, or desire, or need and not think we need to make it happen? It is as though we are suddenly lost with our jobs taken away. We are asked, with all its discomfort, to sit still and wait.

What I lacked in my younger years was a spiritual life, that word that makes some people get squirmy, often for good reason. It makes me squirmy sometimes, too, if I forget what I mean by it. I equate it with being present or aware, acting mindfully, remembering our interconnectedness, being grateful (allowing for surprise and wonder as Brother David Steindel-Rast speaks of), letting go, and trusting. A spiritual life requires a particular kind of effort, but not the kind I used most of my life. From a spiritual place, when I am wanting something, I need to clarify and make known my wish, or goal, and make space for the thing to arrive, all the while being fully present to and grateful for what is right here (and this is the real key, which I'll get  to). It requires trusting what I can't see happening. It can raise my fears because it asks me to let go of thinking I control all the moving parts. We don't. But then we might ask, as I often do, "so what then does make things happen?"

If I have a clear intention of what I want, being sure it is coming from a genuine place in my whole being, not just from my intellect, and if I get the ball rolling, which doesn't take much if the intention is coming from a true place, then, the most important part is resting in a deep presence to the life right before me. I know that when I am walking down the street and seeing and appreciating all the things that there are to take in, I am truly alive. When I am truly alive, I attract the things I need. It is not effortful. It is the spirit of Christmas all the time. Receiving, giving, and joy flow easily. The colors, the sounds, the sensations, the fact that I can walk and breathe easily are all such amazing gifts to tap into in each moment. We can receive them and give back in our appreciation. It does not take much.

I needed to remember this again lately. Thank goodness for friends and teachers. I had been too caught up in responsibilities and busyness that I thought I had to make things happen and it was taking my joy away. In response to what I said about the future, my friend slowly and poignantly said, "I know you know that's not how it works." It was like cold water on my face. I awoke. I needed to hear it again. After I left my visit, I was walking toward Washington Square Park and I noticed this dog on a leash walking toward me. I was admiring the beauty of this animal and had a huge smile on my face. I hadn't noticed the owner, but when we were about to pass, I looked at his face, too, and saw that he had a huge smile in reaction to my smiling at his dog. In that split second of recognition, I said, "what a beauty!" I meant it for the dog, but it came out in the same moment that I noticed his smile and I thought to myself, there were two beauties! His showed in his presence. He noticed that I was enjoying his dog long before I was aware of him. His smile was appreciating my smile. What a beautiful thing! It was another great reminder of how I aspire to live. I went on with a lightness about my day and my future. Joy at this very life before me filled me again. I have spent my days since remembering to do things from my heart, to be present, and to trust. In these busy holiday times, or whenever there seems like there is more on my plate than I can possibly swallow, this is what I aspire to come back to. This is what will actually makes things happen. It is not about doing or results. It is against most of what we are taught as kids in this country. May we all remember to stop doing and start enjoying from our open hearts. The things that need to happen will happen. That doesn't mean we won't be busy or that there is no effort, but that our intentions are clear and our hearts are soft to appreciate, to receive, and to give. For some of us, and you know who you are, if there was an adult Life Honor Roll or Headmaster's List, we might be better rewarded for learning how not to be on it. That would be deserving of a handshake, or rather a hug. 

Happy holidays to all of my readers. I am so grateful to be received by you.

What We Do

It is time to confirm what I predicted might happen in my last post. Plans, wishes, and dreams don't always go according to plan. Last night, I realized that the big birthday soon approaching is not going to turn out as I had positioned it to. I awoke this morning to the disappointment stage of having had a desire unmet and of having to let it go, but then, a seemingly insignificant and great thing happened next. It was 7:15 am. I was driving to pick up my kids for our usual Thursday morning breakfast before school, feeling a bit glum, when I found myself at a stop light in the middle of town. I looked out and saw the window washer of the town's shops doing his job. He always looks like he is fully entertained and engaged. He had his usual getup on of sunglasses, black gloves, hat, and an array of ropes, chains, and many other things hanging thickly from his waist. Another man suddenly turned the corner and flew by him in that frantic, morning, "oh my gosh, the train's at the station" run. Just as  quickly, the window washer took a wide, low to the ground stance, with his arms outstretched to the sides, head turning from right to left as if ready to take an action on whatever else might come flying by. He was a momentary referee of the sidewalk. Then he burst out in laughter and resumed his work without a pause. Out of my gloom, I burst into laughter, too. I couldn't hear him from my sealed car two lanes over. He didn't know if anyone was watching. He didn't care. He was just having fun in his day of work. But, I did know he was there and I saw his fun and it made my morning. I kept laughing as I drove on. I wanted to thank him. He had no idea that he helped me. Now that is a beautiful thing! 

We often have no idea what our impact is on people, animals, nature, the world at large. Something as simple as my smile, or a gesture, or expression might change someone's day and I might never know. When I realize this, I am reminded that every moment matters. Every gesture has the possibility of goodness in it. It makes me as ask, why hold back what we can so freely give? Why be frugal with our love, our playfulness, our excitement, our joy? Why hold our sadness and pain inside and let it dampen our experience when there is the possibility of using it to make a connection instead? In so many ways, we can give another the chance to respond and be in touch with the same vulnerable human life force we all share. In all of this, the importance of laughter is huge. One day in the car this fall, my son said, "mommy, you have a very loud laugh." I do and I do a lot of it. We must laugh at what we go through, otherwise, it is all just too heavy.

I know as long as I keep experiencing life like I did watching this window washer and as long as I keep learning to share myself, despite fear, my birthdays will always be something to celebrate, plans or no plans. This is a beautiful life we have. Let us all have clear windows to see through so we can laugh, and cry, and marvel, and be guided by the knowledge that we have an impact on all things in ways we won't ever know. We can choose to be generous every day.

Birthdays and Holidays

I have one of those "big" birthdays approaching and the holidays are here. Both bring up plans, expectations, wishes for things to go a certain way. It is hard not to feel doomed! When those words come together in one cookie jar, I should know some food fights are about to commence. So I've got my head in the jar and I'm looking at it, thinking about it, feeling it, and being curious about what needs to happen to prevent this pending internal mess. How do we have desires for things to go as we envision them and not run into trouble when they don't? Do we stop making plans? Do we not wish for things? Do we let life happen to us and go with the flow, never committing ourselves to something or someone?

If I take the holidays, for example, I cling to an idyllic picture that everyone will be happy to be together and grateful. The day will be punctuated by meaningful moments and deep connection. More likely, the holidays look like this...someone is horrifically angry or upset or shut down, for reasons, we may or may not know. Someone falls sick. You or your guests get stuck in traffic and arrive feeling tense and annoyed. The person cooking is so uptight and anxious you would think that if the turkey or tofurkey doesn't turn out right or on time, the cook might not live. Someone insists on being taken back to the train immediately. There is a perfectionist in the house creating a floor of eggshells with which we all need to find our way upon as the table gets set just the right way and the lighting dimmed at just the right level. The cheesecake someone painstakingly made just fell on the ground and becomes the launching pad for a huge family blow up. A snowstorm halts everyone's travel plans. Someone says the wrong thing, to the wrong person, at the wrong moment. Yes, the holidays are all of that and so why do we make plans, have wishes and expectations? We do it because we are human. We wish for good. We want things to turn out well. We know how we would like to be on the day and how great all of it could be...if only everything and everyone would be on the same page as us.

I could stop having desires and making plans. I could stop having expectations from friends and family. But, I know if I do I would be shutting myself down so I could avoid disappointment and suffering. I would be losing opportunities that open me up and that bring me closer to what my heart is longing for. Instead, I will make plans for my birthday and I will have hopes for the holidays, but I will kindly remind myself to do it with an openness for what else may arise that I might not expect. I think of my meditation teacher saying, "and this, too." Whatever else may arise, I can say, "I can open to this, too" and retain an inner peace that can't be shaken. It means I can feel joy, or excitement, or warmth and I can equally feel disappointed, sad, or anxious. I can be open to all of those experiences and handle them with a gentle touch. No judgement, just love. From this place, I am more likely to give love in a tense situation or to bring out the good in a person who is too upset to find it in his/herself. When a person says or does something that gets under my skin, I can stop my spinning mind on what he has done and turn the focus to the painful sensation I am having in response and take care of that instead. I step away from blame and into my own experience. From that compassionate place, I can find some space and may even be able to silently offer peace to the person who I am struggling with.

No matter what arises or how things turn out in my plans in life, I can take care of myself with kindness, acknowledge the joy or difficulty with love and compassion, and adjust, tend to, or accept what is here. It could be everything does turn out the way I wanted it to (or very close to it) and that is something to be grateful for and to truly enjoy. If it doesn't, there is likely something in the new arrangement that bears some fruit in the form of a new insight, understanding, or maybe the wisdom to say, I'll never do that again! It is all an opportunity to learn more about myself and my reactions. What else is there to do in life than to have these experiences and grow? In the words of Thich Nhat Hanh, "this is it." This moment right here is the one to enjoy, perfectly messy or perfectly perfect as it is. There is no better place to be.

To all of those also planning and wishing these days, I send my support to the longing in you that inspires it. It is of great value. I also send courage to encounter whatever comes your way with curiosity and softness to the experience. And, may we all remember to be grateful for this life right here.

Stepping Up

This post is inspired by the news of beloved Buddhist Teacher and Peace Activist Thich Nhat Hanh's ill health.

I got on the subway one night this week to start my journey home after a long day. I sat down and didn't take out my phone. I didn't have my headphones on or something to read in my hands. I just sat there and looked at the face across from me. The man on the other side had dark skin, high, chiseled cheek bones, and deeply set eyes that seemed profoundly worn with experience. There was something gentle, melancholy, and humbly knowing about his manner. We looked in each other's eyes in a way that we rarely do in New York City. It is as if we broke an unspoken rule about how long you can make eye contact with a stranger. His face had too much depth to ignore. Realizing I couldn't go on staring, I took my chances and offered a small smile. He returned it. I then looked at all the faces across from me and I heard myself saying to my ailing meditation teacher, "this moment, and this moment, and this moment," as I shifted my gaze from face to face. Sitting there, tired from the day, I felt my own hands. Though they were fatigued from touching other people all day, my right hand held my left and felt its softness as if caressing someone else. I felt my own tenderness. I knew in that moment that Thich Nhat Hanh would always be with me even when he passes on. His teachings have left their imprint. I am not someone who has a guru. I don't declare any one person "my teacher." But, as his precious life lies in limbo these days, I recognize how much of his life touched mine, of how much he taught me. Sitting on the subway, I see and feel differently because of him. 

The night I learned of Thich Nhat Hanh's condition, I laid in bed and surprised myself as I watched fear arise. It was not as though I knew him personally or that I had more than a handful of opportunities to be in his presence, but suddenly, I was feeling the possibility of a significant loss. Losing a parent feels like this. It is the fear of being cut off and disconnected from some source. The image arises of floating out into space, unattached, just drifting. As I get older and as each elder passes on, I am increasingly aware of a stepping up that needs to happen, a shifting role that I must play. It is true for all of us if we are aware and can muster enough courage to acknowledge the shift. As older family members, teachers, mentors move on, there is a growing up, a responsibility, an ownership that we are silently being given. The controls are being handed over and we face the often scary realization that we do, in fact, have the skills to handle them. 

As I get increasingly separated from those who have been my guides, I am being asked to trust myself, to humbly lean into my own groundedness, strength, and experience. It is as though the universe is asking me to stay calm as a step suddenly appears at my feet. I must take it. The step requires a willingness to accept the place that needs to be filled, whether it is for our children, our students, our clients, our siblings, our co-workers, our community. We start to truly embody the life these teachers showed us we can have. They are no longer teachings separate from us. We embody these teachings when we choose to pause before we lash out, when we choose to be generous, when we recognize that we don't have to win the point, when we stop blaming. It happens when we make conscious decisions about what we do and what we refrain from doing, what we say, how we listen, and what we consume. We embody the teachings when we catch ourselves putting ourselves down in all kinds of small and large ways and choose to treat ourselves with compassion and kindness instead.

Though I have much more life to experience, I see that it would be easy for me to believe that I am still the young one with things to learn and therefore never own what I know and the position I am increasingly being given. The "promotion" is unspoken. There is no award given, no congratulations to receive, no outward recognition. No one says you are ready to be here. I will keep going forward with the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh ingrained in me, and those of my parents, and all the teachers that have come in so many forms. They can't be taken from me. And, I will keep learning. This week, I gained the understanding that I am not getting cut off. If I look deeply, I can see that I am getting more connected. Instead of me holding on though, I am ready to hold, even when my doubts arise and I start to tremble.

With these words, I send my strength, my smile, my presence to Thich Nhat Hanh as he works to recover and to all the elders who have taught us how to live well. I can also offer a smile and a bow of support to myself and all of those around me as we take the next steps of embodying, in an even greater way, what we have learned.

Destination Unknown

Ever have one of those days wondering why you were in Iowa when you were headed for Paris? Some days, weeks, months, years don't go as we expect them to. In fact, they go in a whole new direction as if we lost the controls of the plane we are flying and end up somewhere we had no desire to be. Last Friday was to be my first Halloween with the kids in years when I could have the whole day to attend the school festivities and take them out at night. I was ready for the day, but first I had a simple follow-up doctor's appointment in the morning. It turned into an uncomfortable office procedure that took a twist...it was Halloween after all. The doctor with his disconcertingly calm demeanor informed me that there was a "complication." Those are never words you want to hear from someone in a white lab coat. I survived the ordeal trembling and was sent off with a particular kind of pain that would make life challenging for the coming days. Without warning, my plane had changed its course. I was in Iowa.

Though we know better, our unconscious mind seems to get tricked into thinking that if we line our ducks up the right way, they will float smoothly along with the current. You might say, as I do myself, "well of course I know that's not true!" But if I really "know" it, why do I still get stumped when things change course? Part of me refuses to accept what reality inevitably shows us again and again. We are very clearly not in control. Planes and trains get cancelled; the school nurse calls; something grows where it shouldn't; tires pop; our relationship unravels; funding falls through; someone we love dies. Good things also happen. Planes and trains are on-time; a job presents itself that is just what we need; some unforeseen person appears in our life that fills a particular void; we don't get sick; babies are born. Life works out, but often not on our time schedule or in the manner we choose. What we get is what we get and then it is all about what we make of it. Where the plane lands is not our business to dictate. We go for the ride and when we touch ground, we adjust. We might kick and scream at first, or we might feel joy coursing through us like caffeine, but either way, in that process of arriving and finding the earth underneath our feet, we learn something new about ourselves or the situation. We change. But, since few of us like to be out of control, what enables us to trust in the process and, in doing so, make the whole rocky business gentler for ourselves? We tend to resist it the way my dog stops in his tracks and pulls back on the leash once he realizes we are going into the vet's office. With each experience, I am steadily getting used to this deal we are given. I understand that the more I learn to let go, the kinder I am being with myself and others. It is the best thing I can do on this unsettling path. The gentler my approach, the more appreciative of this life I can be because I am no longer insisting it be anything other than what it is. The trick is in finding softness in the midst of upset.

This particular Halloween Friday, I didn't end up where I had wanted, but I discovered what I needed. One of the gifts of being here in a body is that when something goes out of whack in the form of sickness or injury we are forced to stop. My life was feeling hectic, rushed, and overloaded with responsibility and weight. I always know something is off when I start wishing my train rides are longer so I could have more time to stop and catch up with myself. I wanted to find a pause button. Then I got one. Not the kind I would choose, but I got one. I showed up through the Halloween festivities for my kids, but then cancelled my plans to go away for the weekend and laid on the couch for most of it, the only position I could comfortably be in. But, there are gifts to being in this unexpected destination. I was physically and emotionally vulnerable and I knew it. I was not going to be the strong one or the caretaker for a while. I had to surrender. In the giving in, a softness that I could not find running around came over me. Through this gentler lens, I could look at my life with kindness and realize I wanted something different. I do not want to rush anymore and I want to approach everything with a lighter, more tender touch. Just saying that feels good. I pick up my tea and feel the warmth of the cup in my hands and appreciate that simple act. Savoring a warm cup of tea dropped off by a dear friend, I feel grateful in receiving and very blessed. After lying down for much longer than I am accustomed to, I went for a slow walk on a windy, cool, fall morning. I stepped outside and felt the wind against my skin, heard the sound of the trees swaying, felt the chaos of leaves blowing everywhere, and took in the the abundance of colors as I approached the woods. Everything felt fresh, vivid, and alive in a whole new way. I walked slowly, softly. This is the way I want to live. This was where the doctor's visit took me. Thank goodness, though I would not have said that at the moment shaking in his office. No, in that moment, I was sure I would never be okay again. But, I was okay. I am more than okay. I was made tender. Intriguingly, after this weekend, new opportunities presented themselves in my life. The next step in my work and teaching started unfolding. I could think it was unrelated, but I know better. I believe when we start paying attention to what matters most, the things we need emerge.

I am going to try and remember that in the hiccups that happen in a day, a week, a life, there is likely a richer place we can uncover in ourselves whether we wanted to go that way or not. I am going to keep letting the controls go, especially when I think I need to hold on tighter, make more of a plan, get busier, or start trying to fix something. Those are all signs to loosen my grip. If, in the moment, I simply can't let go, I know I will land somewhere in spite of myself. It just might be a rougher landing and that's okay, too. 

What has been most inspiring to me in recent weeks is a deeper understanding that when I hold on too tightly to some idea of how things should be, I am unknowingly choosing to limit what is possible. I am being cheap with myself. I have settled for some notion that one thing is enough, rather than seeing how much I could have. When I make my sole purpose to love, to be kind, to be compassionate, to share myself and open to what is right here without having my defenses up, I can have everything. That everything comes in each interaction with all living things. It comes in each moment of deep presence with life. The way a small object feels in my hand, the way it feels to smile, the sound of leaves rustling, the feel of a hug. Rather than go on a narrow course to arrive at one thing, I can choose to think bigger and have it all. I can say to myself in those moments of struggling, "have it all, Jean." It's my new mantra. May you have it all, too. Our planes are going to keep changing course and when they do, we can let go, trust, and remember that when love is at the core of our intention, we can have more than we might have been striving for. We might land somewhere miraculous.