It is Monday again and I didn't do my homework. I feel like an eleven year old girl who is formulating in her head how she will explain this to the teacher. I already have a list of really good reasons prepared.
The homework though is for my Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction class. You heard me right. The homework that I did not do is for stress reduction. I am a full -time, married working mom and I avoided practices that would aid me in reducing stress. How do I explain this?
Well, I could tell you that the link the teacher sent us to do the Body Scan practice would not open. I could tell you I don't have a computer at home right now to download the practice onto. Both are true. Both are part of my prepared speech for my teacher tonight when we reconvene and she asks: "did you do your homework?"
If I were to be more honest though, meaning, if I were to speak about the underlying truth of me versus the superficial truth about links and computers, I'd say I experienced a surprising aversion to the whole assignment of spending 30-45 minutes holding my awareness on all the different parts of my body while laying in stillness.
Before I started this class I already had been meditating on a regular basis for several years. I had also been doing yoga classes off and on for well over a decade and more recently doing a regular home practice too. In this MBSR class I will be deepening my meditation and yoga practices too. Great. No problem. Bring on the homework. But body awareness? Body awareness without movement to distract me with the athleticism of balancing in eagle pose. Mindfulness that is not focused on my over-active mind? This is hard for me.
My colleague lent me her copy of the book "Full Catastrophe Living" by Jon Kabat Zinn in preparation for this class. This book is kind of an adjunct if you will to the class itself and the MBSR research being done at UMASS by Dr. Kabat Zinn. In this book he writes about "being in your body" by practicing the body scan meditation. He says, "it is amazing to me that we can be simultaneously completely preoccupied with the appearance of our own body and at the same time completely out of touch with it as well." Yeah, that would be me all right.
Look at me even right now! I am reading & writing about the body scan rather than actually doing the body scan. I have successfully implemented my favorite defense mechanism of all: intellectualizing. This defense mechanism is an 'ol go-to behavior to avoid my vulnerabilities...Have you ever heard of people who are detached from their bodies be described as "neck up" people? That is me they are talking about.
But what am I so afraid of in vulnerability? What is it I fear? What would happen if I were to lay in stillness and just notice my body?Not try to change it. Improve it. Label it. Criticize it. Love it. Just let my body be. Exactly as it is.
According to Dr. Kabat Zinn "by the time we have completed the body scan, it can feel as if the entire body has dropped away or has become transparent, as if its substance were in some way erased. It can feel as if there is nothing but breath flowing freely across all the boundaries of the body...in an awareness that may have by this point gone beyond body altogether."
To me, this describes surrender. Letting go. Not using my mind and intellect to sustain the illusion of keeping me safe by constantly surveying and responding to my surroundings. And that is scary to me. To not be in complete control. To not allow my Self or Ego, that took me a long time to shape and come to terms with, be the Alpha. To take my hands off the wheel and begin to trust again. Ah yes, this is vulnerability, and this is scary.
The body scan meditation forces me to lead with a part of myself I am less familiar with, my body. A part of me that I am less confident in and therefore less willing to allow a space of faith to guide me.
Today I ask myself: what would it mean to surrender to a place of vulnerability? Where in your life can you allow the less confident parts of yourself steer the ship?
Monday, September 29, 2014
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Modeling Worthiness
When I was a girl my mother read Emily Dickinson poems to me. She told me the poems could all be sung to the rhythm of the song "The Yellow Rose of Texas."
I have absolutely no idea if that is true or not; my mother has always been a bit reminiscent of Albert Finney in the movie "Big Fish." But despite this uncertainty about the song part, more importantly, several of Ms. Dickinson's poems stayed with me after all these years. One, goes like this:
"I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish --you know!"
I looked up this poem again recently and was surprised to see this second stanza that I had forgotten:
"How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!"
I wonder what Ms. Dickinson was thinking when she wrote this? For me, on this day, it turns my mind toward my own journey with unworthiness, or what Buddhist teacher and psychologist Tara Brach calls, "the trance of unworthiness."
When I think back to my girlhood, and I say girlhood not childhood because I think this feeling of unworthiness is epidemic for girls and women in particular, I can remember concrete examples of worthiness. Very literal ways I now think of as evidence that once upon a time, as all fairy tales begin, I felt worthy. Like the fact that in elementary school I had 2 t-shirts that I loved to wear, a Harvard t-shirt and a Yale t-shirt. I had picked up somewhere along the way that those 2 colleges were the best, and so I just expected I'd of course go to one of them, so I wore the T-shirts. Never mind that I knew no one who had gotten a degree from either school and there was no one in my life encouraging me to dream to go there. And honestly, I wouldn't even call it a dream. It was more like, "I'm just going there because that's where I'm going."
Suffice it to say, I went to neither. And now, some 30 years later, I marvel at that little girl's tenacity and confidence. Where did it come from? Where did it go? How do I fully get it back again? Does it have to do with remembering that I come from god and therefore must return to god just as god made me? Just as I am?
What if we girls were to go through life acting from the place of "I'm great. I hope you know you are great too." Imagine the possibilities. But we don't, many of us. Something happens and we forget what we know. We forget we are worthy.
Just today I read this passage in another memoir by Joan Anderson, "A Year By the Sea:" She writes: "Hell, I thought I was invincible for a long time, and then suddenly I stopped taking any risks. Inexplicably, there was a gradual erosion of faith in the essence of myself, as the habit of deference grew like a cancer on my soul until what I had become was out of my hands." When did that erosion begin for me? When did it begin for you?
Brene Brown, who just a couple years ago was novel in her research and TED talks on vulnerability and shame, both highly associated with unworthiness, but is now almost trite after being taken up (over) by Ms. Oprah Winfrey. But regardless, her writing about what she calls "daring greatly" to combat feelings of unworthiness and the "who do you think you are" thought, is still ground-breaking to me. Ms. Brown challenges us to consider the thoughts that hold us back from stepping out and taking a risk.
Like the thoughts that showed up for me even when I considered writing this blog. I thought, "who are you to write this blog? You are nobody-" as Ms. Dickinson poetically reminds us.
But maybe I'll decide to be an proud "nobody." One who thinks she's no better than another, but at the same time just as worthy and valuable as all others.
To be fair to Ms. Dickinson though, I'm terrible at interpreting poetry. I truly have no idea if she meant this poem to be interpreted from the dialectical place of "I'm magnificent and yet simultaneously minuscule in the cosmos." Regardless, that is how I'm choosing to read the poem today. A long way, I'll tell you, from where I was not all that long ago, and yet still so far from that audacious little girl who wore Harvard and Yale T-shirts.
Sometimes when I am praying to god I ask, or beg, that she look over my daughter to not walk in my footsteps. Not in all things. Just in the areas that I get stuck in the quicksand, like unworthiness. I ask god to please let my daughter know every day of her life that she is a worthy human being who is loved unconditionally. I ask that god help her to take strategic risks because I pray my daughter, unlike me I hope, will not tie the outcome of her effort to her own self worth.
I'll end tonight on this note: Brene Brown wrote something called "The Whole Hearted Parenting Manifesto." It is like a pledge for parents who want to raise children to know they are imperfectly perfect just as they are. It starts with: "Above all, I want you to know that you are loved and lovable. You will learn this from my words and actions- the lessons on love are in how I treat you and how I treat myself." Beautiful.
Let's try this, ok? Starting today we are all worthy, and we will model self worth and self love for our children, and particularly our daughters. Then we will know and not forget, as I did somewhere along the way, that each of us is valuable and valued. Whether you believe in god or not, I believe we are all created in unique perfection, and that alone is truly miraculous.
Let's try not to forget this time.
I have absolutely no idea if that is true or not; my mother has always been a bit reminiscent of Albert Finney in the movie "Big Fish." But despite this uncertainty about the song part, more importantly, several of Ms. Dickinson's poems stayed with me after all these years. One, goes like this:
"I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us--don't tell!
They'd banish --you know!"
I looked up this poem again recently and was surprised to see this second stanza that I had forgotten:
"How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!"
I wonder what Ms. Dickinson was thinking when she wrote this? For me, on this day, it turns my mind toward my own journey with unworthiness, or what Buddhist teacher and psychologist Tara Brach calls, "the trance of unworthiness."
When I think back to my girlhood, and I say girlhood not childhood because I think this feeling of unworthiness is epidemic for girls and women in particular, I can remember concrete examples of worthiness. Very literal ways I now think of as evidence that once upon a time, as all fairy tales begin, I felt worthy. Like the fact that in elementary school I had 2 t-shirts that I loved to wear, a Harvard t-shirt and a Yale t-shirt. I had picked up somewhere along the way that those 2 colleges were the best, and so I just expected I'd of course go to one of them, so I wore the T-shirts. Never mind that I knew no one who had gotten a degree from either school and there was no one in my life encouraging me to dream to go there. And honestly, I wouldn't even call it a dream. It was more like, "I'm just going there because that's where I'm going."
Suffice it to say, I went to neither. And now, some 30 years later, I marvel at that little girl's tenacity and confidence. Where did it come from? Where did it go? How do I fully get it back again? Does it have to do with remembering that I come from god and therefore must return to god just as god made me? Just as I am?
What if we girls were to go through life acting from the place of "I'm great. I hope you know you are great too." Imagine the possibilities. But we don't, many of us. Something happens and we forget what we know. We forget we are worthy.
Just today I read this passage in another memoir by Joan Anderson, "A Year By the Sea:" She writes: "Hell, I thought I was invincible for a long time, and then suddenly I stopped taking any risks. Inexplicably, there was a gradual erosion of faith in the essence of myself, as the habit of deference grew like a cancer on my soul until what I had become was out of my hands." When did that erosion begin for me? When did it begin for you?
Brene Brown, who just a couple years ago was novel in her research and TED talks on vulnerability and shame, both highly associated with unworthiness, but is now almost trite after being taken up (over) by Ms. Oprah Winfrey. But regardless, her writing about what she calls "daring greatly" to combat feelings of unworthiness and the "who do you think you are" thought, is still ground-breaking to me. Ms. Brown challenges us to consider the thoughts that hold us back from stepping out and taking a risk.
Like the thoughts that showed up for me even when I considered writing this blog. I thought, "who are you to write this blog? You are nobody-" as Ms. Dickinson poetically reminds us.
But maybe I'll decide to be an proud "nobody." One who thinks she's no better than another, but at the same time just as worthy and valuable as all others.
To be fair to Ms. Dickinson though, I'm terrible at interpreting poetry. I truly have no idea if she meant this poem to be interpreted from the dialectical place of "I'm magnificent and yet simultaneously minuscule in the cosmos." Regardless, that is how I'm choosing to read the poem today. A long way, I'll tell you, from where I was not all that long ago, and yet still so far from that audacious little girl who wore Harvard and Yale T-shirts.
Sometimes when I am praying to god I ask, or beg, that she look over my daughter to not walk in my footsteps. Not in all things. Just in the areas that I get stuck in the quicksand, like unworthiness. I ask god to please let my daughter know every day of her life that she is a worthy human being who is loved unconditionally. I ask that god help her to take strategic risks because I pray my daughter, unlike me I hope, will not tie the outcome of her effort to her own self worth.
I'll end tonight on this note: Brene Brown wrote something called "The Whole Hearted Parenting Manifesto." It is like a pledge for parents who want to raise children to know they are imperfectly perfect just as they are. It starts with: "Above all, I want you to know that you are loved and lovable. You will learn this from my words and actions- the lessons on love are in how I treat you and how I treat myself." Beautiful.
Let's try this, ok? Starting today we are all worthy, and we will model self worth and self love for our children, and particularly our daughters. Then we will know and not forget, as I did somewhere along the way, that each of us is valuable and valued. Whether you believe in god or not, I believe we are all created in unique perfection, and that alone is truly miraculous.
Let's try not to forget this time.
Friday, September 26, 2014
Practicing Not Knowing
Yesterday I met a man who told me he came "this close" to attempting suicide because he felt unsure about whether or not to pursue a divorce. This individual was caught in the in-between-ness of not knowing, and it felt intolerable.
Buddhist author Pema Chodron warns us that "as a species, we should never underestimate our low tolerance for discomfort." And what creates more discomfort in human beings than not knowing? Not knowing the direction to take. Go left? Go right? Stay straight. Turn around. Why did that happen? Why did she say that? What did he mean by that? How did I get here? We hate not knowing all the answers to our questions and what's more, we hate waiting for the answers.
Dr. Seuss called this spot "the waiting place" in his book "Oh the Places You'll Go." When we are neither here nor there Dr. Seuss assures us "the waiting place" is not only inevitable but will actually be often in life, something you can actually count on happening episodically throughout the life span. And during those times when there seems to be no forward movement, we can choose to handle it in one of three ways.
A., We can bang our head against the wall searching tirelessly for our answer and/or for this waiting period to end though the whole pursuit proves fruitless.
B., We can just make some arbitrary, and sometimes impulsive, decision just to move us out of the land of limbo and into something else. Of course this choice is a crap shoot at best and often filled with regret because we made a choice based in fear and discomfort rather than wisdom and equanimity.
C. Though this is the most difficult, and often in the moment the least desirable, here we learn to tolerate the discomfort of not knowing. In this choice we come face to face with the at times excruciating quality of the wait. Here we accept the mystery and the reality that an answer may never come.
This last one, choice C, is extremely hard one for me, and clearly for the man I met yesterday too. I am someone who becomes restless easily when the scenery does not change often enough. Sometimes I get this itch I can't scratch if I literally am stuck in geographical stay-put-ed-ness. There are also times of uncertainty and unknowing in my various life spheres like job non-security in a very precarious time for healthcare, or what the future holds for the health of my aging parent. Sometimes it is hard for me to tolerate even the amount of time it takes for a call back from my daughter's pediatrician. I get this helpless, powerless feeling that makes me just want to take action, any action, rather than practice acceptance and wait.
But I'll tell you, when I'm really struggling, I can take it global. I can take my bewilderment and worry about the unanswerable questions to world wide problems like the war in Iraq and Syria and climate change. Wondering how will this all go? What are the solutions? How will we get there? And in the meantime, how do I tolerate this period of limbo in which we are neither here nor there because that is where the suffering comes in, right? The suffering that Buddhism tells us is the automatic tendency of human beings. The suffering I experience when forced to bear the experience and pain of indefinite stillness and sameness without explanation. When our "why" just hangs out there in the wind.
But whilst Ms. Chodron (can you refer to a nun as Ms.?) is kind of warning us humans about what we are up against in terms of our aversion to unknowing. In comes poet Rainer Maria Rilke who offers us, me anyway, some comfort instead of a warning. Rilke too seems aware of the human difficulty to tolerate the unknown waiting spaces in our lives and minds and hearts, but he says it is not only possible to get through, but there can be sacred value in the process. Rilke says:
"Be patient toward all that is unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live then. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answers."
Although I must say here to be fair to Pema Chodron, she does offer a suggestion for practicing, and getting better at, tolerating the discomfort: meditation of course!
But here on this day, I think I'm going to just try to internalize Rilke's words and leave it there. It could be because I've been up the last few night with my newborn whose got a bad cold. Could be just the pure exhaustion which I believe can be the physical state that sometimes allows us to surrender to what is already there. To what we already know is true. We stop resisting reality.
And, ok, I'll keep meditating too!
Here's to practicing not knowing. Good luck to us all!
Buddhist author Pema Chodron warns us that "as a species, we should never underestimate our low tolerance for discomfort." And what creates more discomfort in human beings than not knowing? Not knowing the direction to take. Go left? Go right? Stay straight. Turn around. Why did that happen? Why did she say that? What did he mean by that? How did I get here? We hate not knowing all the answers to our questions and what's more, we hate waiting for the answers.
Dr. Seuss called this spot "the waiting place" in his book "Oh the Places You'll Go." When we are neither here nor there Dr. Seuss assures us "the waiting place" is not only inevitable but will actually be often in life, something you can actually count on happening episodically throughout the life span. And during those times when there seems to be no forward movement, we can choose to handle it in one of three ways.
A., We can bang our head against the wall searching tirelessly for our answer and/or for this waiting period to end though the whole pursuit proves fruitless.
B., We can just make some arbitrary, and sometimes impulsive, decision just to move us out of the land of limbo and into something else. Of course this choice is a crap shoot at best and often filled with regret because we made a choice based in fear and discomfort rather than wisdom and equanimity.
C. Though this is the most difficult, and often in the moment the least desirable, here we learn to tolerate the discomfort of not knowing. In this choice we come face to face with the at times excruciating quality of the wait. Here we accept the mystery and the reality that an answer may never come.
This last one, choice C, is extremely hard one for me, and clearly for the man I met yesterday too. I am someone who becomes restless easily when the scenery does not change often enough. Sometimes I get this itch I can't scratch if I literally am stuck in geographical stay-put-ed-ness. There are also times of uncertainty and unknowing in my various life spheres like job non-security in a very precarious time for healthcare, or what the future holds for the health of my aging parent. Sometimes it is hard for me to tolerate even the amount of time it takes for a call back from my daughter's pediatrician. I get this helpless, powerless feeling that makes me just want to take action, any action, rather than practice acceptance and wait.
But I'll tell you, when I'm really struggling, I can take it global. I can take my bewilderment and worry about the unanswerable questions to world wide problems like the war in Iraq and Syria and climate change. Wondering how will this all go? What are the solutions? How will we get there? And in the meantime, how do I tolerate this period of limbo in which we are neither here nor there because that is where the suffering comes in, right? The suffering that Buddhism tells us is the automatic tendency of human beings. The suffering I experience when forced to bear the experience and pain of indefinite stillness and sameness without explanation. When our "why" just hangs out there in the wind.
But whilst Ms. Chodron (can you refer to a nun as Ms.?) is kind of warning us humans about what we are up against in terms of our aversion to unknowing. In comes poet Rainer Maria Rilke who offers us, me anyway, some comfort instead of a warning. Rilke too seems aware of the human difficulty to tolerate the unknown waiting spaces in our lives and minds and hearts, but he says it is not only possible to get through, but there can be sacred value in the process. Rilke says:
"Be patient toward all that is unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live then. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answers."
Although I must say here to be fair to Pema Chodron, she does offer a suggestion for practicing, and getting better at, tolerating the discomfort: meditation of course!
But here on this day, I think I'm going to just try to internalize Rilke's words and leave it there. It could be because I've been up the last few night with my newborn whose got a bad cold. Could be just the pure exhaustion which I believe can be the physical state that sometimes allows us to surrender to what is already there. To what we already know is true. We stop resisting reality.
And, ok, I'll keep meditating too!
Here's to practicing not knowing. Good luck to us all!
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Sacred Space
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This is the spot I sat just outside my new MBSR class. It felt like a sacred space.
As I'm sure you can see why, it was hard to leave.
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Approaching New Beginnings
Today I continue to emerge from the east, the place of beginnings. At the beginning of the month I wrote a blog about a ritual at many Unitarian Universalist churches where you return in the Fall for another season of church and share with the minister and congregation from which direction you are re-entering the sanctuary, north, east, south or west. I had said I was firmly planted in the east because my life has been bursting open with new beginnings.
Well, I had another new beginning last night, I attended my first Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) class, and in this first class we were told by the teacher the main teaching point for the evening was "there is more right with you than wrong with you." Isn’t that a fantastic principle to abide by when you are starting something new? If we could all start from that perspective or attitude, wouldn’t our whole day just have a totally different feel to it? The cynicism. The pessimism. The fatalism. All the isms would be knocked out of the water, or at least put to the side for a little while.
The MBSR’s teacher was a necessary reminder for me that the attitude I bring to life absolutely affects how I experience life, especially in the beginning of something new. If I were to internalize my MBSR teacher's words that “there is more right with me than wrong,” and for all other human beings as well for that matter, perhaps it could decrease the level of criticism and fear I can bring to life for both myself and others. I might talk to myself with more kindness when I make a mistake at work or with my kids. Or I might let go of my little irritations with my husband when he does trivial things like leave his clothes all over the floor. Or I might allow myself acknowledge the place of fear that comes up when the hospital administrator talks to our department about cutbacks and furloughs, and say, “it is out of my control.”I was reflecting on this very same thing this weekend as I re-listened to an “On-Being” NPR radio interview with Congressman and Civil Rights leader John Lewis. This was actually the third time I've listened to this particular interview because I just found it so inspiring. Mr. Lewis' attitude toward the hardship he has faced in life, which includes being beaten to the point of concussion during the marches in the Deep South in the 1960's, is truly phenomenal. He said in the interview: "hate is too big a burden to bear...[and when] you suffer, you can come out better, liberated." When I listened to those words I thought: “Wow. I know I am not that evolved, yet…”He also put into words this level of faith that I honestly don't think I ever quite believed as fully as when he said it. He just kept repeating in the interview, "everything is going to be okay," and as I listened I found myself softening inside and outside and quietly saying aloud, "okay, I believe you." How different would it be to approach something new and unfamiliar from a place of “everything is going to be okay?”But for me the challenge is how do I hold on to these calming and hopeful messages for more than 24 hours? Or sometimes, 24 minutes? How do I keep them with me?I think we need reminders. Sticky notes with quotes and poems. Songs on the CD player or playlist. Friends who just say inspiring and meaningful things in the midst of casual conversations. Daily morning readings by wise men and women whose words set the tone for the day. We need these frequent reminders because it is just too easy to forget sometimes with the push and pull of the day that in the end, “there is more right with you than wrong with you,” and the world too for that matter.May you hold onto this message too as you initiate your own new beginnings.I have also included today a poem by John O’Donohue that the MBSR teacher read to us at the closing of the class last night. It is also about, as you guessed it, beginnings. Enjoy!For a New BeginningIn out of the way places of the heart
Where your thoughts never think to wander
This beginning has been quietly forming
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.For a long time it has watched your desire
Feeling the emptiness grow inside you
Noticing how you willed yourself on
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the grey promises that sameness whispered
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent
Wondered would you always live like this.Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream
A path of plenitude opening before you.Though your destination is not clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is one with your life’s desire.Awaken your spirit to adventure
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Religious and Spiritual
I haven't posted a blog since Friday, but during that time I have had so many thoughts and feelings about god and motherhood to share because yesterday was my daughter's baptism at our Unitarian Universalist Church.
Now, I use the word "baptism" because that is a word that people are familiar with, and so for the purposes of communication, I use it. But at my Unitarian Universalist church where we had the ceremony, it was called a "child dedication." In other traditions I've also heard it called a "naming ceremony" or a "christening." I myself have always liked the idea of a "welcome to the world" ceremony, just like the children's book by the same title.
I like the idea of having a ceremonial ritual, followed by a party with cake!, to mark the occasion of welcoming this perfect new baby soul to the earth. And with that welcome, asking the parents and godparents and friends and family and congregation to all pledge their allegiance to the care and growth of this baby. I was reminded of this when Reverend Jan asked all of us yesterday if we will support the health and well-bring of my daughter and we were all asked to reply on unison, "we will." Kind of like when I was swearing in as a Peace Corps Volunteer after 3 months of training: "I, Claire, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, domestic or foreign, that I take this obligation freely. And without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion. And that I will well and faithfully discharge my duties in the Peace Corps, so help me God."
Honestly, I think we should be asked to take a similar oath before we even walk out the door of the hospital just after the birth. You know at that moment that all parents have when you are told by the hospital staff that you are cleared to go home, and panic sets in, and you think to yourself, even when it is your second time, "really, you are trusting ME to walk out of here with this tiny little 5 pound baby and take care of her all by myself? Are you nuts?!"
But, what about those words at the end of my Peace Corps oath: "so help me god." Help. A four letter word that writer Anne Lamott tells us is a prayer all by itself. And I do voluntarily recognize that I need help raising my children. I truly do need a village. But not just any village, a safe and compassionate and loving village. And wouldn't that kind of village truly be the presence of god and heaven on earth? That is "god's help" trying to present itself in our lives if we are observant enough to notice.
Unitarian Universalist Chaplin and writer Kate Braestrup talks about these helpers as well. She says in order for us to remember that god is walking beside us in this life, in good times and in bad, all we need to do is to "look for the helpers." In celebrations and in tragedies and everything in between there are people, or sometimes a single person, who shows up, to help you move through the occasion. I'll tell you, yesterday, at the baptism, I Iooked down from the pulpit where we stood with Reverand Jan and my daughter's 3 (yes I said 3!) godparents and my husband, and I saw pews filled with helpers. I saw pews filled with divine humanity.
Now, I'll tell you, in case you were wondering, I am not a Christian. And as I've said previously, I just don't have that religious baggage that many others do- though I appreciate the religious wounds that many still carry as a result. So, words like "baptism" and religious occasions that happen in churches with things like holy water and white dresses by themselves don't carry a lot of attachment or meaning for me that is troubling or conflictual really in any way. However, what I do find deeply meaningful is ritual that is spiritually based and held within a community. A special occasion where men and women, young and old, boys and girls of all ages come together to hold space to commemorate a sacred moment. Which on this past Sunday, was the marking and welcoming of my daughter into this world and taking our oath as a human family to safely care for her. Honestly, in the best scenario isn't that what a religion would be for? An intentional community that works together towards its values and ideals. Can't more be accomplished together as a group than a single person ever could on his or her own? Even a prophetic individual.
For me, yesterday had many areas of significance, which I may continue to reflect on in the coming weeks. But for today, I'm noticing more space in my heart and mind for the possibility that we as a people could be not just spiritual, but religious as well. Because if we were, imagine the tremendous possibilities for humanity as a whole on this earth we call home.
Now, I use the word "baptism" because that is a word that people are familiar with, and so for the purposes of communication, I use it. But at my Unitarian Universalist church where we had the ceremony, it was called a "child dedication." In other traditions I've also heard it called a "naming ceremony" or a "christening." I myself have always liked the idea of a "welcome to the world" ceremony, just like the children's book by the same title.
I like the idea of having a ceremonial ritual, followed by a party with cake!, to mark the occasion of welcoming this perfect new baby soul to the earth. And with that welcome, asking the parents and godparents and friends and family and congregation to all pledge their allegiance to the care and growth of this baby. I was reminded of this when Reverend Jan asked all of us yesterday if we will support the health and well-bring of my daughter and we were all asked to reply on unison, "we will." Kind of like when I was swearing in as a Peace Corps Volunteer after 3 months of training: "I, Claire, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America against all enemies, domestic or foreign, that I take this obligation freely. And without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion. And that I will well and faithfully discharge my duties in the Peace Corps, so help me God."
Honestly, I think we should be asked to take a similar oath before we even walk out the door of the hospital just after the birth. You know at that moment that all parents have when you are told by the hospital staff that you are cleared to go home, and panic sets in, and you think to yourself, even when it is your second time, "really, you are trusting ME to walk out of here with this tiny little 5 pound baby and take care of her all by myself? Are you nuts?!"
But, what about those words at the end of my Peace Corps oath: "so help me god." Help. A four letter word that writer Anne Lamott tells us is a prayer all by itself. And I do voluntarily recognize that I need help raising my children. I truly do need a village. But not just any village, a safe and compassionate and loving village. And wouldn't that kind of village truly be the presence of god and heaven on earth? That is "god's help" trying to present itself in our lives if we are observant enough to notice.
Unitarian Universalist Chaplin and writer Kate Braestrup talks about these helpers as well. She says in order for us to remember that god is walking beside us in this life, in good times and in bad, all we need to do is to "look for the helpers." In celebrations and in tragedies and everything in between there are people, or sometimes a single person, who shows up, to help you move through the occasion. I'll tell you, yesterday, at the baptism, I Iooked down from the pulpit where we stood with Reverand Jan and my daughter's 3 (yes I said 3!) godparents and my husband, and I saw pews filled with helpers. I saw pews filled with divine humanity.
Now, I'll tell you, in case you were wondering, I am not a Christian. And as I've said previously, I just don't have that religious baggage that many others do- though I appreciate the religious wounds that many still carry as a result. So, words like "baptism" and religious occasions that happen in churches with things like holy water and white dresses by themselves don't carry a lot of attachment or meaning for me that is troubling or conflictual really in any way. However, what I do find deeply meaningful is ritual that is spiritually based and held within a community. A special occasion where men and women, young and old, boys and girls of all ages come together to hold space to commemorate a sacred moment. Which on this past Sunday, was the marking and welcoming of my daughter into this world and taking our oath as a human family to safely care for her. Honestly, in the best scenario isn't that what a religion would be for? An intentional community that works together towards its values and ideals. Can't more be accomplished together as a group than a single person ever could on his or her own? Even a prophetic individual.
For me, yesterday had many areas of significance, which I may continue to reflect on in the coming weeks. But for today, I'm noticing more space in my heart and mind for the possibility that we as a people could be not just spiritual, but religious as well. Because if we were, imagine the tremendous possibilities for humanity as a whole on this earth we call home.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Personal Legend
A very dear childhood friend of mine recently told me to watch the Brazilian author Paulo Cuehlo's interviews with Oprah Winfrey on Super Soul Sunday. Now here, I must confess, I have not yet read "The Alchemist," Mr. Cuehlo's very famous book that has sold millions of copies the world over. But I swear to you, as I did my very good friend, I will. It is now on my list, and will probably be the subject of another blog down the line.
But I did watch the interviews as recommended, part one and part two. And what's funny is, just a week or two before I had also heard a radio interview with Mr. Cuehlo on NPR's show "On Being" (another favorite of mine!) with Krista Tippett. In that interview he talked a lot about his book which preceded "the Alchemist," "The Pilgrimage;" a book about his 500 mile pilgrim walk from France to northern Spain.
In the interviews with Oprah though, he spoke a lot about his hypothesis or belief if you will, that each individual human being has a personal legend (his words) to be pursued in this one lifetime because we just don't know what, if anything, comes next after death. He said in the interview, our only obligation in life is to discover, honor & and full-fill our own personal legend.
But, he says, this process will not be without adversity. In fact, if we borrow from the great modern writers and thinkers about myth like Joseph Campbell (who they referred to in the interview as well), Thomas Moore, Marian Woodman, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, we know any worthy myth or legend will have its heroine or hero face all kinds of obstacles analogous to dragons and Cyclopes and mazes and dark nights of the soul.
It seems Mr. Cuehlo was no exception to the adversity either with his parents actually institutionalizing him 3 times as a response to their son's announcement that he planned to be a writer rather than a lawyer or some other reasonable vocation. But Mr. Cuehlo persisted. With courage I might add, which he says is a critical ingredient. In pursuit of the dreams he had for himself he persevered and did not get stuck in the expectations and demands of others.
When I think about applying some of this wisdom to living an art-full life it prompts a pause for me to reflect on the messages I received about pursuing dreams because there were some similarities and some differences to Mr. Cuehlo's experiences.
As a young girl growing up in the late 70's and early 80's by liberal democratic parents of the feminist persuasion, dreaming big was not just encouraged, it was expected. To the point that my decision to join the cheerleading squad in high school rather than fight for my Title 9 rights to have a girls' soccer team was considered quite the disappointment. But also, like Mr. Cuehlo, there was a legacy from both sides of my family of constricting the range of choices available. You were told: you will do this. For example, my grandmother did tell my mother she would be going to a small out of state conservative college. My grandfather did tell my father he would be joining the service right out of high school not majoring in art at college.
On the other hand, there is also a legacy in my family history of rebellion. Rebellion in the pursuit of a personal dream. In my mother's sophomore year at college she informed her mother that she had already transferred herself to the college she really wanted to go to. And in my father's retirement he spends his days painting and creating for a co-op art gallery. And Mr. Cuehlo? He told his parents he would be a writer, and after trying law school, he left and became an author of 31 books!
So I ask myself: what is my dream? Am I engaged in my own personal legend? What internalized messages hold me back from rebelling in pursuit of a dream?
And what I also want to know is: what is your personal legend? And what holds you back from going for it?
But I did watch the interviews as recommended, part one and part two. And what's funny is, just a week or two before I had also heard a radio interview with Mr. Cuehlo on NPR's show "On Being" (another favorite of mine!) with Krista Tippett. In that interview he talked a lot about his book which preceded "the Alchemist," "The Pilgrimage;" a book about his 500 mile pilgrim walk from France to northern Spain.
In the interviews with Oprah though, he spoke a lot about his hypothesis or belief if you will, that each individual human being has a personal legend (his words) to be pursued in this one lifetime because we just don't know what, if anything, comes next after death. He said in the interview, our only obligation in life is to discover, honor & and full-fill our own personal legend.
But, he says, this process will not be without adversity. In fact, if we borrow from the great modern writers and thinkers about myth like Joseph Campbell (who they referred to in the interview as well), Thomas Moore, Marian Woodman, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, we know any worthy myth or legend will have its heroine or hero face all kinds of obstacles analogous to dragons and Cyclopes and mazes and dark nights of the soul.
It seems Mr. Cuehlo was no exception to the adversity either with his parents actually institutionalizing him 3 times as a response to their son's announcement that he planned to be a writer rather than a lawyer or some other reasonable vocation. But Mr. Cuehlo persisted. With courage I might add, which he says is a critical ingredient. In pursuit of the dreams he had for himself he persevered and did not get stuck in the expectations and demands of others.
When I think about applying some of this wisdom to living an art-full life it prompts a pause for me to reflect on the messages I received about pursuing dreams because there were some similarities and some differences to Mr. Cuehlo's experiences.
As a young girl growing up in the late 70's and early 80's by liberal democratic parents of the feminist persuasion, dreaming big was not just encouraged, it was expected. To the point that my decision to join the cheerleading squad in high school rather than fight for my Title 9 rights to have a girls' soccer team was considered quite the disappointment. But also, like Mr. Cuehlo, there was a legacy from both sides of my family of constricting the range of choices available. You were told: you will do this. For example, my grandmother did tell my mother she would be going to a small out of state conservative college. My grandfather did tell my father he would be joining the service right out of high school not majoring in art at college.
On the other hand, there is also a legacy in my family history of rebellion. Rebellion in the pursuit of a personal dream. In my mother's sophomore year at college she informed her mother that she had already transferred herself to the college she really wanted to go to. And in my father's retirement he spends his days painting and creating for a co-op art gallery. And Mr. Cuehlo? He told his parents he would be a writer, and after trying law school, he left and became an author of 31 books!
So I ask myself: what is my dream? Am I engaged in my own personal legend? What internalized messages hold me back from rebelling in pursuit of a dream?
And what I also want to know is: what is your personal legend? And what holds you back from going for it?
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
"In this, there is that"
There is a slogan in ALANON that says to "Take what you need and leave the rest." This particular slogan, of the many, has been very helpful to me long past my days of going to twelve step meetings. In fact, it is a slogan I try to practice regularly. And yet, it is still so hard for me to do.
I was recently reminded of this slogan, and my difficulty with it, while reading bits and pieces of a book called "One Buddha is not Enough" because it occurred to me that it may be my sometimes rigid black and white thinking pattern that makes this slogan so challenging to actualize.
The book itself is a collection of narratives written by the monks and nuns who live with Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk, author and Buddhist teacher who has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize 19 times, in his community in France called Plum Village.
The book is kind of interesting in that it was born of a moment that never happened. Thich Nhat Hanh was scheduled to lead a retreat in Colorado that was all filled up with Buddhist practitioners coming from all over the world. But "Thay," as the monk and nuns in Plum Village affectionately refer to him in the book, fell ill and was unable to attend. The group, who was ready and waiting for him, literally waiting in the meditation hall, was crushed, some devastated. But, here comes the but, the retreat went on. Led by the monk and nuns of Plum Village, participants engaged in a retreat that became so life changing, a book was written about it.
But within this already interesting and unique book, there was a particular story that reminded me of the ALANON slogan. It was by a Vietnamese nun named Sister Dang Nghiem called "We Inter-are."
This monastic woman tells the story of some beans that were sent to her by a friend. The beans are commonly called Yin Yang Beans, but I understand there real name is orca or calypso beans. The common name comes from the coloring of the beans which resembles the yin yang symbol of a little circle of black in a sea of white and a little circle of white in a sea of black.
First off, I loved the idea of the beans themselves and immediately looked them up online to try to order them to use as a mindfulness exercise with my patients at work. But more so, I loved the words the nun chose in her story to describe the lesson she took from both the beans and the retreat as a whole. She simply said: "In this, there is that." Gorgeous, uncomplicated language. She goes on to say: "in the white there is the black, and in the black there is the white. This is in that, and that is in this."
Which brings me full circle to the ALANON slogan again that I struggle with: take what you need and leave the rest. In a blog almost two weeks ago I wrote about some of the negative associations I learned while growing up about humility. And we all have stories like that right? Things we learned along the way that were in hindsight deeply flawed and misguided. But maybe that is not the whole story, because all or nothing, black or white rarely is. There are these shades of gray aren't there?
So in the spirit of dialectical thinking, here is another kind of list of messages that I was equally taught while growing up: Always keep a journal, be willing to spend the money to take care of your teeth, fight for those who are oppressed, spend time in nature regularly, play music and light candles for dinner even on weekdays, sing in the car and before bed, value books and education and theater and museums and travel to cultivate cultural intelligence, every now and then stop everything that you are doing and just play.
These are the messages and associated memories I will hold on to, and I will try to let go of the rest. What can you intentionally hold on to and let go of today?
I was recently reminded of this slogan, and my difficulty with it, while reading bits and pieces of a book called "One Buddha is not Enough" because it occurred to me that it may be my sometimes rigid black and white thinking pattern that makes this slogan so challenging to actualize.
The book itself is a collection of narratives written by the monks and nuns who live with Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk, author and Buddhist teacher who has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize 19 times, in his community in France called Plum Village.
The book is kind of interesting in that it was born of a moment that never happened. Thich Nhat Hanh was scheduled to lead a retreat in Colorado that was all filled up with Buddhist practitioners coming from all over the world. But "Thay," as the monk and nuns in Plum Village affectionately refer to him in the book, fell ill and was unable to attend. The group, who was ready and waiting for him, literally waiting in the meditation hall, was crushed, some devastated. But, here comes the but, the retreat went on. Led by the monk and nuns of Plum Village, participants engaged in a retreat that became so life changing, a book was written about it.
But within this already interesting and unique book, there was a particular story that reminded me of the ALANON slogan. It was by a Vietnamese nun named Sister Dang Nghiem called "We Inter-are."
This monastic woman tells the story of some beans that were sent to her by a friend. The beans are commonly called Yin Yang Beans, but I understand there real name is orca or calypso beans. The common name comes from the coloring of the beans which resembles the yin yang symbol of a little circle of black in a sea of white and a little circle of white in a sea of black.
First off, I loved the idea of the beans themselves and immediately looked them up online to try to order them to use as a mindfulness exercise with my patients at work. But more so, I loved the words the nun chose in her story to describe the lesson she took from both the beans and the retreat as a whole. She simply said: "In this, there is that." Gorgeous, uncomplicated language. She goes on to say: "in the white there is the black, and in the black there is the white. This is in that, and that is in this."
Which brings me full circle to the ALANON slogan again that I struggle with: take what you need and leave the rest. In a blog almost two weeks ago I wrote about some of the negative associations I learned while growing up about humility. And we all have stories like that right? Things we learned along the way that were in hindsight deeply flawed and misguided. But maybe that is not the whole story, because all or nothing, black or white rarely is. There are these shades of gray aren't there?
So in the spirit of dialectical thinking, here is another kind of list of messages that I was equally taught while growing up: Always keep a journal, be willing to spend the money to take care of your teeth, fight for those who are oppressed, spend time in nature regularly, play music and light candles for dinner even on weekdays, sing in the car and before bed, value books and education and theater and museums and travel to cultivate cultural intelligence, every now and then stop everything that you are doing and just play.
These are the messages and associated memories I will hold on to, and I will try to let go of the rest. What can you intentionally hold on to and let go of today?
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
State of Flow
In the last 3 weeks I have been doing a brief 15 to 20 minutes of yoga asana practice each morning before work. I have never done this before. Since I first began to practice yoga in 2001 till now, I have never been able to really cultivate a home practice. Classes, yes. DVDs, it was brief, but yes. But I've never done a practice on my own where I decided how long to stay in a posture and what posture is next. So I've been giving it a try recently, and doing okay with it if I do say so myself.
But something that has surprised me since I started this home based yoga practice, is how I have gotten brief glimpses into the joy of flow. I think of these flow experiences as times when my mind is not dominating my experience. Times when my insides and outsides are lining up. Times when I am not self conscious and trying to look a certain way that is pleasing and acceptable to myself and others. Because it is a relief, I have to say, to not, for once, plan my next move, sometimes, next series of moves, in advance of the moment as I would in a game of chess. Quite frankly, that can be exhausting because the mind is never allowing itself to go into a state of rest. And the mind and body are very rarely in the same place at the same time. So to combat this habitual state of doing two things at once, I am instead allowing my yoga practice to unfold one asana at a time as best I can.
But it's hard. It's hard to flow by letting your whole being guide you effortlessly rather than your all-powerful mind constantly steering the ship. It's hard for me anyway, but it wasn't always.
When I was a little girl I loved to dance. For hours. I would just turn on music (loudly) and jump and spin and swing my arms like I was flying. Sometimes I would dance in my bedroom in the house I grew up in. Or in the living room, if I was downstairs and no one was home. But my favorite thing to do was to open the old crank-style-Anderson windows in the family room that led to the deck, turn on the radio or a cassette (or an album from my parents' stellar 1960-1980 record collection), and go out on the deck in the rain on a hot summer day to dance.
I can't tell you exactly what I liked so much about dancing in those moments. I don't think I even knew exactly myself. But when I reflect on those moments now, I would say I felt free. In those moments I wasn't thinking at all. I wasn't planning. I wasn't worrying. I wasn't analyzing. I wasn't trying to perform or perfect. You might ask, then what is left? Pure being I guess. When I am feeling in symbiotic union with myself, and there is absolutely no effort to that process, it is absolute heaven.
Stephen Cope, author of "Yoga and the Quest for the True Self" and resident academic at Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health in the Berkshires Mountains, calls this process "the state of flow." He equates this experience to athletes who get "in the zone" and musicians who "get in the groove." He writes: "all self-consciousness is dissolved for short periods of time, as awareness of the activity itself is heightened. The 'actor' then has a sense that he [or she] is not acting at all. He is not the doer. He abides as the still point around which the movement takes place." The still point. I love imagining the possibility of me actually embodying a still point. That would make me a believer in miracles.
But honestly, I think that actually is what I experienced all those years ago when I was a girl dancing to Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" in the summer rain on my deck in my backyard. I also think what Mr. Cope describes is what I get just little tiny glimpses of now when I'm on my yoga mat at home.
What's interesting is that I very rarely, like almost never, dance now. I may dance with my children in my arms once in a while. Or do some silly turns and movements while cooking dinner in the kitchen and listening to music- which tends to still be in the vain of entertaining my family to make them smile and laugh. But its not at all like when I was a girl. That feeling of freedom I used to experience is just not there. I wish it was...I miss it. Which I guess is another way if saying, I miss that part of me. Maybe I will meet her again some day.
But something that has surprised me since I started this home based yoga practice, is how I have gotten brief glimpses into the joy of flow. I think of these flow experiences as times when my mind is not dominating my experience. Times when my insides and outsides are lining up. Times when I am not self conscious and trying to look a certain way that is pleasing and acceptable to myself and others. Because it is a relief, I have to say, to not, for once, plan my next move, sometimes, next series of moves, in advance of the moment as I would in a game of chess. Quite frankly, that can be exhausting because the mind is never allowing itself to go into a state of rest. And the mind and body are very rarely in the same place at the same time. So to combat this habitual state of doing two things at once, I am instead allowing my yoga practice to unfold one asana at a time as best I can.
But it's hard. It's hard to flow by letting your whole being guide you effortlessly rather than your all-powerful mind constantly steering the ship. It's hard for me anyway, but it wasn't always.
When I was a little girl I loved to dance. For hours. I would just turn on music (loudly) and jump and spin and swing my arms like I was flying. Sometimes I would dance in my bedroom in the house I grew up in. Or in the living room, if I was downstairs and no one was home. But my favorite thing to do was to open the old crank-style-Anderson windows in the family room that led to the deck, turn on the radio or a cassette (or an album from my parents' stellar 1960-1980 record collection), and go out on the deck in the rain on a hot summer day to dance.
I can't tell you exactly what I liked so much about dancing in those moments. I don't think I even knew exactly myself. But when I reflect on those moments now, I would say I felt free. In those moments I wasn't thinking at all. I wasn't planning. I wasn't worrying. I wasn't analyzing. I wasn't trying to perform or perfect. You might ask, then what is left? Pure being I guess. When I am feeling in symbiotic union with myself, and there is absolutely no effort to that process, it is absolute heaven.
Stephen Cope, author of "Yoga and the Quest for the True Self" and resident academic at Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health in the Berkshires Mountains, calls this process "the state of flow." He equates this experience to athletes who get "in the zone" and musicians who "get in the groove." He writes: "all self-consciousness is dissolved for short periods of time, as awareness of the activity itself is heightened. The 'actor' then has a sense that he [or she] is not acting at all. He is not the doer. He abides as the still point around which the movement takes place." The still point. I love imagining the possibility of me actually embodying a still point. That would make me a believer in miracles.
But honestly, I think that actually is what I experienced all those years ago when I was a girl dancing to Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" in the summer rain on my deck in my backyard. I also think what Mr. Cope describes is what I get just little tiny glimpses of now when I'm on my yoga mat at home.
What's interesting is that I very rarely, like almost never, dance now. I may dance with my children in my arms once in a while. Or do some silly turns and movements while cooking dinner in the kitchen and listening to music- which tends to still be in the vain of entertaining my family to make them smile and laugh. But its not at all like when I was a girl. That feeling of freedom I used to experience is just not there. I wish it was...I miss it. Which I guess is another way if saying, I miss that part of me. Maybe I will meet her again some day.
"The same river twice"
Sometimes, when I am experiencing the frustration of repeating a life lesson, and feeling like I'm not make the grade, I think of something I read by Anne Lamott. In one of her books, I can't remember now which one, she makes fun of herself by saying that she believes god has a plan for her, and 90% of the time she is wrong herself about what that plan will be. 90%.
That is just so validating. It leads me to say to myself, "it's okay that I'm constantly wrong about where I should be in my life and in what timeframe, MY timeframe of course. It's okay that sometimes I need to revisit a life lesson more than once." Even though a re-do of a life lesson can sometimes feel like staying back a grade in school.
But I resist second looks in such a profound way. My very narrow and linear approach to life is lacking in openness to the value of a second look. My been-there-done-that attitude leads me to missed opportunities that have potential to teach me something more from what on the surface appears to be the same experience over again.
Alice Walker, who is also a Pema Chodron fan, wrote a book a while ago called "The Same River Twice." It was a memoir of sorts, I'm sure you've figured out by now how much I love memoirs, about the behind the scenes making of the film "The Color Purple" which was of course based on Alice Walker's novel by the same title.
In "the same river twice" Ms. Walker gives background to the movie with details like working with Steven Spielberg, but also other layers to her personal life at the time like her struggle with Lyme's Disease. But what I liked more than the actual content of this book, was the title itself: "the same river twice." I often think of this title, a set of words really, when I find myself needing to revisit a lesson or teaching that just didn't fully penetrate or stick the first time.
I love the whole idea that there can be beauty and value and greater complexity to walking the same path more than once. The type A in me says if I am looking at something for a second or third or, god forgive, fourth time, then I must be failing or coming up short in some way. I must not be working hard enough or learning fast enough or growing deeply enough. In other words, it must be me. Otherwise life would continue perfect linear forward movement in exactly the speed and timeframe that I prefer.
This rigid thinking served me pretty well when I was working crappy restaurant jobs and matriculating through school. But now, not so much. Now I believe this thinking holds me back and adds to my suffering. So I try to make my thinking more flexible. I try to take another view. I say to myself: "perhaps there is something to be gained by traveling 'the same river twice." I may gain a new level of clarity and insight that was not received the first time. And not because i wasn't paying attention or not performing well enough. Rather, maybe it was not yet the time. I was not yet ready and therefore a particular insight would not have been useful to me at that juncture in my life. Maybe I didn't yet have the internal and/or external tools to use that particular insight effectively. Which would have led to either a. Nothing because the lesson would have just slid right of me like Teflon. Or b. complete frustration because I didn't have the ability to transfer that lesson into my own life and would have probably ended up blaming that lack of ability either on myself or others-both leaving me disgruntled.
Take the small example of reading the book "Eat, Pray, Love" twice. I hesitate to bring this particular book up because it is now thought to be such a cultural cliche (even though it still amazes me that the spiritual experience of woman became a well known money-making narrative?! When in history has that ever happened before? But I digress...). I first read "Eat, Pray, Love " around the time I turned 30. I read it again while on a vacation to California 3 years ago. At the time of the second reading I now had a 2 year old son and had been married for 6 years. To say the least, my life was in a different place. So of course I would pick up new insights (and good laughs!) that I just could not have integrated the first time around.
So today when I want to rush through something or resist reviewing something a second or third time, I will say to myself: "surrender. Let go of fighting reality. Flow. Even if it is the same river twice. "
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Falling in love with grace
I love the elegance of a single word. A word that can capture a whole moment or experience in just one or two syllables. I myself am very wordy- too wordy. For me it usually takes several sentences or even paragraphs to say or explain what others beautifully convey in just a few. Or sometimes, just one.
The first word I really truly fell in love with was "grace," which I define as meritless love. I first came to hear this word, which is really a concept right?, when I first began attending a Unitarian Universalist Church. The minister at the time used the word "grace" in her sermon.
Now, I should say here, I do not have a long religious history. In fact my upbringing was remarkably secular- not atheist or even agnostic, just void of god. To the point that I didn't even realize it was void of god until my early twenties. Religion and god were really non-issues, which in retrospect had its pros and cons. I certainly do not have a lot of the religious baggage or hang ups that my friends who grew up in say Catholicism have. But, on the other hand, I also had a void inside of me that I didn't even know was there and certainly had no language for.
Until I did. Until I began to be introduced through sermons and lectures and books and radio programs to these perfect words that encapsulated complex human experiences in the most satisfying way.
I was reminded of this early falling-in-love with spiritual and religious words this morning when I was reading a piece by Sue Monk Kidd.
I finally found Sue Monk Kidd's book "First Light" last weekend at my local libraries annual book fair fundraiser. The book was squeezed between a bunch of other paperbacks in the "self help" section, which is kind of funny because "self help" is not the category I'd think of for this book, but there we are.
Most people know Sue Monk Kidd from her very famous book and then movie "The Secret Life of Bees-" by all means a fantastic book. But I actually was first introduced to her through her nonfiction spiritual memoir "When the Heart Waits." Which is probably not a surprise if you read my blog because I am fascinated by the art and crafting of a spiritual life.
But this other book, "First Light" is actually a collection of her earlier before-she-was-famous writing which she did, often for a magazine called "Guidepost" about the development of her spiritual life and relationship with god. Again, right up my alley.
The book itself is kind of like a quilting of her early writing. It is done in no particular order and patched together in an artful way by particular spiritual themes like: "silence," "simplicity" and the like.
This morning I read a story about her early days as a nurse watching a father demonstrate unconditional love and tenderness (another word I love!) to his 6 year old daughter who lay in a coma. Ms. Kidd remembers aloud through her writing the father saying to her the nurse "but I'll keep coming...because I love her whether or not she loves me back." Ms Kidd described the father's statement as "sublime love," I call it grace.
Ms Kidd's story brought me back to that sermon in my early UU days when I was introduced to the word and experience of "grace." A concept so foreign to me I cannot even tell you. Meritless love? Does such a thing truly exist? Love without contingency. Love without evidence, proof or explanation. Love not based on worth or accomplishment. To say that this concept was an absolute paradigm shift for me would be a drastic understatement.
I had said in a previous blog that it is quite difficult and quite rare for me to cry. Well, during that sermon, the tears began to fall. And I think that is because something inside of me already knew the truth of the minister's words. I just needed an elegant and simple word like "grace" to put a name to it.
Thank god for those words...I wanted to be sure my children had them from the very beginning. I didn't want them to have to wait like me. So my daughter, I must tell you now, is named Grace. May she always know and remember that love is not to be earned. It is given freely and unconditionally forever more.
May you find your own sacred words today as well.
The first word I really truly fell in love with was "grace," which I define as meritless love. I first came to hear this word, which is really a concept right?, when I first began attending a Unitarian Universalist Church. The minister at the time used the word "grace" in her sermon.
Now, I should say here, I do not have a long religious history. In fact my upbringing was remarkably secular- not atheist or even agnostic, just void of god. To the point that I didn't even realize it was void of god until my early twenties. Religion and god were really non-issues, which in retrospect had its pros and cons. I certainly do not have a lot of the religious baggage or hang ups that my friends who grew up in say Catholicism have. But, on the other hand, I also had a void inside of me that I didn't even know was there and certainly had no language for.
Until I did. Until I began to be introduced through sermons and lectures and books and radio programs to these perfect words that encapsulated complex human experiences in the most satisfying way.
I was reminded of this early falling-in-love with spiritual and religious words this morning when I was reading a piece by Sue Monk Kidd.
I finally found Sue Monk Kidd's book "First Light" last weekend at my local libraries annual book fair fundraiser. The book was squeezed between a bunch of other paperbacks in the "self help" section, which is kind of funny because "self help" is not the category I'd think of for this book, but there we are.
Most people know Sue Monk Kidd from her very famous book and then movie "The Secret Life of Bees-" by all means a fantastic book. But I actually was first introduced to her through her nonfiction spiritual memoir "When the Heart Waits." Which is probably not a surprise if you read my blog because I am fascinated by the art and crafting of a spiritual life.
But this other book, "First Light" is actually a collection of her earlier before-she-was-famous writing which she did, often for a magazine called "Guidepost" about the development of her spiritual life and relationship with god. Again, right up my alley.
The book itself is kind of like a quilting of her early writing. It is done in no particular order and patched together in an artful way by particular spiritual themes like: "silence," "simplicity" and the like.
This morning I read a story about her early days as a nurse watching a father demonstrate unconditional love and tenderness (another word I love!) to his 6 year old daughter who lay in a coma. Ms. Kidd remembers aloud through her writing the father saying to her the nurse "but I'll keep coming...because I love her whether or not she loves me back." Ms Kidd described the father's statement as "sublime love," I call it grace.
Ms Kidd's story brought me back to that sermon in my early UU days when I was introduced to the word and experience of "grace." A concept so foreign to me I cannot even tell you. Meritless love? Does such a thing truly exist? Love without contingency. Love without evidence, proof or explanation. Love not based on worth or accomplishment. To say that this concept was an absolute paradigm shift for me would be a drastic understatement.
I had said in a previous blog that it is quite difficult and quite rare for me to cry. Well, during that sermon, the tears began to fall. And I think that is because something inside of me already knew the truth of the minister's words. I just needed an elegant and simple word like "grace" to put a name to it.
Thank god for those words...I wanted to be sure my children had them from the very beginning. I didn't want them to have to wait like me. So my daughter, I must tell you now, is named Grace. May she always know and remember that love is not to be earned. It is given freely and unconditionally forever more.
May you find your own sacred words today as well.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Meditation practice VS. Parenting
Have you ever noticed how our parenting experiences can be the perfect teachers of the lessons of mindfulness meditation, even when it appears in day to day life that our parenting responsibilities often trump our meditation practice routine? I re-learned this teaching this very morning. And it brought me back to how all this mindfulness meditation stuff got started for me, over 10 years ago.
I first picked up Jon Kabat Zinn's now famous book "Wherever you go there you are" when I was introduced to mindfulness in 2004. At that time I was in my second year of training as a clinical social worker, and cofacilitating a group therapy with my supervisor. In the group my supervisor was teaching mindfulness skills to our patients as a therapeutic tool.
I distinctly remember the green and brown look of the cover when my supervisor pulled it out one day to read a passage called "You can't stop the waves, but you can learn to surf." After that group I immediately went out and bought my own copy of the book and I began reading.
As I write this years later, I find it somewhat amusing that the way I dove in to mindfulness was by treating it as an intellectual exercise-reading, researching-rather than a practice. But at the same time, not so surprised either. Intelectualizing through reading and writing, even as I do in this very blog, is my default-comfort-zone-way of trying to incorporate in new information. And the paradox is, it has been through mindfulness that I learned that about myself in a deeper way. I became more aware of how difficult it is for me to not convert my experience into words or meaning or conclusions or projections. To let something just be is still extremely challenging for me. And so I practice.
But I have found now, over the last 3 years, even a whole other level of difficulty to this whole mindfulness meditation thing, and that is being disciplined and consistent. Amidst the goings on of being a working mom of two little ones, keeping a block of uninterrupted mindfulness meditation practice time is quite a challenge.
Take this morning for example. I am sitting in my morning meditation spot which is in the living room on a folded blanket on the rug next to the couch. I'm upright. My legs are crossed. My candle is lit inviting the divine spirit into my time of quiet. It is now 4:35 a.m.
Then, what do I hear? My husband calling, "Claire, can you come here?"
I get up and walk to the bedroom. I get to the doorway. My husband says, "can you get a paper towel, we have a nose bleed." My 5 year old son woke himself up because of a nose bleed, which he often gets, and had him pretty upset.
So we get him fixed up. The bleeding stops. He's not upset anymore but cannot fall back to sleep. "Despicable Me II" goes in the DVD player. Pillowcases and sheets get washed because of the blood spillage. And now it's 5:15 a.m. and who is now up too? My nine month old. And my husband has left the bedroom to hop in the shower before work, and the baby is ready to nurse.
Sayonara meditation practice.
But wait. What about what I read in Jon Kabat-Zinn's book all those years ago? Where he reminds us about his own parenting experience in "Wherever you go there you are." He said: "...when [he] had babies in the house, even the morning time was up for grabs. You couldn't be too attached to anything because everything you set out to do, even if you arranged it very carefully, was always getting interrupted or completely thwarted...They [the babies] seemed to sense when I was up and would wake up too."
For me, the lesson here is two-fold. One, I will have a very consistent flow of opportunities to practice the spiritual practice of non-attachment. And this is perfect because I am, of course, a cling-er. But second, and probably more important here, is EVEN one of the gurus of western mindfulness is saying it can be hard to maintain a regular meditation practice. So I say to myself, try to have some humor with it all and lighten up a bit.
What is ironic too, in a funny kind of way, is that though I was first introduced to mindfulness in 2004 when I was not married, had no kids, no dog, no house, I did not start practicing meditation until 2011- AFTER I had my son. And despite its obstacles, if I were to be honest, I'd say it was the life changing and values-changing process of having my son that pushed me through all those internal and external self-made and environmental barriers to actually establish a (semi) disciplined meditation practice in the first place. How's that for a paradox? Because after having a child I now wanted more than ever before to use mindfulness tools to help myself be more at home in my own skin. And I wanted desperately to model that self acceptance and possibility of equanimity for my own son.
And so I do sit down each day before dawn to practice, AND I willingly and flexibly shift to nose bleed situations as they are called for. If that is not a practice in acceptance and equanimity, what is?
Funny, isn't it, how most things we do seem to make there way full circle? Even at 4:30 in the morning.
I first picked up Jon Kabat Zinn's now famous book "Wherever you go there you are" when I was introduced to mindfulness in 2004. At that time I was in my second year of training as a clinical social worker, and cofacilitating a group therapy with my supervisor. In the group my supervisor was teaching mindfulness skills to our patients as a therapeutic tool.
I distinctly remember the green and brown look of the cover when my supervisor pulled it out one day to read a passage called "You can't stop the waves, but you can learn to surf." After that group I immediately went out and bought my own copy of the book and I began reading.
As I write this years later, I find it somewhat amusing that the way I dove in to mindfulness was by treating it as an intellectual exercise-reading, researching-rather than a practice. But at the same time, not so surprised either. Intelectualizing through reading and writing, even as I do in this very blog, is my default-comfort-zone-way of trying to incorporate in new information. And the paradox is, it has been through mindfulness that I learned that about myself in a deeper way. I became more aware of how difficult it is for me to not convert my experience into words or meaning or conclusions or projections. To let something just be is still extremely challenging for me. And so I practice.
But I have found now, over the last 3 years, even a whole other level of difficulty to this whole mindfulness meditation thing, and that is being disciplined and consistent. Amidst the goings on of being a working mom of two little ones, keeping a block of uninterrupted mindfulness meditation practice time is quite a challenge.
Take this morning for example. I am sitting in my morning meditation spot which is in the living room on a folded blanket on the rug next to the couch. I'm upright. My legs are crossed. My candle is lit inviting the divine spirit into my time of quiet. It is now 4:35 a.m.
Then, what do I hear? My husband calling, "Claire, can you come here?"
I get up and walk to the bedroom. I get to the doorway. My husband says, "can you get a paper towel, we have a nose bleed." My 5 year old son woke himself up because of a nose bleed, which he often gets, and had him pretty upset.
So we get him fixed up. The bleeding stops. He's not upset anymore but cannot fall back to sleep. "Despicable Me II" goes in the DVD player. Pillowcases and sheets get washed because of the blood spillage. And now it's 5:15 a.m. and who is now up too? My nine month old. And my husband has left the bedroom to hop in the shower before work, and the baby is ready to nurse.
Sayonara meditation practice.
But wait. What about what I read in Jon Kabat-Zinn's book all those years ago? Where he reminds us about his own parenting experience in "Wherever you go there you are." He said: "...when [he] had babies in the house, even the morning time was up for grabs. You couldn't be too attached to anything because everything you set out to do, even if you arranged it very carefully, was always getting interrupted or completely thwarted...They [the babies] seemed to sense when I was up and would wake up too."
For me, the lesson here is two-fold. One, I will have a very consistent flow of opportunities to practice the spiritual practice of non-attachment. And this is perfect because I am, of course, a cling-er. But second, and probably more important here, is EVEN one of the gurus of western mindfulness is saying it can be hard to maintain a regular meditation practice. So I say to myself, try to have some humor with it all and lighten up a bit.
What is ironic too, in a funny kind of way, is that though I was first introduced to mindfulness in 2004 when I was not married, had no kids, no dog, no house, I did not start practicing meditation until 2011- AFTER I had my son. And despite its obstacles, if I were to be honest, I'd say it was the life changing and values-changing process of having my son that pushed me through all those internal and external self-made and environmental barriers to actually establish a (semi) disciplined meditation practice in the first place. How's that for a paradox? Because after having a child I now wanted more than ever before to use mindfulness tools to help myself be more at home in my own skin. And I wanted desperately to model that self acceptance and possibility of equanimity for my own son.
And so I do sit down each day before dawn to practice, AND I willingly and flexibly shift to nose bleed situations as they are called for. If that is not a practice in acceptance and equanimity, what is?
Funny, isn't it, how most things we do seem to make there way full circle? Even at 4:30 in the morning.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Saying "thank you" to hardship
Have you ever been told to say "thank you" for the central hardship in your life? I have. And though I get it intellectually as an important spiritual practice, in the raw emotional moment, I have to admit, the suggestion can sometimes just elude me. I just can't get my head around it.
I first was introduced to this concept of expressing gratitude for what I perceived as the big problem in my life back in my twenties when I was going to AL-ANON regularly. I vividly remember sitting in a folding chair in a church fellowship hall and hearing a member of the group say, "I'm grateful for the alcoholic in my life." At that moment my head swung immediately in the direction of the speaker of those words, and it took everything inside of me to not just blurt out: "are you f-ing kidding me!"
At that time in my life, and with my quite limited experience at that point, approaching life events through anything but a reactive lens was all but impossible. To me, that statement sounded like the most ridiculous thing anybody could say.
And yet, over a decade later, the words stuck. And painfully slowly this concept began to penetrate my very one dimensional view of pain and suffering.
Pema Chodron, I told you I'd be writing about her again, reminds us, "...it's up to you whether you actually experience gratitude and the preciousness of your life, the fleetingness and the rareness of it, or whether you become more resentful and harsh and embittered and feel more and more cheated. It's up to you how [it] all works out."
Oh Pema but that is so hard to do!
I've heard Oprah Winfrey tell a story several times on her shows of when the now deceased Dr Maya Angelou told her, Oprah, to say "thank you" in a moment of suffering or hardship. When Oprah tells the story she kind of mocks herself in how she was whining and woe-is-me-ing to Dr Angelou on the telephone. And Dr Angelou interrupts her and says: "stop and say thank you." What she was saying was to express gratitude in this very moment for the difficulty in your life. Now that is hard core spiritual practice.
So what would that mean for me today? Well, today I was a grump. So I would have to express gratitude for the challenges of working in a hospital that has cut our department budget to the bear bone. And of having no daycare for my son before and after school because my day care provider got called away on a family emergency. Admittedly small stuff in the scheme of things. But stuff nonetheless to practice this very challenging spiritual work on.
What difficult aspects of your life could you say "thank you" for today?
I first was introduced to this concept of expressing gratitude for what I perceived as the big problem in my life back in my twenties when I was going to AL-ANON regularly. I vividly remember sitting in a folding chair in a church fellowship hall and hearing a member of the group say, "I'm grateful for the alcoholic in my life." At that moment my head swung immediately in the direction of the speaker of those words, and it took everything inside of me to not just blurt out: "are you f-ing kidding me!"
At that time in my life, and with my quite limited experience at that point, approaching life events through anything but a reactive lens was all but impossible. To me, that statement sounded like the most ridiculous thing anybody could say.
And yet, over a decade later, the words stuck. And painfully slowly this concept began to penetrate my very one dimensional view of pain and suffering.
Pema Chodron, I told you I'd be writing about her again, reminds us, "...it's up to you whether you actually experience gratitude and the preciousness of your life, the fleetingness and the rareness of it, or whether you become more resentful and harsh and embittered and feel more and more cheated. It's up to you how [it] all works out."
Oh Pema but that is so hard to do!
I've heard Oprah Winfrey tell a story several times on her shows of when the now deceased Dr Maya Angelou told her, Oprah, to say "thank you" in a moment of suffering or hardship. When Oprah tells the story she kind of mocks herself in how she was whining and woe-is-me-ing to Dr Angelou on the telephone. And Dr Angelou interrupts her and says: "stop and say thank you." What she was saying was to express gratitude in this very moment for the difficulty in your life. Now that is hard core spiritual practice.
So what would that mean for me today? Well, today I was a grump. So I would have to express gratitude for the challenges of working in a hospital that has cut our department budget to the bear bone. And of having no daycare for my son before and after school because my day care provider got called away on a family emergency. Admittedly small stuff in the scheme of things. But stuff nonetheless to practice this very challenging spiritual work on.
What difficult aspects of your life could you say "thank you" for today?
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Breaking Open
Last night my heart broke open. I’ve heard people say that before, but I never really got it. Well, now I get it.
I’ve had the experience of heartbreak. When you literally feel a pain in your chest because your heart’s longing is taken away or gone from you. In small ways I experience heartbreak every time I have to say goodbye to my niece and nephew whom I adore and they live 2,000 miles away. In a big way I felt heartbreak in March of this year when I returned to full-time work following 3 months of maternity leave with my 2 children. It felt like a severing. Even now, writing, I can physically feel that separating in my body.
But a heartbreak and a heart broken open are two different experiences, though I guess they could be born of the same life event sometimes. When your heart breaks open you feel free, as if for the first time. You almost look toward the sky in amazement at how filled up you feel inside with just pure joy and love. And for me, an enormous wave of gratitude just washes over me. Not a pious or obligatory gratitude. An organic process of giving thanks that feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like you don’t even have to think about it, it just happens on its own.
But here’s the paradox, these incredibly blissful feelings are coming through, and of, a trial. A difficult experience that at times felt insurmountable.
What Elizabeth Lesser, author and founder of the Omega Institute, says about the experience of a heart breaking open is: the process of transformation [is] a journey of brokenness leading to openness, descent to rebirth, fire to Phoenix. And I think sometimes, there are tears, and one might mistake those tears as part of heartbreak, but they’re not. These are tears of joy. When is the last time you shed tears of joy?
Ms. Lesser assures us in her bookBroken Open that though the journey will be difficult, the payoff will come when we come into the liberating presence of our authentic self. Doesn’t that sound delicious?!
To be honest, I didn’t quite get to tears. My eyes kept welling up and brimming with tears, but a single one just couldn’t make it down my cheek. But I must tell you, crying is something that does not come easy to me. In fact it is so rare, I could tell you the exact last time I cried. But I do tear up. Often actually. Including in moments of love and joy, the pinnacle of which I suppose was the experience I had last night because I felt I had finally reached the top of the mountain, and the climb had been substantial.
So what was this moment you ask? The funny thing is, not much. I was just attending my orientation class for a course I am signed up for called Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR). Now, I have been thinking about taking this class or something like it for a long time, like years. And when my colleague told me of a new local nonprofit who’s mission is to offer programs that cultivate mindfulness, meditation and yoga, and it is 30 minutes from my house and my work, I thought, “perfect. Now I can give myself a gift.”
When I drove into the campus of the retreat center that is hosting the class I felt as giddy as a little girl on Christmas morning. And that surprised me. I haven’t felt giddy like that in a long time. I pulled into a parking spot and began to look around at other men and women entering the building, and I felt this wave of glee wash over me. My eyes began to well up. I felt myself smiling and actually glowing.
Keep in mind, this was all for an orientation for a class. That’s it.
I felt so moved by all of these powerful emotions that I decided to walk over to some benches that were framed in a circle amongst the trees and some beautiful religious statues before going inside to join the others. After I sat down, I began to pray. My prayer was one of thanks and appreciation. For my life. For the moment I was in. And for allowing myself this gift of mindfulness meditation training.
I must tell you, giving myself a gift is very hard for me. It brings up feelings of shame, unworthiness & selfishness. A minefield of psychic history. But here’s the miracle, I did it anyway. And god did it feel good. Like a huge breath of fresh air that makes your lungs expand and your whole body relax. Where you close your eyes, bring your hands together and bow your head and say, “thank you. I have arrived home.”
That is what it felt like for me to have my heart break open. I hope it happens again someday.
Monday, September 8, 2014
This too
How is it that my perfectly designed religious day was god awful? No pun intended.
Today was the homecoming church service I had written about a week ago. The service where Reverend Jan would call on us, the congregation, to come forth from each of the four directions in a beautiful and sacred water ritual. I was prepared to enter from the east, the place of beginnings.
In the past, I have always loved this service. I love the spiritual practice of ritual itself. I love the use of water and direction as metaphor. I love returning to church for another year because it almost has a first-day-of-school buzz of excitement to it.
But somehow the whole thing just was one big headache. Like, literally, I came back from church with a headache.
It started with my husband being unable to come with me and the kids because he hurt himself at work. That left me in a 2:1 ratio with the children, and I much prefer man-to-man defense.
And to be fair to myself, I did get us all dressed nicely with a little ladybug sundress for my daughter and a yellow striped polo shirt with khaki shorts for my son. And I might add, we were on time! Two small things I felt pretty good about.
But, once in the actually sanctuary of the church things began to break down quickly. My son didn't want to go with the other children to Sunday school, and so he stayed with me wanting to talk to me nonstop throughout the entire service. And did I mention he kept forgetting to whisper? Then he needed the bathroom, and locked himself in a stall. After which, he either couldn't, or was finding it funny to refuse to, unlock the door.
At that point Reverend Jan was delivering her sermon on the wisdom of empathy. I missed all but a few sentences at the beginning and end of the sermon. I'm sure it was wonderful too because the minister has been away on sabbatical, and I'll bet she included all kinds of nuggets of wisdom and insight gained in her time away. That was the first big "Argh!"
But my son didn't cover the whole score, my daughter got in a few too with her need to nurse during the service despite the fact that I intentionally had fed her twice before we left for church to hopefully ward off the need to do that. And it was both sides I might add. Then she moved to absolute unwillingness to take a nap despite being purely exhausted. And I'll tell you, sometimes it's hard to cover up all your baby's noises even with a pacifier.
Suffice it to say, by the time I got home, I was not in a family mood and asked to have a timeout for myself while the baby napped. I was exhausted from our attempt to be the happy-family-going-to- church on Sunday. In fact, I think I was so attached to that single objective, that I lost the essence of what is most holy about religion and spirituality to begin with. Which for me, is the now. This sacred moment that will never pass this way again.
Tara Brach is a psychologist and Buddhist teacher whom I've been reading and following for a few years now (she has a great blog too!) and she writes and talks a lot about radical acceptance as a tool to embrace both the good and the bad and ugly of life.
I picked up her book True Refuge this morning and just let the book open to any random page. This led me to her instructions on using small phrases like "yes" or "I consent," or what I picked for meditation this morning, "this too." She suggested the voice I use inside be a whisper and have a gentle quality to it. I liked that suggestion. I tend to use a tone of voice that is critical and edgy. Shaming actually. Ms. Brach's suggested voice is compassionate and almost friendly.
But I’ll tell you, that is so hard for me to do. I get almost teary just thinking about it...
And yet I find myself softening. Both on the outside in the muscles of my body and inside in the confines of my heart. I begin to yield to whatever is in front of me. "I'll try," I softly say. To whom I don't know. Myself? God? Maybe to Tara Brach herself.
So this morning in meditation I repeated the words "this too" each time I noticed my mind wandered or I felt my body tense up as it can do sometimes to quite literally resist the moment I was in.
I wish I had had these words yesterday morning when I was at church...I know it would have helped.
Next time, right?
Today was the homecoming church service I had written about a week ago. The service where Reverend Jan would call on us, the congregation, to come forth from each of the four directions in a beautiful and sacred water ritual. I was prepared to enter from the east, the place of beginnings.
In the past, I have always loved this service. I love the spiritual practice of ritual itself. I love the use of water and direction as metaphor. I love returning to church for another year because it almost has a first-day-of-school buzz of excitement to it.
But somehow the whole thing just was one big headache. Like, literally, I came back from church with a headache.
It started with my husband being unable to come with me and the kids because he hurt himself at work. That left me in a 2:1 ratio with the children, and I much prefer man-to-man defense.
And to be fair to myself, I did get us all dressed nicely with a little ladybug sundress for my daughter and a yellow striped polo shirt with khaki shorts for my son. And I might add, we were on time! Two small things I felt pretty good about.
But, once in the actually sanctuary of the church things began to break down quickly. My son didn't want to go with the other children to Sunday school, and so he stayed with me wanting to talk to me nonstop throughout the entire service. And did I mention he kept forgetting to whisper? Then he needed the bathroom, and locked himself in a stall. After which, he either couldn't, or was finding it funny to refuse to, unlock the door.
At that point Reverend Jan was delivering her sermon on the wisdom of empathy. I missed all but a few sentences at the beginning and end of the sermon. I'm sure it was wonderful too because the minister has been away on sabbatical, and I'll bet she included all kinds of nuggets of wisdom and insight gained in her time away. That was the first big "Argh!"
But my son didn't cover the whole score, my daughter got in a few too with her need to nurse during the service despite the fact that I intentionally had fed her twice before we left for church to hopefully ward off the need to do that. And it was both sides I might add. Then she moved to absolute unwillingness to take a nap despite being purely exhausted. And I'll tell you, sometimes it's hard to cover up all your baby's noises even with a pacifier.
Suffice it to say, by the time I got home, I was not in a family mood and asked to have a timeout for myself while the baby napped. I was exhausted from our attempt to be the happy-family-going-to- church on Sunday. In fact, I think I was so attached to that single objective, that I lost the essence of what is most holy about religion and spirituality to begin with. Which for me, is the now. This sacred moment that will never pass this way again.
Tara Brach is a psychologist and Buddhist teacher whom I've been reading and following for a few years now (she has a great blog too!) and she writes and talks a lot about radical acceptance as a tool to embrace both the good and the bad and ugly of life.
I picked up her book True Refuge this morning and just let the book open to any random page. This led me to her instructions on using small phrases like "yes" or "I consent," or what I picked for meditation this morning, "this too." She suggested the voice I use inside be a whisper and have a gentle quality to it. I liked that suggestion. I tend to use a tone of voice that is critical and edgy. Shaming actually. Ms. Brach's suggested voice is compassionate and almost friendly.
But I’ll tell you, that is so hard for me to do. I get almost teary just thinking about it...
And yet I find myself softening. Both on the outside in the muscles of my body and inside in the confines of my heart. I begin to yield to whatever is in front of me. "I'll try," I softly say. To whom I don't know. Myself? God? Maybe to Tara Brach herself.
So this morning in meditation I repeated the words "this too" each time I noticed my mind wandered or I felt my body tense up as it can do sometimes to quite literally resist the moment I was in.
I wish I had had these words yesterday morning when I was at church...I know it would have helped.
Next time, right?
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Humility as a Virtue
Growing up I was taught to be humble. In fact it was ingrained in me. But in my home, humility was associated with shame. To be humble was to be ashamed of what gifts you had, whether they be material or by birthright. Which made it quite difficult to experience humility as anything but a punch in the gut. And that is unfortunate. Because I now believe humility is a virtuous action that can lead to feelings of gratitude and interconnectedness.
I grew up in a predominantly white suburb with two middle class working parents. We had a house. Two cars. Both my parents were college educated. We took trips most summers including to Europe when I was seven years old. I unquestionably grew up with privilege and opportunity. But with all that I had in my life, and add to that I always did well in school and had a small but loyal group of friends, I was taught to hate myself for it. I was taught to feel guilt and shame about the privilege associated with being white, with having means to go to camp each summer, with getting separated into honors classes.
Because of this history, I carried a very negative association to the word humility for many years. Now fast forward to my twenties and I'm attending AL-ANON meetings in church basements all over the state. And what word do I keep hearing over and over again? Humility. Just hearing the word made me want to run out of the meetings screaming. But I didn't. I stayed. And I listened hard. For several years actually. And the word humility, and what it means to be humble became redefined for me.
I began to see how humility could actually allow me to feel connected, rather than disconnected, to others. Anne Lamott always reminds me of this, a writer who also had roots in twelve step program. And I've seen several interviews she's given over the years where she describes this process that can go on between reader and writer of "me too." Where a writer like Anne Lamott says to her reader "I too have seen the darkness and confusion. But I have also seen the light." And that vulnerable act of honesty and humility, leads the reader to do the same and admit, "me too." And in that fleeting moment, both reader and writer are free. What's more, interconnection is born by risking humility.
I was reminded of this new founded definition of humility this morning when I was reading a piece by Pema Chodron- a Buddhist nun who I must admit I will likely be writing about often in this blog because I just find so much wisdom in her words. But this morning I read these words: "if a shmuck like me can do it, anybody can do it.' That's what I used to say, that if a miserable person like me-who's completely caught up in anger and depression and betrayal-if I can do it, then anyone can do it, so I'm going to try."
She wrote those words in the context if reminding us all of our precious human birth. So to me, she is saying humility allows us to accept our own flawed and glorious humanity. And that process of acceptance leads to liberation, self love and compassion for others who suffer the same. It is a way of saying, "yeah, I get what you are saying. I've been there. And we will get through this together. Everything will be okay."
Now that is an embodying of humility that is virtuous. I want to follow and model that, humbly speaking of course.
I grew up in a predominantly white suburb with two middle class working parents. We had a house. Two cars. Both my parents were college educated. We took trips most summers including to Europe when I was seven years old. I unquestionably grew up with privilege and opportunity. But with all that I had in my life, and add to that I always did well in school and had a small but loyal group of friends, I was taught to hate myself for it. I was taught to feel guilt and shame about the privilege associated with being white, with having means to go to camp each summer, with getting separated into honors classes.
Because of this history, I carried a very negative association to the word humility for many years. Now fast forward to my twenties and I'm attending AL-ANON meetings in church basements all over the state. And what word do I keep hearing over and over again? Humility. Just hearing the word made me want to run out of the meetings screaming. But I didn't. I stayed. And I listened hard. For several years actually. And the word humility, and what it means to be humble became redefined for me.
I began to see how humility could actually allow me to feel connected, rather than disconnected, to others. Anne Lamott always reminds me of this, a writer who also had roots in twelve step program. And I've seen several interviews she's given over the years where she describes this process that can go on between reader and writer of "me too." Where a writer like Anne Lamott says to her reader "I too have seen the darkness and confusion. But I have also seen the light." And that vulnerable act of honesty and humility, leads the reader to do the same and admit, "me too." And in that fleeting moment, both reader and writer are free. What's more, interconnection is born by risking humility.
I was reminded of this new founded definition of humility this morning when I was reading a piece by Pema Chodron- a Buddhist nun who I must admit I will likely be writing about often in this blog because I just find so much wisdom in her words. But this morning I read these words: "if a shmuck like me can do it, anybody can do it.' That's what I used to say, that if a miserable person like me-who's completely caught up in anger and depression and betrayal-if I can do it, then anyone can do it, so I'm going to try."
She wrote those words in the context if reminding us all of our precious human birth. So to me, she is saying humility allows us to accept our own flawed and glorious humanity. And that process of acceptance leads to liberation, self love and compassion for others who suffer the same. It is a way of saying, "yeah, I get what you are saying. I've been there. And we will get through this together. Everything will be okay."
Now that is an embodying of humility that is virtuous. I want to follow and model that, humbly speaking of course.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Nonviolence as a Spiritual Practice
9/5
Lately I am being reminded of the Kingian (as in Dr Martin Luther King Jr) philosophy of loving your enemy. I know this of course could also be attributed to some variations of Christianity or to Jesus Christ. Or, it could be drawn from Mahatma Ghandi's efforts to teach and practice nonviolent protest and civil disobedience. For me though, Dr. King is the inspiration.
Probably in part because his legacy feels closer to home for me since his work was within the country and century that I was born. But also because when I was learning a ways back about the Civil Rights Movement and the Freedom Riders, I was awe struck by the effort and training that was formally practiced to prepare for the experience of being maltreated.
I was actually just talking with my husband about this the other day, how impressive the lengths were that the Freedom Riders went through in order to learn & practice nonviolent responses rather than aggressively reacting to oppression. I have watched video of the Freedom Riders' training classes that I just described, and I thought to myself, "we need more of that." We, I, need more actual formal training in learning how to respond mindfully and purposefully to adversity.
A Unitarian Universalist church I used to go to had classes every so often that taught lessons from a book titled " Nonviolent Communication: a language of life" by Marshall Rosenberg. The class was followed by monthly practice groups to reinforce the skills which were learned. I actually never had the opportunity to go to it myself, but I remember a conversation I had once with the Reverend of that church, and in that conversation she referred to the class and the book. She said I should try to consider what my own needs are and what the expressed and unexpressed needs are of the individual or group that I am in conflict with. She said, that one technique may make a mindful wise response more do-able for me, even when in anger or fear or another intense emotion.
And certainly not just in the more macro arena of civil rights or social justice. I need it in my micro day to day life. I need formal practice to help me navigate relationships with people who treat me poorly. Whether that be family, colleagues, neighbors, community members, strangers. Because the reality is we will be confronted with people throughout our lives who engage in cruel and mean behaviors. Whether it be smaller passive aggressive comments to egregious harassment. And let's face it, "loving your enemy" is actually really really hard. Like, really hard.
But you know what keeps me motivated to keep trying? The piece also from Dr King, and probably others as well, that I don't want to turn into the enemy myself. I don't want to be filled with misery and anger and hate just like the individual or groups who perpetrate the violence and aggression. Not for my own well being. And certainly not for my children's well being.
And so, I keep practicing.
Lately I am being reminded of the Kingian (as in Dr Martin Luther King Jr) philosophy of loving your enemy. I know this of course could also be attributed to some variations of Christianity or to Jesus Christ. Or, it could be drawn from Mahatma Ghandi's efforts to teach and practice nonviolent protest and civil disobedience. For me though, Dr. King is the inspiration.
Probably in part because his legacy feels closer to home for me since his work was within the country and century that I was born. But also because when I was learning a ways back about the Civil Rights Movement and the Freedom Riders, I was awe struck by the effort and training that was formally practiced to prepare for the experience of being maltreated.
I was actually just talking with my husband about this the other day, how impressive the lengths were that the Freedom Riders went through in order to learn & practice nonviolent responses rather than aggressively reacting to oppression. I have watched video of the Freedom Riders' training classes that I just described, and I thought to myself, "we need more of that." We, I, need more actual formal training in learning how to respond mindfully and purposefully to adversity.
A Unitarian Universalist church I used to go to had classes every so often that taught lessons from a book titled " Nonviolent Communication: a language of life" by Marshall Rosenberg. The class was followed by monthly practice groups to reinforce the skills which were learned. I actually never had the opportunity to go to it myself, but I remember a conversation I had once with the Reverend of that church, and in that conversation she referred to the class and the book. She said I should try to consider what my own needs are and what the expressed and unexpressed needs are of the individual or group that I am in conflict with. She said, that one technique may make a mindful wise response more do-able for me, even when in anger or fear or another intense emotion.
And certainly not just in the more macro arena of civil rights or social justice. I need it in my micro day to day life. I need formal practice to help me navigate relationships with people who treat me poorly. Whether that be family, colleagues, neighbors, community members, strangers. Because the reality is we will be confronted with people throughout our lives who engage in cruel and mean behaviors. Whether it be smaller passive aggressive comments to egregious harassment. And let's face it, "loving your enemy" is actually really really hard. Like, really hard.
But you know what keeps me motivated to keep trying? The piece also from Dr King, and probably others as well, that I don't want to turn into the enemy myself. I don't want to be filled with misery and anger and hate just like the individual or groups who perpetrate the violence and aggression. Not for my own well being. And certainly not for my children's well being.
And so, I keep practicing.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Mornings with Merton
For about the last year I have been reading Seeds of Contemplation by Thomas Merton. To state the obvious, I have been reading this book very, very slowly. I bought it at my favorite used book store which is actually located on the main street of the town I grew up in.
There are several things I love about this bookstore. One of which, it is currently owned by a woman. Not to get on my soap box, but, whenever possible, I like to spend my dollars in the businesses of other women to support more female entrepreneurs.
I also like it though because it has been a used and rare bookstore for over 4 decades. It has miraculously survived the aftermath of a Barnes and Noble being built literally less than a mile away. And of course, I love that it has all those used bookstore nooks and crannies and floor to ceiling shelves filled with interesting books with whole histories to them that I love to fantasize about.
Seeds of Contemplation was no exception. The book itself is a first edition, which I love, with a book jacket that is a textured cloth- nothing glossy and flashy here. Inside, the former owner of the book wrote her name and the year (1940-something). And at the back of the book, there is a little sticker that has the name of a bookstore in Boston that I imagine it was first sold at, that looks as old as the book itself. So yes, I had to buy it. For $6 I might add. (Sometimes I just feel like telling the bookstore owner to charge more-women are always selling themselves short…sorry, back on my soap box!)
I pick up this book periodically before meditation which I do on weekdaysbetween 4:30 and 5 a.m. before the kiddos are up and I go to work. Writing that hour down, and seeing it in print, makes me really question my sanity, but I’ve found the more consistent I am about the hour of meditation, it sort of becomes as routine as a morning cup of coffee.
Before I begin my 20 or so minutes of sitting meditation, I like to read a page or two of something that kind of brings my awareness to some focus of attention that is relevant to meditation or relationship with god. When I read Merton, I am going for relationship with god.
I sometimes like to imagine my meditation time as a period of my day when god and I are sitting together quietly. Nothing to do. Nothing to say. Just sitting. Kind of like Ferdinand the bull, “sitting just quietly beneath the cork tree” in Spain. During those times, I may think of my meditation practice as an act of devotion toward god, for god, with god. I don’t know which actually, and I definitely haven’t gotten it all figured out yet, but something about it feels really right. And when you get that feeling, which I think can be pretty rare for some people, I think you owe it to yourself and the other (if there is another) to explore it further.
Lately in my reading of Seeds of Contemplation, Merton is talking about dissolving the self as a means to union with god. As a psychotherapist by vocation, I find this whole idea, dissolving the self, in mysticism and meditation fascinating because I spend most of my Monday through Fridayhelping individuals develop a sense of self. And as a parent too actually. Parenting a five year old you are constantly shaping and crafting and molding a self that is wholesome and compassionate and full of self-love. But then I read Merton, or some other mystic or Buddhist text, and I am opened to consider something very different. Well, maybe not different…something more.
Maybe we are meant to develop such a strong sense of self that the ultimate conclusion is the dissolution of self because you realize it was never required to begin with. If we start and end with god, what else is there?
I guess I have to keep on reading. Page by page. Meditation by meditation. As always, I am a work in progress.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Growing the soul through the body
I have been one who often neglects her body. Not intentionally, generally. I just get so preoccupied with my mind that I almost sometimes just plain forget that there is even a body there carrying my very busy head around all day.
But about 3 and a half years ago I started going to the gym- for the third time I might add. What was different the third time around though was my primary objective was not to tone up and lose weight. Those things would have been nice of course since I was still carrying around baby weight 2 years after my son's birth. No, but this time my objective was to feel stronger. A deep penetrating strength that might start on the outside but then work it's way instinctively to the inside.
At the time, I felt I needed more strength to step back from some relationships that were not healthy for me, but that I still couldn't seem to let go of. I knew I needed more strength to make that change in my life. And it turned out to be physical strength, not mental or emotional, that allowed me the wherewithal to set real limits with these individuals for the very first time in my life. An absolute first for me.
I was recently reminded of this moment when I actually took my mind off my mind (aka myself) for long enough to read this:
"Try to make your muscles do for you what your mind won't."
These are the words of Joan Erikson, wife of Erik Erikson, the famous 20th century psychological theorist who gave us the stages of maturation and development.
She was quoted in the book I'm reading, "A walk on the Beach" by Joan Anderson. And I'm learning Ms. Erikson was the quintessential (more) brilliant woman behind the man, an official unofficial wise woman to be sure.
In the book she is quoted several times with words that have caused me to take a mindful pause. But I think the words above grabbed my attention because I am new to recognize how awareness of my body can shape and reshape my mind, and in turn my soul. And even in the moments i remember to remember my body, I forget again about five minutes later.
Yet, it's important, the body, critical important. And I don't mean from a heart pumping, blood circulating standpoint. The body is a way in. A back door. When the mind won't budge. And the emotions a running amok, the body may be your best ally. A part of me that will actually shift and move and turn and back bend the way I ask it to. Because, god knows, as I am reminded in meditation nearly every day, my mind certainly doesn't listen to me most of the time. And my emotions can feel like an underground geyser that you never know when it will surge out of the ground.
So I am going to try to rely less heavily on my already over-taxed mind and my unpredictable emotions for matters of growing and expanding my soul-base. And instead I am going to lean in to my body. Let my body, instead of my mind, do some of the heavy lifting for a while.
But about 3 and a half years ago I started going to the gym- for the third time I might add. What was different the third time around though was my primary objective was not to tone up and lose weight. Those things would have been nice of course since I was still carrying around baby weight 2 years after my son's birth. No, but this time my objective was to feel stronger. A deep penetrating strength that might start on the outside but then work it's way instinctively to the inside.
At the time, I felt I needed more strength to step back from some relationships that were not healthy for me, but that I still couldn't seem to let go of. I knew I needed more strength to make that change in my life. And it turned out to be physical strength, not mental or emotional, that allowed me the wherewithal to set real limits with these individuals for the very first time in my life. An absolute first for me.
I was recently reminded of this moment when I actually took my mind off my mind (aka myself) for long enough to read this:
"Try to make your muscles do for you what your mind won't."
These are the words of Joan Erikson, wife of Erik Erikson, the famous 20th century psychological theorist who gave us the stages of maturation and development.
She was quoted in the book I'm reading, "A walk on the Beach" by Joan Anderson. And I'm learning Ms. Erikson was the quintessential (more) brilliant woman behind the man, an official unofficial wise woman to be sure.
In the book she is quoted several times with words that have caused me to take a mindful pause. But I think the words above grabbed my attention because I am new to recognize how awareness of my body can shape and reshape my mind, and in turn my soul. And even in the moments i remember to remember my body, I forget again about five minutes later.
Yet, it's important, the body, critical important. And I don't mean from a heart pumping, blood circulating standpoint. The body is a way in. A back door. When the mind won't budge. And the emotions a running amok, the body may be your best ally. A part of me that will actually shift and move and turn and back bend the way I ask it to. Because, god knows, as I am reminded in meditation nearly every day, my mind certainly doesn't listen to me most of the time. And my emotions can feel like an underground geyser that you never know when it will surge out of the ground.
So I am going to try to rely less heavily on my already over-taxed mind and my unpredictable emotions for matters of growing and expanding my soul-base. And instead I am going to lean in to my body. Let my body, instead of my mind, do some of the heavy lifting for a while.
Monday, September 1, 2014
Coming from the East
A week from today I return to my church. I have been going to a Unitarian Universalist church for seven years now and I always look forward to the homecoming service. The service that welcomes the congregation and the minister back from a summer away that ritualizes the occasion with a special water ceremony.
Next Sunday our minister, Reverend Jan, will ask us, the congregation, what direction we are entering from in the sanctuary. If I say the north, I am letting her know I am in a moment of stillness and hibernation. A time for turning inward and taking stock.
On the other hand, if I say I am entering the sanctuary from the south, I am sharing with Reverend Jan that I am feeling energetic and expressive. I am in doing mode. Traveling, celebrating, socializing.
Or, I could be rejoining the community from the west. A preparation time for endings and closure. Organizing the remains of the season as I recognize and honor the end of and era.
But, in fact, I will not be coming from any of the above, I will be entering the sanctuary from the east- the place of beginnings.
Over the spring and summer my family and I were making several transitions. My son turned 5 years old and graduated from preschool. I returned to my work as a psychotherapist from maternity leave and with that transition I became acquainted with my new supervisor and said farewell, in a matter of speaking, with my former supervisor. And my 9 month old daughter began her new routine spending Monday through Friday work days with her grandparents.
All of these changes happened in the last 3-6 months. And theses changes are not bad or negative per se. Just change none the less. Something I am remarkably terrible at. As in, when the Buddha was spending all that time speaking and teaching on impermanence, it was actually done with me in mind.
And now that you fully understand how difficult change is for me, I will tell you, I honestly think I did okay. There were feelings of sadness and loss and nostalgia and pain. And there is no doubt i was planted firmly in the west, the direction of endings and sunsets.
My heart gets heavy now just thinking about it.
But, this weekend, for the first time, I am feeling a corner has turned. I have now arrived in the east. A new beginning. I feel incredibly refreshed and renewed, not to sound like a maxi pad commercial. But seriously, I actually feel more awake and energetic. More alive. And to be concrete, i cleaned out my house of toys and clothes and objects that are no longer needed or used. I also took my son kayaking with me for the first time (he sat between my legs) and my baby girl swimming for the first time. I even christened us by walking in the hot summer rain last evening with them. Something I loved to do as a child, but haven't done in years.
Oh, And let's not forget my brand new blog!
So, for the month of September i am going to be full on in new beginnings. New routine in the morning with my now kindergarten-going son. New class I am starting called Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction. I feel I have turned a corner. And it feels good. I may even have to do a few Sun Salutations tomorrow morning in my yoga practice as a way to express my gratitude to the east.
Next Sunday our minister, Reverend Jan, will ask us, the congregation, what direction we are entering from in the sanctuary. If I say the north, I am letting her know I am in a moment of stillness and hibernation. A time for turning inward and taking stock.
On the other hand, if I say I am entering the sanctuary from the south, I am sharing with Reverend Jan that I am feeling energetic and expressive. I am in doing mode. Traveling, celebrating, socializing.
Or, I could be rejoining the community from the west. A preparation time for endings and closure. Organizing the remains of the season as I recognize and honor the end of and era.
But, in fact, I will not be coming from any of the above, I will be entering the sanctuary from the east- the place of beginnings.
Over the spring and summer my family and I were making several transitions. My son turned 5 years old and graduated from preschool. I returned to my work as a psychotherapist from maternity leave and with that transition I became acquainted with my new supervisor and said farewell, in a matter of speaking, with my former supervisor. And my 9 month old daughter began her new routine spending Monday through Friday work days with her grandparents.
All of these changes happened in the last 3-6 months. And theses changes are not bad or negative per se. Just change none the less. Something I am remarkably terrible at. As in, when the Buddha was spending all that time speaking and teaching on impermanence, it was actually done with me in mind.
And now that you fully understand how difficult change is for me, I will tell you, I honestly think I did okay. There were feelings of sadness and loss and nostalgia and pain. And there is no doubt i was planted firmly in the west, the direction of endings and sunsets.
My heart gets heavy now just thinking about it.
But, this weekend, for the first time, I am feeling a corner has turned. I have now arrived in the east. A new beginning. I feel incredibly refreshed and renewed, not to sound like a maxi pad commercial. But seriously, I actually feel more awake and energetic. More alive. And to be concrete, i cleaned out my house of toys and clothes and objects that are no longer needed or used. I also took my son kayaking with me for the first time (he sat between my legs) and my baby girl swimming for the first time. I even christened us by walking in the hot summer rain last evening with them. Something I loved to do as a child, but haven't done in years.
Oh, And let's not forget my brand new blog!
So, for the month of September i am going to be full on in new beginnings. New routine in the morning with my now kindergarten-going son. New class I am starting called Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction. I feel I have turned a corner. And it feels good. I may even have to do a few Sun Salutations tomorrow morning in my yoga practice as a way to express my gratitude to the east.
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