Lessons In Running In The Rain

I awake on a Sunday, what has come to be my favorite day of the week. I let myself sleep in, knowing my body needs the rest, despite my mind which is delighted with the prospect of getting so many things done, things I want to do. It is a gray, December day. I take Wally for a walk aware of some light rain drops every now and then. Realizing that it is likely to come down in greater quantities soon, I have the thought that I should go running now. But, it is not the order of events that feels good. I want to have tea and do some writing first, start laundry, meditate, and then go running. So, of course, by that time, it is pouring. 

I get dressed in my running gear and step out into the lobby of my building working up the courage to join in the rain. There is no wavering in the fact that I will go, but just that initial self-motivated push that I am waiting for. I stand there and think about discipline and concentration and that this practice of running, like the practice of meditation, is the ability to stay and do it no matter what. To run even if it it would be easier to stay in a cozy, clean, warm apartment. To stay on a meditation cushion, allowing the anxious thoughts to be there, even if it would be easier to get up and get busy doing things. A neighbor comes by and comments on the fact that I am about to go running. He talks about his own intentions to get going on some training for an event and then encourages me. That push was handed to me like a gift that I am only realizing now as I write this. These are one of those subtle and beautiful acts of help we often receive and fail to appreciate. I step outside and go.

I enter the trails in the woods and quickly see that it is going to be a messy run. In the first minute, I feel the sensation of cold water seeping into the mesh fabric of my sneakers. I think to myself, "already!" But, then I say, "ah, this is what cold water on my feet feels like" and I run on feeling the sensation and that it is really okay. It is actually fun. I then find myself navigating through the rocks and puddles and mud. I discover that running on the rocks, which I would usually avoid, is the best option. It is this deceptive thing where you might think that the smoother part is safer, but it is hard to see what muddy parts are slippery. In fact, sometimes you need to stay on the rocky path for a while to find your way to a more secure footing on solid ground. I get through the trail and enter the road, at this point, fully drenched. My pants are sticking to my legs and I feel the cold water against my thighs. But, I am delighted. I am still navigating puddles and cars against narrow shoulders. There is an elegance to it all. It is not about plowing through like in one of those warrior races that are now in fashion, where you dive into mud and climb through muck to get to the end. It's about making decisions of which puddle to go around or through. When to jump and when to just feel the messiness. There is grace in the mud. I am now running on the smooth open, curving road, feeling strong and wild with freedom. I am reminded that we can do anything if we commit ourselves and we won't melt. It is simply experience and sensation when we don't label it as good or bad. Most of all, it is the courage to stay that moves us.

I run toward home and see a hubcap on the side of the road. It is on the forest side and sitting in leaves. I run passed it, but as I run on, I think no one will see it, so I turn back and prop it up against a street sign, hoping it gives the owner a chance to claim it. I am sure it was my experience of opening through the run that allowed everything in me to expand. The world becomes larger than just me. Thank goodness!

I write this because whether you run in the pouring rain or not, I am sure you, too, have an experience of staying with something, of concentrating, even as forces outside and in attempt to pull you away. When the timing is right and we have enough of whatever it is to be able to experience what is there and not back away, we discover some other kind of freedom and joy and aliveness that is worth it all. Do you have a memory of such an experience? I would be honored to hear it in the comments below. Reflecting on it, reliving it in words brings the feeling back and reminds us what really matters, what makes us feel inspired in this life. We can help each other stay with ourselves and in doing so, we are able to arrive for others. What a beautiful thing.

The Season of Light and Darkness

This is what I am most aware of as Christmas winds down and the last of the series of holidays lies just before us. This time of the year holds both light and darkness. It puts a spotlight on love and joy, rightfully giving them the recognition that is often overlooked in the frenetic energy of our "ordinary" days. What a gift that we have a moment in the year where we take the time to celebrate love and show it in coming together, in giving and receiving, in song and bright lights, in speaking to the fantastic minds of children. This is the light. 

Simultaneously, it is also the darkest time of the year. The sun makes its short, radiant appearances as though it is visiting family and has done it long enough to know to only stay a short while. She comes and goes quickly and I feel grateful for her appearances. I soak her in on the train, always sitting on the side where I can feel her light drenching me gracefully through the window. I realize that I look for the empty seat with the most glow as if some part of me is subconsciously desperate to absorb whatever bright rays I can. Besides the literal darkness, it appears in other forms. We can feel losses we haven't felt in a while. I was driving home on Christmas Eve imagining, for the first time since he died 13 years ago, driving to the cemetery where my dad's ashes are kept. Wanting to touch his stone and walk the grounds. Wanting to go on Christmas Day. The urge came on suddenly. Why? I cannot say for sure. Or, we can, at this time, feel some kind of emptiness or disconnection and long for something unknown or unclear to ourselves. The feelings that accompany it can be raw. This is the darkness waiting for the light to find an opening.

This is what I have learned, especially in the winter season. The light and the dark will exist together. I can breathe them in and out and feel my feet on the ground, delving down into the dark, cool earth like tree roots and I can feel the length of my spine extending upward to the light. In the space between, I can recognize them and hold them both and breathe knowing it's not about having one over the other. In doing so, I have found new meaning for this time of the year. I take greater joy in the holiday lights as they decorate the dark sky. I buy, wrap, and give gifts knowing that what feels unfulfilling in the process is that I can't wrap what I'd truly like to give, so no gift feels good enough. I now understand what that is about and can feel the frustration, let it go and truly enjoy giving what I can. Giving like this feels good. I get to experience the joy of receiving and allowing myself to take in the gift, in any form, of another. It is a practice, too, to know when I am receiving and to take in the time, care, and thought of the other. Each gift is perfect. The ride of personalities and relationships and their dynamics, which play out like the most well rehearsed show on stage, is there to revel in, too. When I remember that I am not threatened by what gets said or done by those around me, I can humbly appreciate who I am with and let them be who they are. I can smile and observe my family and friends as if looking at them from outside into warm lit windows of a house. All of our imperfections allowed to be just as they are. And then, to know when I need to be quiet and come back inside, slow down and take some personal space to absorb all that goes on is the gift to myself.

Whether it is the light or the darkness that is prevailing at any hour this season, we can stay with what is and come home to ourselves again and again, in our bodies and minds. There is a safe haven there when we remember our innate beauty, that we are lovable and enough just as we are. Inside there is always a glowing light.

Pausing In A Parking Lot

On Sunday afternoon, I had gotten in my car in the parking lot of a shopping center. I had left my dog in the car for the short time I was in the store and when I closed my door, a woman approached my car clearly wanting my attention. I rolled down my window expecting her to say something judgmental about my leaving a dog in the car or, more benignly, she possibly needed directions. She immediately started talking rapidly in that run on, apologetic way, stating her case as to why she needed money. It is a story I've heard countless times on subways...that she lost her job and has kids to feed and how awful it was to have to ask, but that she didn't know what else to do. There was no pause in her words and there was no pause in my reactions. I opened my wallet, took out a bill, and handed it to her. In my nervousness, I wished her luck and regretted the poor choice in words. Luck had nothing to do with it, nor did it capture what I did wish for her. As she walked away, I saw tears had been flowing down the sides of her cheek, hidden from the front by the big, dark sunglasses. I drove on surprised by the interaction. I get asked for money often in NYC, but I've never had it happen quite this way, in a shopping center in NJ where I live. 

I went to meditation a few hours later where the moment kept returning to me while I practiced pausing and not reacting. I realized how quickly my knee-jerk reactions set in at that moment. The assumptions, the fear, the unasked questions, the quick decision to give or not give money. I couldn't get the sight of her tears out of my mind. In those tears, I saw the person that I couldn't at first glance see. I wondered if they were tears of shame, the thought of which makes my heart ache. I wish I had asked her more, inquired of her suffering, showed true compassion, no matter what her story. Pausing in that moment and offering a listening, empathic presence would have cost me nothing, but may have given her something much more than the money I gave. After that wish came down over me, I also recognized the vulnerable position I was in at that moment. I did not know who she was, what she wanted, and I was constricted within my car. Just this week, a couple's car was hijacked at a nearby, upscale mall and the man was shot dead. It was an unusual crime in the area. We never know what could happen and so my knee-jerk reactions may not be so off, but I have greater trust in good than in bad. In retrospect, I am aware that this woman and I shared a common feeling in that parking lot. Our experiences might have looked different, but we were both afraid. 

This speaks to my last post on trust, again. If I had relied on trust in that moment, I might have been able to act from my "higher" self. Trust in what? Trust in knowing that no one can really hurt me if I come from an honest, loving, heartfelt place. It is a trust in myself, in love, and in goodness. From here I can have a conversation, create an opening, let someone know that he/she is seen and matters.

I will keep practicing pausing and staying without reacting because I aspire to live from this place of love, free from fear, open and full because I need nothing more. Christmas week is upon us. Gifts will be given; kids will be excited. As I give and receive, I will remember this woman whose story I don't know, though the very words she used I've heard before. I will give thanks for the abundance that I am surrounded with and wish the same abundance be felt by anyone who asks for it, even if the asking is for small change through a rolled down window in a parking lot.

Love and Letting Go

There have been countless songs about it and I continually come across beautifully expressed lines from wise teachers on the subject. It is this notion that true love requires us to allow the object of our love to be free. It is a profound truth. And yet, it is not what we instinctively do. It is as though we are hardwired to hang on for dear life to anything or anyone we love or connect with. I rub up against it with people when I start wanting more from someone than the conditions are ripe for. I rub up against it with my dog, whose inevitably short life span I began fretting over from the moment he came home at 10 weeks old. Or, when I look at my kids running to school with their backpacks, which are half the size of their 6 year old bodies, swinging on their shoulders and I beg that this time doesn't go any faster. I rub up against it when I fear that I won't be able to continue getting by financially with my work that I love. I rub up against it in writing this blog, in wanting it to be something people respond to. It is all the same thing, though it might not seem like it at first. It has a distinct appearance. Though others might not notice it, I sense the difference in me. My mood gets slightly hardened as if I am bracing against the wind, my mind busy, my voice tougher, my vision narrower, my smile selective, my eye contact with others limited. And, it happens in subtle ways throughout the day. It is amazing really. Its persistence is commendable. So much so that I now understand why I should treat this part of me nicely, but that's for later.

To let what is important to me be free is to recognize its beauty, to know its value, to respect its fullness and its own time frame. But, to do that requires trust. When I have the fear of letting go of some tightness around something or someone, even slightly, as if taking a knot out of my shoelace and not undoing it completely, but making it loose enough that if I kept walking it would come undone -- when I can do that and have a mere drop of grace to say the word "trust," a  calm seeps through me, like a pleasant shot of relief through my veins. I ask myself, "can I trust here and let go instead?" If I can ask the question, then I am already at the place of responding, "yes, I can."  Not only can I, but there is further relief in knowing that there is nothing else to do. I just need enough courage to ask the question. If I place loving in this world as what matters most to me, then I must bow down and trust. Though I am not religious, I feel like I know what devout people get down on their knees for, why people might open their arms, palms up to the sky, and shout out some praise. It's a two way street, too. I trust in love and in loving I find trust. A double opening and a knowing that in this realm there is no where hard to fall. There are endless billowy cushions on which to land.

And so, there are days when I lose trust and just need to get by, however unpleasant. And, there are days when I remember to ask the question that brings the slightest opening, a sliver of light that lets the river flow again. That ebb and flow is how it goes; it is the path. In order to remember to ask for trust, I keep practicing and the roots of it get deeper and the wind shakes my branches less violently. I stay longer with an ease in my face, a softness in my eyes, an openness in my chest and arms and I smile more, letting it all in.  So, with the holidays approaching, too, I remind myself that there is no better time to love and let what I love be free. I can give myself permission to enjoy people as they are, the hectic nature of these two weeks as joyful in and of themselves with whatever they entail. What feels overwhelming, I can set free, which is what it needs to be anyway, and then remarkably the things get done (if they are of that sort) or the feeling releases, or the relationship surprisingly shifts without my doing something. I can control less, keep my heart open, and trust. From that place, I have nothing to lose and the birds can fly from the birdhouse in my heart and I know they are free to return without my beckoning call.

You Are More Than An “It”

When it comes to your body, how do you regard yourself? I am often reflecting on the value of handling ourselves with kindness and responding to our inner voices with a gentle, benevolent attitude, but there is a place where the very words we choose and the attitude we take has an impact that might not be so readily apparent. We were born here on earth in the form of a physical body. And yet, we talk about our body as if “it” does something to us, or “it” fails us, or “it” hurts. We bring "it" to a doctor hoping to get "it" fixed as we would a car to a mechanic, but the problem is that we don’t actually work that way. I have been witnessing people’s physical struggles and am realizing that I can play a greater part in relaying a whole picture of what I’ve learned about health and why it matters. I hope this post will not only give insight into what I do in my work, which centers around health -- physical, emotional and mental health, but will also open the door to ways of seeing, questioning, and being with the amazing reality that we exist here in a physical form and how we might want to go about it.

I remember when my father was in the hospital struggling with lung cancer, there were times where some count was low. It might have been platelets, or white blood cells, or potassium and one deficiency would cause another reaction or failure. It was the first time I got an unshakable understanding that our body works as a whole system and depends on all of its parts functioning together. And, if I think about why he had lung cancer and what was behind his habit of smoking, the emotional and mental come blaring to the forefront. In other cases, I have seen how untended to stress and tension, built up over long periods of time, culminated in tense abdominal and pelvic floor muscles that then wreaked havoc on the digestive system and a potential physical collapse throughout the body. The lesson I’ve learned in witnessing physical struggle is that to maintain good health, we need to be mindful on many levels and we need to stop regarding our bodies as if they do something to us.

We do not get better, improve, feel good by addressing the physical, the mental or emotional as separate and unrelated. And, we need to remind ourselves that our thoughts and emotions play just as large a role in how we feel physically as do our lungs or big toes. When we approach ourselves with that understanding, if we have pain in our back, we don’t say, “I don’t know what’s wrong with it; I want it to go away” rather we say, “I’m feeling pain in my back and I’m not sure what I need to feel better; I wonder what the pain is trying to say and what I need.” The difference is greater than the words alone might suggest. When we regard ourselves with this kind of inquiry and care, we are paying attention; we are taking responsibility; we are being kind; we are listening. From this space, real lasting change happens. The alternative wants a quick fix, a pill, a procedure, an answer. There’s no learning, growth, or true healing in that approach and more likely than not, the issue will return. This sense of separation shows itself in our attitudes about exercising or eating well.  They feel like something we “should” do for our body. But, if we could listen to why it might be hard to make a change in nutrition or physical activity, we might learn more about what is really in the way and have a greater possibility for change. Again, as I am often coming back to, when we look at fear, it becomes less scary.

In my own life, I remember being transformed when I went to a skilled physical therapist who specializes in Feldenkrais Method work. I went in for back pain. I was chronically sore and tight and finally in exasperation that I was not improving I said, “I am working so hard to get better!”  In response, he said, “maybe you don’t need to work hard, maybe you need to do less.” I have not forgotten those words. Something shifted in me in hearing them. I started to let go of controlling how I’d get better and in doing so, I softened, physically and mentally. It spilled over into all areas of my life. I recognized how hard I had been working in all ways. Partly it had to do with his touch and direction, partly it had to do with his words, partly it had to do with our relating.  The process changed me over time and even beyond the time I worked with him. That is what true healing looks like and it is not something to be rushed or even attained. Healing is growing and we have a choice to keep growing throughout our life.

Knowing that we have the amazing capacity to transform ourselves and that maintaining good health requires a multi-layered approach is the reason why I do the work I do, in all the forms I do it. I teach meditation; I use touch to help people let go; I guide people to see what they do in posture and movement; I inquire about feelings in the body and where they are stored so they can be acknowledged and transformed in that process; I ask people to stay with themselves just as they are and not run from what appears to be uncomfortable; I make visible what is well; I listen; and I am solid in my presence and in the trust of that relationship alone there is healing. It is not always obvious; it is not necessarily a quick fix, though it could be. The healing is in the process.

What we as therapists, healers, teachers can do is create a space for this kind of attention and guide clients with compassion, presence, and hopefully with a new perspective. The most important information and discovery comes from the client herself. We have wisdom built in. Sometimes we just need to remember where the key to the door that holds it is. When we stop regarding our bodies as things we are in, we have opened that door and we begin living with deeper insight, more compassion and understanding. A whole new world awaits there. Life is no longer happening to us. We are living fully and suddenly self-care has a new and more significant meaning.

• Regard your whole self with kindness.
• Give compassionate attention to what your body is saying and be willing to ask and listen.
• Remember when your mind is busy with thoughts and feelings to come down into your body and tend to how they feel on a physical level. From there, you may find clarity.
• Get support from a person or a group you trust. It is not a luxury as it pays itself off in much greater and lasting ways over time.

What Is True

It is December and the woods I run through are down to their bare bones. Missing the vibrant lushness of the greens canopying over the trails and filling the negative spaces, I‘ve been running and feeling a chill of loneliness out there. That was the case until the other day when I looked out at the open spaces between trunks and branches, which extended as far as my eye could see. It occurred to me that the trees didn’t leave me. They may be bare, but they are very alive. It was me, in fact, that had abandoned them by thinking I was now alone in the woods. Instead of feeling emptiness, I could feel full of what is there. These solid trunks and flexible branches are as present as ever doing their internal work of resting. Just because they are not adorned in their finest doesn’t mean I should stop seeing them. Just as when I am not at my finest, I should not abandon myself. We are all worth more than that.

It is so easy to forget what we do have, to abandon what is in front of us in the desire for something else. We do it with people and objects and we do it with ourselves. In those moments of longing for something, someone, some situation, or ourselves to be different, if we can pause long enough to stay with what is here, just as it is, we might recognize, as I did in the woods, that this place is enough and maybe even has gifts that we were too closed to see before. We still might need something more, but we are seeing clearly and there is more possibility in that.

I once read, in one of his many books, Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh express the importance of asking, “is it true?” For a long while, I had it written on my desk so I could see it often. I have since learned through another practice to ask, “what else is true here?” The leaves may be gone, but am I really alone in the woods? I may be at this Thanksgiving table with my newly shaped family and feeling out of place, but am I really? Am I not fully embraced by this beautiful group before me? That question of “what else is true” recognizes that there is something I’m sensing that is real for me (and important to embrace), but that there is likely more to it that allows for a fuller experience. In seeing from this more complete existence, I can get a greater perspective and choose where my thoughts take me. I might need to make a change, ask for something, stand up for myself, call for help, but it comes from a more open place, which in turn makes me better able to receive.

What I’ve learned in and out of the woods this fall is that I can stay close to what I love though it might temporarily take a different form. By taking that moment to pause, step back, and see, I get closer to what is true and it usually brings me closer to what I love.

What Thanksgiving Really Looks Like

More than any other holiday, Thanksgiving has always made sense to me. Having as its main purpose a gathering around a meal and being thankful with no gifts exchanged, no baskets of candy to make, no specific person to celebrate, no imaginary figure to create stories around, just a meal together and gratefulness sounds like a perfect holiday. Well...in theory, this is my kind of holiday. But, we all know the reality is slightly different than our ideals. There's the challenge of who, what, where and, my gosh, if you're doing the entertaining, there's the drama over the home being ready, the food getting made, the last minute running out to crowded stores for one missing ingredient, and there's inevitably someone who gets sick. Or, if you're the guest, there's the tension you feel at the house you're visiting as they've been stressed all morning getting ready, or there's the wondering how long you'll stay, or the traffic, or the struggle of getting your own kids dressed and out the door. And, of course, there are the kids you see that are not your own that you wish would be disciplined the way you think they should be. There are the adults who don't get along. There are the snide comments, unwanted advice (also known as criticism), passive aggressive behavior or full out flying of hurtful words or maybe even a flying pie. One recent year, my niece calmly came into the dining room where all of us had sat down and when I asked if everything was okay in the kitchen, hearing the usual  shouting from behind the door, she replied, "oh, there's just a small fire in there." When the day is done, even if it went without flying pies and fires, and you've eaten too much, you wonder what happened to the thankful part, where was its place in the day? Something was missing.

My holiday this year has its own endearing bizarreness. If I were to tell you, you'd likely nod in agreement. There's nothing typical about it and I can't picture it actually playing out. Yet, it will happen and we will all survive, probably laughing in some moments and maybe squirming through others. This is what I've come to accept...all of this craziness is part of the holiday. There's no point resisting it, in fact, I might do better to welcome it. And here's my bigger thought about it... I can shrink into a small self as I think about what needs of mine might not get met or I can be the person I admire and show up and share my voice simply by reflecting the ideal of the day. What if throughout the day, I notice all of the gifts to myself. I can take in the sun or the snow or the sound of the rain. I can taste the food I eat and not just get it down. I can say an internal thanks for whoever cooked the food and for everything that made it possible to be on the plate in front of me. I can look around the room and see others' smiles in conversations I am not a part of. I can see my kids' excitement at the fact that this group of people they love has come together. They don't care about our quirks and flaws. I can walk slowly and enjoy the in-between moments of going from here to there. I can remember that we are all people doing the best we can and that we all want to feel good. It is up to me to recognize the gifts, regardless of the drama around me. It doesn't take much. One person in a group who takes a moment to share something heartfelt can change the whole feeling, even if briefly. That takes courage. I hope I can find it. I don't know, yet, what I can pull off on this particular Thanksgiving that might remind me of what matters or that might resonate with others, but I will try. What else is there to do? It is my favorite holiday and if I want it to be all that, I know that I need to show up for it. And, if I manage to show up the way I want to and I still need to cry in the end out of the exhaustion and strength it took, or if I didn't manage to do what I wished I could, but the intention was there, I will still give a deep bow to myself in gratitude, ending the day on its main note, in thanks.

Simplicity

At night, after a day of work, I stand on the corner of 32nd Street and 7th Avenue waiting for the light to change so I can make my way to Penn Station. There is a tall building just to the north and slightly west that is either being constructed or has been gutted. It grabs my attention every night as I pause there on that busy corner. All we see from the street, several blocks away, are the empty, open floors lit by single, bare light bulbs on every level, evenly distributed in clean rows. It is a shell of a building rising up into the night sky. There is something about its minimalist simplicity, its raw openness, its bare bones of hard concrete and no facade that is quite beautiful. I look up at it and don't want it to change. It doesn't need anything more. It doesn't need to be filled or closed up. I've wondered what it is about its presence that draws me in so much. Maybe it is how it embodies openness and space within a defined structure, offering permission to wonder, imagine, create.  In its simplicity there is room to breathe. Maybe it reminds me in its emptiness that there is much to be experienced in not filling every moment. There is much to appreciate in ourselves, just as we are, not needing to be anything more. There is an unshakable beauty when we expose ourselves and know we are also solid, grounded, protected by something. For as long as it remains in this state, I will enjoy how this structure of concrete and light bulbs can evoke this kind of grace at the end of a long day, standing there in a bright night, or rain, or wind, or maybe even snow. But, even once they close it up and fill it in with things and people and dramas of everyday human life, I can still recall the structure and feel the spaciousness, wonder and simplicity that is underneath it all. And when I need to,  I can recall that sense in me, too, that underneath all that goes on in me, is a place that is simple, open, spacious and has room to breathe and wonder.

Who Is Talking To You?

Ten years ago, I was on a meditation retreat with Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh at his monastery in California. I remember listening to a question and answer session with his monks and nuns. I can't recall the questions or the answers. What left its imprint on my whole being was the sound of their voices as they humbly, articulately and slowly answered each question. I sat in that room and it struck me that it wasn't just one nun here or there who sounded angelic, but all of the ones I heard speak. It's the kind of voice you hear that you want to keep listening to. Their tone radiated a gentleness, kindness and clarity. It was without any force or ego. I can still hear them. In that moment of being there, I remember wanting that, wanting to be able to hear myself in that same way and wanting it to be genuine.

Fast forward 10 years. No, I still don't have that angelic voice, but I have learned where it comes from and it has made all of the difference. I have come to understand now that when I am having a difficult moment or day that something in me is giving me a hard time. It's rarely obvious at first. It has a way of masking itself quite ingeniously. It seems, at first glance, to be some general sense of unease or discontent, nothing too specific. Sometimes the mask takes its appearance as anger or frustration and comes out in blame or the expression of irritation. Or, it may come out in despair or a sense of hopelessness over a situation. No matter what shape or form it takes, what is true is that I have believed it and have forgotten to gently ask who is under there. The instant I remember to ask, I am the monk or nun in my memory. The voice that does the asking is already kinder, softer, more compassionate. That voice speaks to me differently. She wants to know what is going on. She wants to hear what I am longing for, what I am needing. She wants to say "of course, that's what you're feeling." It is not the voice I grew up knowing, the voice that believed the masks were real, sending me on a wave of criticism and blame, usually toward myself. This new voice has more space, greater capacity to hold tenderly and to love. She literally sounds different.

Meditation instruction typically says that when thoughts arise, we should "observe" them without getting lost in them. What I have experienced in practicing meditation is that we have the potential to create the space, an almost palpable distance, between a thought or emotion and our reaction. That alone is significant and valuable. But, I think in this culture, there is another necessary step. It is not to practice simply observing and detaching, but observing and kindly regarding whatever is there. By that I mean literally saying an internal "hello, I see you are there and I welcome a space for you." The more we speak to ourselves with this kind of tenderness, the more we recognize those moments of judging, condemning or being hard on ourselves.

There is another way to be with ourselves and though I don't always get it immediately, I find it more quickly now and the sticky, difficult places that arise fade faster. They have much less strength. The trick is in remembering, remembering that I can speak in many voices, but there is a specific one that I can choose and she makes the world a different place, the world inside me and out. Maybe someday, I will hear, in my external voice, what I heard on that retreat long ago and what I know is possible. In the meantime, I will keep checking in to see who is talking to me and choose to listen to the one who speaks with kindness. That voice is beautiful. I wish for all people to learn to speak to themselves with a gentle tenderness. Imagine what the world would be like. What a beautiful sound it would make.

The Next Big Craze

I want to start a new health craze. I want it to take off the way kale has made it onto covers of books or the way Pilates became a household name. This new craze is... breathing. No, I'm not joking and yes, I know you could argue that yoga has been around a long time and has already taken off. But, this would be simpler. No classes needed. No money spent. The instructions are already built in. We'd simply need to push the activate button. Like toggling a switch on your phone to "on." My personal guarantee, like you might see on an infomercial, is that it will improve everything from tension, to ailments, to productivity, to world peace. And, it's free. No purchase required.

Let me tell you where all of this is coming from. I've been hearing some internal criticism for writing weekly blog posts and not yet talking much about the body. I'm realizing it might seem odd since most of my life's focus evolves around how we are in our bodies. Partly, I take it for granted. I don't know how to be other than in my body. I've also been blessed with an extremely healthy one. But, in my work and in all my relations, I see a fair amount of physical struggle. So I thought about what I could write. I could write about how we need to shift our thinking away from our bodies being like cars that we need to bring to the mechanic to get fixed. I could write about how we need to stop thinking of our bodies as separate from everything else that goes on in our minds, hearts, emotions. I could write about why when something goes "wrong" in our bodies, we could stop looking for some immediate medical quick fix and instead ask some deeper questions and open our awareness. Instead, I'll tell you what struck me tonight as I walked on 32nd Street toward Penn Station.  

I got out of the subway and walked with a crowd. It was earlier than my usual time going home and there were more people everywhere. I wanted to practice being in a crowd, needing to be at the station to make a train departure, and doing it without that subtle, but underlying tensing up, shrinking in, or putting on of some armor. I wanted to enjoy the walk. I sensed that the one place in me that felt crowded was around my shoulder blades, chest, and heart. In that moment, I took a very conscious, full breath. I felt a sudden sense of room around my heart and length through my entire spine. I felt tall and powerfully alive. This power isn't a kind of aggressive power, but a feeling of fullness and a knowing that there's nothing to protect or armor against. It is an understanding that I have everything I need in that very moment of breathing into all of me. I can actually let go, do less, ease up. And, even better, I can keep doing it. I can stay in that amazing space and open myself to take in the energy of the city, the beauty of the buildings and the lights, the way the fabric of the flags waves in elegant ripples in the wind, the eyes of people passing. In that moment, I am free and no matter how much I open myself, nothing can be taken from me, but rather by opening up, I can have even more. The fact that I can do this whenever I want is so exciting. It makes me want to make an infomercial.  

After I consciously breathed, I walked on and thought, my gosh, there is so much we can do for ourselves, to help ourselves feel good in our bodies. And, this one is easier than pie. I'm not sure what is easy about making pie, but any way you slice it, breathing life into ourselves is ours to do anytime we want. No one else can do it for us. Why do I think this simple act of conscious breathing can make such a difference? In order to do it, we need to slow down our thoughts, we need to pause and not react, we need to pay attention. Imagine if we all did those things. If we, in that moment when we are being asked to do one more thing on top of an already enormous list of things to do, if in that moment when our child is pushing our limits, in that moment when too many people are pulling out of Trader Joe's parking lot too fast, in that moment in a relationship where a disconnect is happening, if we paused and took a conscious, softening breath. Yes, the world would be a different place. Charitable acts are beautiful and important, but I think the greatest charitable act we can do is on this much simpler level. If we can tend to how we are in ourselves, so many problems would be eliminated from the start. If we slow down and breathe, we can see how we speak to ourselves, to our kids, our employees, our co-workers, our friends. We can react less and be gentler, kinder, more grateful. We can sense when we're taxing our bodies and make a different choice. We can recognize that we are actually feeling really anxious, sad or lonely and tend to that place before it morphs into some physical ailment, which it will if it's neglected over time. We can also take in the moments of joy, ease, beauty and let ourselves be full of gratefulness. We can donate our time and money to good causes, but the greatest cause might be right in our own homes. We should start there. Our very first home, is in our body. It is no one's responsibility, but ours to make it a warm place to live. Let's make this the next big craze.

What Mindfulness Really Looks Like

I know you've seen it. A picture of the back of someone meditating before some kind of amazing landscape like mountains against a cloudless sky or some pristine, glass-like body of water where the blues look unreal in their intensity and the greens look so alive they might come out of your computer screen. It's the kind of picture that makes you tense as you look at it, feeling incapable of living up to the calm that it portrays. It's the kind of picture that you might think has absolutely nothing to do with your real live mindful life.

Here's what mindfulness really looks like. I'm in Maine and decide the night before that I want to awake at 5:00 am and drive the 30 minutes to a trail in Acadia National Park to see the sunrise, which is due to occur at 6:57 am. I figure I'll get there and watch and meditate, just like one of those pictures. Imagine that!  I decided that I'd leave at 6:00 am and have enough time to get there and walk the short trail that leads out to the cliffs over the water. I've never actually gotten up specifically to see a sunrise before and feel excited. The morning comes and I'm 10 minutes behind schedule, but I have my tea in my travel cup and I'm on my way. I soon realize that this trail will take me longer to drive to than I had expected. I make one wrong turn on the island and now I'm officially late. Yes, late for the sunrise on my vacation. I get to the trail with my tea in hand, too late to open the trunk and get my gloves, and quickly start making my way, missing the fork that takes me directly to the cliff. Instead, I'm on the long loop and am now climbing cliffs to get to the side where the sun can actually be seen. I look at the time on my phone and it is 6:55. I pick up my pace, tea still in hand, climbing big boulders. No one else is around and I feel ridiculous rushing up the cliffs, stumbling over tree roots in my not quite awakened state, being late for a sunrise. I let out a laugh knowing no one will hear me. I eventually get there. It is 7:05. The sun has crested over the horizon. I missed it. I laugh realizing that one can't be late for a sunrise; it does not wait. I sit down on the edge of a rock high up over the water. My hands are chilly and I wish I had taken the extra second to grab my gloves. I'm not about to close my eyes and meditate. Instead, I stare out at the golden sun reflecting on the ripples of the water and watch the ducks far below. I see a fishing boat circling and wonder what it is up to. I hear a sound out in the water and see a hump of something. Too big to be a dolphin, too small to be a whale? I stare intensely hoping to see it again. I sit there taking in the beauty and wonder why I'd try to "meditate" in a place like that. There's no need. I'm there and I'm present, feeling slightly anxious from the rushing, slightly cold, awed by the beauty, inspired by the sounds. I think of all of those pictures of meditators in lotus positions in places like this and I suddenly feel relieved. This is what mindfulness also looks like...a woman stumbling toward the sunrise, late and anxious and laughing with her tea in her hand.

Saying Yes

Running this morning, I came upon a deer on my path. I slowed to a walk and eventually stopped as he did. He was not afraid of me. In that moment, I realized that in sensing his fearlessness, my fear rose. The beginning of so many relationships goes this way, whether it is an intimate relationship, a career development where we are receiving a "go ahead," a "yes" to a new artistic endeavor, or a sudden liberating insight about ourselves. When we finally meet someone who is not afraid to be there with us, when the new path is the very thing we have wanted, there is a tremble that occurs that can either cause us to push away or invites us to draw out the courage to keep moving closer. Sometimes we, knowingly or unknowingly, sabotage ourselves because that is the best we can do in that moment. That place needs to be respected, too, out of its goodness of self-protection. Though, eventually, there comes a time when we find the ground underneath us and though we may be trembling, we know it is solid and we tenderly take another step toward the deer that decided to bravely share the path with us. This morning, I saw that deer, felt my reaction, saw how it relates to other places in my life and I asked myself, so how do I find that place again? How do I tap into that inner-knowing that allows me to feel shaky while trusting the solid ground and continuing to move in this new direction? What allows me to not build up armor in self-protection, which has the allusion of confidence, or recoil into a small shell that limits what I am truly capable of? What enables all of us to be real, tender, vulnerable, and courageous?

I close my eyes and ask the question again. Only one word emerges, "love" and, at first, I don't know why. So I close my eyes again and stay with the feeling of fear and the word "love." A second sense emerges that knows that as long as I keep staying present with each new challenge and not meet it with strength, but with softness, with honesty, with true presence to the person, the group, the subject and be willing to not know how he/she, they or it will respond, I can do no wrong. That is true strength. I don't know how my classes will go, how my clients will receive me, how a relationship will evolve, how my parenting will be, but I trust that if I come from love in each moment, I will be safe and where I need to be. There is no danger because no one or thing can take love from me. When I live from that place, coming from love means respecting all of life by listening and speaking with care, by knowing when I am receiving and being in touch with gratefulness, by recognizing moments of judgment and asking myself what it is really about, by being present to people, places and experiences, and by remembering again and again what really matters. If I stay close to these values, then I am coming from love. Nothing bad can come from that place. There is an open-heartedness to it. It is as if I could say, "here is my exposed heart; I trust that even if death should come, what is in my heart cannot be touched." What amazing freedom there is in that. Imagine if we could all practice trusting in that way. It would be a practice though, not something to attain. I will keep practicing and the next time the deer, the event, the person meets me with a "yes," I hope I can meet it on an equally resounding affirmative note.