A Better Way To Go

I ran in the woods this week for the first time in two months. I've been waiting for the snow that has been so solidly packed down into ice on the trails to melt. There were still white, icy stretches that interrupted the flow of my pace (you know on a summer day when the ice in your drink mostly melts, but there are still pieces floating that just won't give in...it's like that), but it was good to be in the woods again, which feel like my second home. We should all have a place like that. Somewhere familiar we go which, by its sheer nature, gives us space untainted by anything or anyone (and yes, it's usually not our childhood home). A neutral place that holds no judgment, where we can bring any feeling or thought and just be.

On this day, I came upon a stretch of trail that looked slippery for too long, so I veered up a more rugged side trail, thinking I'd catch up with the main trail in a very short while, but I found myself confused when that trail intersected with another wide trail, which wasn't the one I was familiar with. I quickly understood that I was heading on a new path and rather than turn around, I decided to keep going, that maybe this was, unknowingly, the better way to go this day.   

It went uphill for a long ways and eventually I saw ahead of me a man walking on paved ground. I knew instantly that I had arrived at a part of the reservation two towns over where there is a loop of paved road. I was delighted. I finished on the easy paved loop after having made a mental note of where the trail was that I should get back on to head home. What I didn't realize was that there was a fork in the path. I didn't know which way I had come. I made a guess and after some seconds, I didn't recall certain trees down or stumps or ice and so I went back to the fork and tried the other way. After 30 seconds that way, I also didn't recognize the landscape. I really had no idea which way I had come.

I was even more delighted that this didn't bother me. I didn't know which way to go and it was fine. Why in this instance of not knowing was I okay and in other circumstances of not knowing in my life do I tremble? The path is going to lead somewhere, no matter what. There is comfort in that. It is not as though I took off  into some vast and strange forest somewhere, unfamiliar with the landmarks and without a map. In my life that is also the case. I might not know where a path is leading, but I know enough of what is around me to be safe. If I could remember to rest in that knowledge, I can enjoy the path and not miss it in my fear that there is a better way to go.

It sounds nice, but how do we really do that in the moment of having to make a decision or change? If I think back to that moment at the fork, I'd say that unconsciously there was trust, fearlessness, surrender and playfulness. I trusted myself to find my way if I got lost. That I could, in fact, handle it. I trusted the universe to bring me somewhere or to something I might need to know, learn or experience. In trusting, fear dropped away. Isn't that true? When we trust in something, fear has no weight. Surrender, which I equate with acceptance, is a willingness to be in the experience. There was no use resisting the fact that I didn't know which way would lead me home. I had to pick a way and go. Had I beat myself up for not knowing, or worried about it, or blamed something, I'd be creating more difficulty. It's so easy to do that. Instead I can say, "ah, I am here; interesting; I wonder how this will work." And then, playfulness has its part on stage. There has to be that moment of laughing. For me it was the fact that I carefully noted the tree and rock where the path started so I could find it again. I felt smart and confident in doing that until I got there and stopped in my tracks realizing that I didn't notice the fork. That was funny. I felt humbled in that moment. It's like when you're feeling good about yourself, strong, sexy, confident and then you get home and realize you have a piece of chocolate on your cheek. You know what I mean. It's best to laugh. The alternative is no fun.

The better way to go is to enjoy whichever path I am on and when there is a fork and unforeseen possibility opens up its doors again, I may find myself going in a new direction. I can then enjoy that journey with its ice, mud, and its smooth parts, too. And, when there is chocolate on my face, I will be sure to laugh.

Fish Out of Water

I know a considerable number of people courageously (though they may not feel it) braving a whirlwind of financial and/or career upheavals, adjustments and transformations. Though I am not in a career shift, I have been in a life shift and it has required a stepping up in what I have needed to do, but also, in what I have wanted to do. It is both a necessity and an aspiration to change. There are moments when I panic thinking about the very near future or the more distant one, wondering how it is all going to work out. I feel like a fish out of water, at these times, losing all sense of being at home in myself and in my surroundings. There are other days where I feel at a standstill and cannot connect to the larger picture that holds meaning and purpose. The lines and colors are hidden behind frosted glass. There are days where I long to rest and to not figure out how to make something happen. And, there are times where I wish I could get a shot of confidence. Something that runs a dose of "yes, you can do this" through my whole being. And, though I have never been of the nature to imagine my life a certain way, there is a part of me that wishes for stability, security, and a sense of knowing that I will be okay. I also know what the wise teachers share, that getting comfortable with not knowing is the greater gift to attain.

I write this post not having any answers. What I can do is put together what has gotten me through thus far and what I know will continue to help me swim and to find the current that moves me along, even when the waters are low.

Patience. It is a word kids don’t really like or understand and when I am in a certain place I, too, don’t respond to it very well. Luckily there is also an adult in the room who knows the wisdom of the word. These paths of change inevitably feel like they take longer than they should. Having patience is the only way to bare it. And of course, it is not an ending that the path is coming to, but just an intersection with another path further along, but either way, when it feels like I've been walking along the same gravel road for too long and my shoes are wearing out, I can remember that it must feel that way and that it is still the “right” path. What if, when I awoke in the morning, I started by saying, “may I have patience today.” There is something comforting in remembering that I can choose that state of presence. I can still be fearful, but patient in my fearfulness.

That said, if I really am trying to swim in rough waters, patience alone is not enough. I have learned that it is not my nature to ask for unpaid help on the more serious aspects of life. I can ask for movie recommendations on facebook or where to take my kids for soccer lessons, but to really ask for someone’s help produces a good head shake and a stop sign hand out as if I am going to start singing, “Stop In The Name of Love.” But actually, I do need to stop in the name of love and ask for help. Of course, I need to ask the right people, but if I know who they are, they are most likely wanting to help. We all like to feel like we have something to give. If I can get past myself, I might actually be doing someone good in calling upon him/her. And if the feeling of shame should arise, I can take care of that voice, acknowledge its presence with compassion, and kindly remind myself that I can’t do everything alone, that we are interdependent. The only way I can give is if I also receive. There is an art to receiving. When we learn it, we start receiving so much more because we see the gifts that were right before us. When we see only our difficulty, it is as if  we have blinders on and don’t have the wider vision to take in what is being, or has been, or will be extended toward us. I need to be humble enough to ask and grateful enough to receive. So the morning wish goes on…”may I have patience, may I remember that I need others, and may I be grateful and open to receiving.”

But, despite those intentions, I can still slide down that slippery slope and find myself stuck in mud at the bottom. When that happens, I pull out the most reliable safety rope I know. A couple of summers ago, I heard the expression “what else is true?” Much like asking for help, this question helps me to see that there is more to the story. I might wake up on Monday morning and know that my work schedule is too light for the week and rather than enjoy the space, I do the flailing fish out of water thing or have one of the other unpleasant feelings. When I stop flopping along the riverbank or on the hard wooden planks of a dock, and remember to ask myself, “what else is true here,” I might slip back into the water and recall that I actually have a new client at the end of the week, or that I reached out about teaching a workshop and received a favorable response, or that I may not have paid work, but I did do all my bookkeeping and that is part of my business. I might remember that I actually had a good impact on someone last week and that I do meaningful work, that I am valuable despite what I currently feel. I might remember that I may not be reaping in the money, but that I was able to run in the morning and made it up all the hills while taking in the sounds of water flowing through the drains on the streets and the gutters on the houses and that birds were singing. I might recall that I couldn’t take my eyes off my child as she ate breakfast, her perfect, innocent face and delicate lips utterly precious to behold. Or I might remember what a friend reminds me…that I do have enough for today and that I have always been taken care of. What else is true is that my life is rich.

I can’t see the future and it is frightening at times, but for all I don’t know, there is an equal and some days an even greater part that trusts that I don’t need to. This is where faith comes in. For those of us who were brought up feeling the need to control our surroundings lest something bad should happen, faith is not an easy concept. Faith asks us to let go of the reigns and trust. Trust who or what, I can’t say -- that would be a very personal understanding, but I know it rings true in my whole being that having faith is an essential ingredient to finding peace with our very uncertain lives. The nice thing is that if I don’t know how to have faith, I can ask for help with that. “May I have help in finding faith.” That’s all I need to ask and then let it go. And so, the morning wish concludes: 

Today,
May I have patience
May I remember that I need others, just as they need me
May I see what I have and remember gratitude
May I be open to receiving
May I have faith, or at least,
May I have help finding faith.

One Morning's Struggle

I am not writing about happiness...absolutely not.

One day this past week, I arrived in the city to go to work. It was raining and I had to pick up the linens at the laundromat to bring them to my office. I stood on the corner with my umbrella open in one hand, a rolling cart with a tremendous bag of linens in the other, and three bags on my shoulder. I looked at the corner across from me where I was heading and saw I had two options, I could wade through a tremendous, deep puddle all around the corner, which would get my bag of linens wet or I could climb over a foot of  snow next to it hoping the rolling cart would cooperate. There was no good solution and I was short on time. I reluctantly crossed and chose the snow. I got up onto the mound of snow but then saw there were scaffolding bars blocking the way to the sidewalk. I now needed to squeeze between a garbage can and the narrow opening where there were no metal bars. There I was on hill of snow, with an umbrella, my bags falling off my shoulder, and my bag of linens starting to fall off the cart. I must have looked like a sorry sight. I finally put the umbrella down, cursing inside and looking harried. I was about to lift the entire cart up and over to flat ground when a guy standing under the scaffolding, watching me said, "do you need help?" He was standing there with a large Burnese Mountain Dog and an umbrella up. He didn't make a move. Clearly it would have been a project for him to help me, too. Everyone else was just walking by. I looked at him and laughed because I could finally see the absolute absurdity of what I was having to go through. His acknowledgment of my struggle was such a relief. It wasn't his help I needed, as much as someone to say, "wow, I see what you're going through." It changed my whole mood. I could then see the humor in it all. It was a good start to my day working with people who, in some ways, are also coming to have a witness to their struggles. His simple offer changed my day, for which I was grateful. I believe the other people walking by just didn't see me, as huge as I felt in that moment with all my stuff falling everywhere. I know that when I am "busy" or in a hurry or preoccupied, I, too, don't see.

The next time I am in an impossibly ridiculous situation like that one, I want to remember to look up, make eye contact, and laugh. The moment is going to end and if I don't take it so seriously, I can shake my head and find the humor in what we have to go through. I recognize that the tendency in a struggling moment is to narrow my vision, rather than open and share it where I might actually get relief. I can be suffering, however big or small, and not shut others out, but rather open to a universal experience of living that we all share. I also want to remember to show up for others in the same way as that young man with the beautiful dog did for me. It helps me to know that it doesn't take much to alter someone's day. A compassionate witness is all I need to be at times. As long as I am aware and remembering what is important, my eyes will be open and I, too, can show up that way. And so, the practice goes on...

If The Title Was "Happiness" Would You Read It?

I ask that question in the title because of how many page views my post "Sadness" received. I was thinking about how unlikely it would be that "Happiness" as a title would receive as many visits. Why? It is a rather popular subject in the mindfulness and positive psychology movements. This notion that the negative tends to stick to us more and the positive slides right off. We are, often unconsciously, drawn to what is difficult and have to consciously practice soaking in what is easy, good, joyful. This is how I experienced the very subject this week...

As is my usual routine, I went running on Monday. There are many inclines and declines on the paths and roads I choose. The extreme weather this winter has taken its toll, limiting my running opportunities and causing hills to feel more like "exercise" in the hard sense of the word. Running uphill Monday, I had to talk myself through it, agreeing with the voice that said it feels hard and then reminding myself that it is a temporary difficulty and to keep going. It will end, as all uphills do. And then, a greater realization came when I recognized that I was actually going downhill and how pleasant it was. I almost missed it! I wouldn't have missed the incline, but I certainly could have passed right over the decline. Isn't that the way it often is! We see the hardship, feel it, roll around in it, wear it for a while until we shake it off. But, how about happiness? What if we could feel it, roll around in it, wear it for a while (this is the important, often missed, part), and didn't shake it off? If there is one thing I have learned most significantly in the past two years, this might be it. It feels like such a revelation that I keep wanting to share it. Soon, I'll be knocking on doors with pamphlets! The power of recognizing what is good, well, joyful, easy, pleasant and staying with it is profound in its simplicity. It comes in recognizing what gifts I already have. There are always so many when I take the time to appreciate what is right before me. This is also known as gratitude. It can't be an imposed sense of gratitude, it is more like an awakening to awareness. It is humble.

After I wrote my last post where I acknowledged accepting my tiredness and the need to be taken care of without judging the feeling, I suddenly found myself realizing all the ways I have actually been taken care in the past few days. Someone close to me gave me the ability to watch television on my computer, a simple luxury in my cable-less apartment. I'll now be able to watch Downton Abbey on Sunday nights with the rest of you who do. I had the gift of an extra hour before my children arrived for the day so I could run on the first sunny, snow-less morning in a while. I was given a gift for Valentine's Day. My sister and brother-in-law had my kids and I over for dinner,  which was fun for my kids and a relief for me to have adult company. I could go on, but you get the point. This morning, I felt grateful for NJ Transit for getting to me to the city on time. None of that was guaranteed to me to happen. All of those are ways I have been taken care of. They are easy to miss. In the past I would have overlooked them and felt my life was constantly lacking and I would feel a deep longing. What a difference it is to take in the good, which is simple in its form and hidden in its obviousness.

On the days or in the moments when I feel a deep lack of something, as if something essential is missing, I take it in and honor the need and the longing with genuine care. Though I might not do it in the same moment, I also try to see what of that very thing I may already have in some form. This is not talking myself out of the feeling, but a gift I give myself, the gift of seeing. That is not to say that I don't reach for what I may still be longing for, but the longing and search doesn't wipe out what I already have. Buddhist teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh would say that happiness is available here in this very moment. I used to think this was an overly simplistic statement, but now, I have to agree. I believe it took some suffering to arrive there, but even at my lowest, I now know that the suffering part is is not all of me. There is still the part of me that smiles and laughs, of which I do plenty.

Happiness. It is a title worth reading about. We have to practice it though. In a society where ownership and the accumulation of things seems to be the goal and there is constant barrage of messages suggesting that we need something else, this other way of being in the world, of recognizing the happiness in what we already have, needs to be nurtured and encouraged. It is infectious, too. The more we notice happiness, the more of it we have. I often write about being able to stay with what is difficult and not running from it. In doing that, I have also learned to stay with what is joyful and not run passed it.

Did I Really Sign Up For This?

Over recent weeks, I've had this pervading, unwelcomed sentiment. It goes like this...I can't believe this adult thing we have to do in life. No, I don't mean anything x-rated. I mean this unrelenting responsibility that suddenly hits us around a certain age and never goes away again until, maybe, we are very old and become someone else's responsibility. Before I started to feel this about my life, I was feeling it about my clients' lives. I'd think, "wow, this person never gets to be "off duty, never gets to let go until he/she is in here for an hour." I'm speaking of the endless tasks of an adult life. Waking up, preparing meals, getting kids off to school, working, cleaning, bills, scheduling, laundry, buying groceries, washing dishes, cooking more, cleaning more, getting exercise and doing all the other self-care activities, walking the dog, planning, and did I say cooking more and cleaning more (and if you are in business for yourself, well add that responsibility to it). It goes on and on and doesn't stop. Lately, I've had this feeling like, hey, wait a minute, this is not fair. Did I really sign up for this? Having kids makes it even more apparent...wow, they get all that taken care of! No wonder I feel shocked. (Thank goodness, of course. I wouldn't want it an other way).

That is the monologue that one part of me has. Another part hears this and puts it to shame. Who do you think you are!!! It wants to know. Notice the lack of a question mark and three exclamation points. No, this part will tear the other to shreds making her embarrassed for having the sentiment at all, let alone saying it out loud. This side says, "suck it up; it could be a lot worse, and who said it would be any different!" And then, the big daggers come out and say, "where's all that mindfulness you talk about, anyway, you know the part about enjoying washing the dishes and cutting vegetables."

Well, all that chatter was on high volume today until I was actually on my way to lead meditation. Yes, little, unmindful me leading meditation! On the car ride there it hit me. A new voice that simply said, "Jean, you're tired, that's all. This is not about your lack of mindfulness, or your not being in the present moment." This voice was kind and warm. I heard it and said, "yes, that's right, I am tired." It is not a physical tiredness, it is just a temporary life tired and we can all have that at times. Nothing is bad or wrong and my life is really nice just as it is, I'm just a little tired of taking care of everything and could use a little more being taken care of. Suddenly, the rest dropped away. All the thoughts and judgments slipped away like those ghost creatures, the Dementors in Harry Potter that appear and want to suck the life out of you and then something good arrives causing them to slide away. This kind voice had that effect of making the other thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrived.

What came radiating through in all of this today? Many great teachers talk about it, but from a teacherly distance so it feels like they still have it "together," but when you're in it as they have been, it doesn't feel like we've got it together. No, it feels messy. A mindful life is not about not having difficult feelings. A mindful life is not about being good or wise all the time. A mindful life does not mean you enjoy everything. A mindful life is just what the word means: attentive, aware, careful (of). I was aware of strong aversive feelings. I was aware of the judgments that followed and then I stayed with them to hear the compassionate truth under it all. With all of that, I can then offer to anyone else who wants a rest from adult responsibility my understanding and compassion. It is hard. Beautiful and hard. I wouldn't want it any other way. That is a mindful life. So, the next time you feel taken over by a feeling you wish you didn't have and then it gets dumped on with judgments for having it and then you come through to some other understanding and there is even a touch of relief, you, too can rest in knowing that this is what a mindful life looks like and you are just fine. Beautifully fine.

Sensitive Superheros

For much of my life, I have been called the "baby" of the family. Though I am in fact the youngest of three, when it was said, it wasn't meant as a simple fact about my placement in the all too significant family order, but as a somewhat ridiculing statement that I am "too sensitive." Far along into my adulthood, I can now say that this label is accurate. I am too sensitive. Thank goodness. This post is for all of those people out there who may also fall into that rich, sometimes complicated, but truly valuable group of humans.

When I am in my "right mind," I am grateful for my sensitivity. There are so many gifts it brings. It's as if we have some "supernatural" powers. We can walk into a room and unconsciously assess the moods of the people there within a few minutes. I know when to say something and when to wait, or if I know the person well enough, to skip the small talk and ask what's really going on. We see, hear, and feel what many other people wouldn't notice at all. We pick up on the details of life in colors, sounds, movements and interactions. We observe how objects are placed and why or who needs something and who is checked out. And then, there are the other "special" gifts. A friend of mine gets weirded out by the fact that we could be talking on the speaker phone in the car and I recognize by his tone and the background sounds that he has arrived at his destination. He always seems surprised and wonders if I've put a hidden camera somewhere. Ever since I was little, being sensitive enabled me to find things in the house. It's as though my eyes unconsciously take in where everything is in the room. As long as I've seen something once, if you were to ask me, I could probably locate it for you. Sensitive people tend to have a great deal of compassion and can empathize because they see so much and they're paying attention. It's not a matter of effort, we're just wired that way. It can all be exhausting, too, but I've come to affectionately understand this "too sensitive" business and think the benefits are well worth the difficulties that come with it.

Okay, in all honesty, it doesn't always feel that way. Ultimately, it's a lot of work to have superhero like qualities. After all, superheros are in tights and can easily be the source of ridicule. Every now and then, I hear from myself the critical version of "you're too sensitive" (yes, I wish it were the tights that were being made fun of instead). It is full of judgment and anger. I say it to myself and then follow it with a diagnosis that something is really wrong with me. I turn it on myself by saying that I'll never have deeply intimate and lasting relationships. People will get tired of me. That I'll never move up or be successful because I am too effected by what or who is around me and how they are. This voice tells me I should "toughen up." It's not fun in these moments. Though, I do know that in every superhero movie I've seen, at some point, the hero falls hard. It has to happen.

When certain critical words surface in my mind, like the sensitive one, I now know the best thing is to say hello to them with kindness. To not treat them the way they want to treat me. Rather than an eye for an eye, I could welcome the voice and try to remember to ask what's really going on. As all my blog posts tend to say, it's usually some fear and if I tend to that fear I'll actually be taking care of myself and the weapons can be put down. The "too sensitive" part has no weight. It's all a facade of muscle. But, if remember to look closely, there's actually a zipper in the back and it's simply a costume that can come off. Without a doubt, when it is stripped down, the underlying source of the loud and powerful sounding voice behind the curtain is some hidden hurt. It could be the way someone responded to me or the lack of affection or attention from another. I might have misperceived the situation and the other person may have no idea how he/she came across. Either way, until it is clear, it hurts. Rather than be hurt and feel it, the voice of childhood booms its thundering call and out come the words, "you're too sensitive!" This is when, in my healthier states, I can respond. I can answer lovingly or, at the very least, go to someone I trust who can do that (usually another sensitive person). A hero must fall in order to know how to lift someone else up. Imagine a movie a where the hero never suffers. How boring would that be.

I know many people who are "too sensitive." Yes, they struggle at times and sometimes things take a little longer because they have to process more or, simply by their nature, they ask for others to be more aware, but, wow, they are they beautiful people. I am grateful to have them in my life. They notice details like the rare type of print in a book they pick up or the holly berries partially covered in snow on their walk. They remember the specifics of something you shared with them and remember to ask how you are about it at a later time. They tend to be creative and artistic and often have no idea that they are. They are often perceptive and thoughtful. So for all of you who have ever been told you are too sensitive, I bow to you. And, at times when it feels too much, know that to be gifted requires a certain kind of sacrifice, but that ultimately it is a sacrifice that makes for a very beautiful life.

Holy Smokes

It’s another week of writer’s block. I wrote something, but a voice in me wasn’t happy enough with it, so it is sitting as a “draft” in my blog folder like one of those misfit toys that won’t get sent out. I read it to my kids this morning. They both said they liked it, but I said how it wasn’t quite right and how I wanted to come up with something else in the day. Well, evening came and I was sitting with my computer on the couch, still with a blank page when my six year old son came over to me and asked if I sent out that blog post I read to them in the morning. I told him how I was stuck and he said, “well, what did you write about last time?” I replied, “sadness,” to which he paused and then said, “well, I know what you should write about…goodness.” I said, “do you mean happiness?” To which he replied, “yes, happiness.” I told him it was a nice idea and thanked him. I thought to myself, can I really write about happiness on a day where I mostly felt an unrelenting crabbiness? To my surprise, a feeling of absolute delight came with the question and, for the first time all day, I felt happy. In one simple moment and the unexpected help of my child, I was freed from the rabbit hole that the unforeseen snow day brought on. Talk about a lesson in happiness! I needed help. I needed the simple joy of a child who, despite my moodiness, was happy and could call forth the answer with an obvious clarity. I started writing and reading aloud as I wrote, as I sometimes do, and he heard me. After a few minutes, he said aloud, “holy smokes, I’m still so happy that you put me in your blog.” Oh my gosh! Happiness beamed forth again in both of us.

The day had gotten off with a bang at 5:30 in morning with a recorded phone call announcing that school was canceled. Before I was quite conscious, I had a flood of internal questions and then pings started sounding on my phone as I lied there in the dark. What do I do with my clients, will the babysitter still come tonight, how was this going to work. Yes, none of that was pleasant in my semi-conscious state, but none of that was the problem either. The real problem was fear of not making money, a feeling of lack of purpose if I wasn’t working, and then the dread of the absence of any quiet or alone time in the day. That last one I have come to learn is essential to my happiness, unless I am prepared ahead of time, that there won’t be any. I wasn’t prepared today for any of the above. And so, a crabbiness descended that even the most stunning walk in a winter wonderland of the woods with my kids and a thrilled dog could not pop a hole in. No, what turned it around? A simple question…what did you write about last time? Sadness? Well, of course, you write about happiness. It felt like a zen koan when he said it and it still does. There was that “aha” moment and suddenly I was lying on my back as if I was bounced out of some nightmare onto a green, grassy field, stunned and relieved and a bit perplexed. But, such are the nature of koans.

What did I re-learn today? Crabbiness comes and goes. Happiness can arrive in a split second if I pay enough attention. It’s okay to let my kids know I am crabby and that it has nothing to do with them, so they can go on being happy. It’s okay that I need alone time, that I am not a parent or partner that can turn into water at the turn of a faucet and just go with the flow and that I need space. Most of all, that I can be where I am, aware of it, not necessarily liking it, but knowing that it is not all of me and that it can change in a split second by the grace of someone who shows that what I care about matters. The fact that it came from a boy only six years into the world is enough of a reason to smile. And yes, I can write about happiness on a crabby day.

Sadness

There are times when sadness falls upon us, some present or past loss that comes down like the weight of heavy snow bearing down on tree branches. We must carry its weight until it melts or falls off. At times, it feels like we might just break. It could cause us to sleep, to stare at our work or art with a blankness, as if a vacuum has sucked the well dry. We wonder if it will be filled again. This is what sadness is. 

Today, I took a walk with sadness. I let her come along with me through the woods. I befriended her and didn't push her away. We got along. But then, as happens, we think we can move on and are shocked when we turn and she is still there. She came for a walk with me, but then I closed the door on her again and when I stared at my computer screen wanting to write and felt devoid of anything with which to share, I was reminded by a friend to say hello to her again. So I opened the door and she gave me this. 

Sadness is okay. In fact, it is actually beautiful. Imagine sitting across from someone in the depths of sadness and letting her be just that in your quiet, holding presence. There is a profound beauty in witnessing the welling up of tears in the eyes of someone. We need permission to hold grief for as long as is needed. Letting it literally fall from our eyes, watching it fall from others' eyes, we don't have to be scared by it. We don't have to be pushed to move past it or put on a mask to cover it. We can move at that slower pace that sadness wants of us. And, when the fear of our immobility arises, as if it might become a permanent guest, we can remember to be a friend to our sadness and invite her in. She is not some obnoxious guest banging at our door. She is the sweetest of puppies asking for our love. We can soften ourselves to the pain and in doing so, we inherently create space for something greater to come in. There is nothing to fear in welcoming sadness; it does not cancel out our happiness. Truly joyful people know sadness well.

And, We Try Again

For some reason, I have been blessed with a specific path in life that connects me to people, literally and figuratively. I know others who wouldn't see it as a blessing. There are people who say they couldn't imagine doing what I do. There is someone very dear to me who repeatedly says, "people suck," as part of her regular reaction to life, to which we generally laugh and then tend to the real difficulty underlying the sentiment. But, for me, I listen to, watch, and touch people and the gifts I receive from the experience are like flowers you might find hidden behind overgrown bushes. They awaken me. This week, what strikes me most in taking in people's stories, in witnessing others' lives, is our resilience. We fall down hard. So hard it seems like the imprint on the ground is too deep to ever be filled again, the hole in our still beating heart irreparable. I have the image of Wile Coyote falling off a cliff, his shape left carved in the ground as he once again gets up to resume the chase (though have you noticed that we don't see the getting up part in the cartoon...no, because that takes time). We, too, get up and, remarkably, we try again. Yes, typing that makes me think of Pink's recent song with the same words. She is right; it is worth singing about. 

I heard a devastating story this week from someone. The kind that is overrun with shock, grief, pain, anger, doubt, and loss. I know this person will get through. I left her sure of that, but then I wondered how we actually do it. What, in the end, inevitably brings us home again? Home to some safety in ourselves where we actually risk loving again. And, that is what it is. No matter what caused the fall, whether it was a work, relationship, health, financial, or spiritual crisis, learning to stand is really to risk loving again. We patch ourselves up gradually with each tiny inkling of love that we receive until we can fully love once more. It happens over and over again in this full life. The greatest challenge in the moment of crisis is to hear the voice that says, "this is it; I am done; I will not love in the form of opening myself, taking another chance, or showing myself again" and give it its due space. After that, if we can find enough inner distance to respond with, "I hear you; of course you say that, but tell me more, I want to know what the feeling really is." Even better, we can describe what the physical sensation is of the feeling and just stay with it. We can breathe in and out saying, "this is what (_ _ _) feels like; I don't need to do anything to it." When we don't give up on the painful place and react with a giant pushing away, we discover that we can still breathe, that it won't kill us after all. It is like having some really deep bodywork done. I know that if I resist the hand or forearm pressing deeply up the outside of my leg, it will be a lot more painful. If I surrender and give in, I am better off as it makes space for change to happen. In that space, love has room to grow again.

What I've also learned is that no matter how many times I find myself in some struggling place, each one feels like something I won't get through. It even happens running. I run up a steep hill or a long, gradual incline and I hear myself saying how hard it is, how I won't be able to run the whole way this time, and wonder why today it feels so rough. And then, suddenly I am going downhill and all of those feelings of difficulty are wiped away completely, as if it was another day. I coast along the decline feeling strong and healthy, just one breath away from the previous experience of "oh no, it's over." When it happened last week, I laughed and thought, "don't forget this!" We recover. Somehow, someway, we end up on the other side. And, it is okay that we forget.

After one very challenging loss, I remember expressing to someone I trusted that I didn't know what hope meant. I had no sense of how to find it, but I was on a mission and was giving myself 6 months to get to some useful understanding. I had looked into what teachers and writers said on the subject to no avail and then, the same trusted person quoted Brother David Steindl-Rast who spoke of hope as being an "openness for surprise." It was the only take on it that made sense to me. What I liked was that this was not wishful thinking that asks for something to be different. It is simply what it says, an openness to what may come. It is a very present moment way of being because we do not know what will come next. We could be surprised.  

I am going to fall again. I don't know when or why it will happen, but it will. When I do, I won't believe I'll stand again and no one will be able to tell me otherwise. What I will trust is that experience has taught me to just stay with the impossibility. In staying with the impossibility, there will be possibility. So for all the people I know and the huge numbers more I don't know, that are in that ditch where love seems like an absent ladder out, I send my strength in staying. The safety rope will eventually be lowered, but you don't need to be concerned about when or how. Just be. Love knows how to find you in your pain. And, we will "get up and try and try again." We might even find ourselves singing. How amazing is that!

Letting It Be Unclear

I awoke on a snowy morning with my kids' school canceled and my day's plans scattered. It felt as if I took the things I had and wanted to do in my hand and gracefully threw them up in the air unsure of how they were going to fall. I sat with my tea in my hand sure of only one thing, a phone appointment at 10:00. I called the super to find out if the scheduled shut down of water for the day was still happening and was relieved to find that it was postponed. Besides being alive, healthy, and safe and besides the beauty of the white everywhere outside my window, it was one of  the first gifts of the day. Now I was sure of two things, but the rest felt vague and I still felt a mild uneasiness. What time was I to get my children from their other parent's home? Was it okay that it waited until after my call? Is it okay with me that I wouldn't get my work done?  With that, there was another looming uneasiness. It was that pending phone call and a relationship that needed to be discussed. I held my warm cup of tea, still foggy from some vivid dreams, when it occurred to me that sometimes this place where matters in life, from the mundane to the more significant, lack clarity and feel unsettling is okay, too. That I don't need to fix it or know how it is going to turn out. That this place is no better than the days when the outline of events goes as planned or my relationships are in their satisfying place. I can breathe in and out and let it be. Someone wise once said to me about a situation, "let it be a mess; can you let it be a mess and not think you have to do anything." This day is not a mess, but the same wisdom can be applied. In fact, I can not only accept the unclarity, but, I can actually enjoy it, too, as another feeling amidst all the other ones that will come and go. And, they will come and go and come again. There is a comfort and safety in remembering that this place is just fine and beautiful as it is.

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.