The Universe Conspires?

I have always been drawn to points of intersection. Collision points. Turning points. Watershed moments. Forks in the road. Moments of union.  For me these are moments of awe because I find myself stepping back from the depth of the single moment I am in, in order to see time and the universe in its awesome entirety.

For example, I recently learned that in less than 12 months between May, 1966 and April, 1967 Buddhist teacher, writer and activist Thich Nhat Hanh met with both Catholic writer and monk Thomas Merton and Civil Rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  These meetings had a significant impact on both men, who have left legacies far beyond the scope of this blog, that in part influenced spiritually-based activism and interreligious dialogue for decades to come. 

For me, thinking about all the near-misses, twists and turns that had to happen for the possibility of a Vietnamese monk in  exile  to make  contact with the lives of a French immigrant living in a Trappist monastery in Kentucky and an African American Civil Rights leader within the same year makes me shake my head in wonder.

This amazement toward the experience of witnessing layers of time and reality unfold began at an early age for me, but grew ten-fold when I was an undergraduate in college. 

I was majoring in Sociology and Spanish at the time, and in my freshman year I learned about a concept called The Sociological Imagination. Now this was about 20 years ago, and I still remember how powerful it was to have a new language to describe these intersections of time.  Here I won't bore you with the details, but in brief, I understood the sociological imagination to be a way of looking at reality from more than one dimension to see how our private lives intersect  with larger historical moments. 

I remember I had to  write a paper to illustrate this very concept and I discovered how my mother's parents' lives intersected with the events of post-World War II American life. The paper itself was not all that interesting to me, but the concept was because I began to see how our lives are orchestrated by cause and effect.  I no longer saw events in my life or those around me as random or even mysterious, but rather as a part of a larger whole, and this left me wide-eyed.

I realized these could be really simple moments too.  Like on Friday when I was driving to work I saw a man running for the city bus.  He was waving his arms and yelling to the bus driver to stop, but the bus kept going.  I was at a stoplight at that moment, and he was close enough for me to see his shoulders drop with a long exhale suggesting something like "damn, now I'm going to be late for work" might have been going through his mind.

Watching this very ordinary moment caused me to remember the 1998 Gwenyth Paltrow movie Sliding Doors, do you remember it? In the movie Gwenyth played an English woman named Helen, and the movie takes the audience through 2 parallel plots.  In one plot Helen makes the train after leaving work, I mean the tube. And in the second plot, Helen misses the train by seconds.  The audience then gets taken on these two different paths that ensue from that one moment in time of making or not making the train.

If you haven't seen it, I won't ruin the ending for you, but suffice it to say, the film leaves the audience asking itself: when we get exactly what we want in the timeframe we want it, is the universe conspiring to help us? Or, is the universe supporting us human beings when we are taken on a mysterious path full of twists, turns, dead ends and missteps to ultimately get us where the universe would like us to go in order to be the fullest expression of ourselves, our soul?

There have been several different versions of this perspective about the universe conspiring over the centuries.  One came from a 19th century New England favorite of mine, Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen." Even earlier in the 18th century, across the pond in Germany, Mr. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe had a similar thought: "At the moment of commitment the entire universe conspires to assist you."  And then fast forward the the last twenty years, and we have South American novelist Mr. Paulo Coelho writing in his famous book The Alchemist: "And, when you want something, all the universe conspires to helping you achieve it."

Now, I must confess, I love this idea. It is deeply comforting to me like a balm on a wound that has never healed.  But there is another skeptical part of me that questions: the universe conspires to help us? Tell that to the guy who just missed the bus and is now going to get yelled at for being late to work!  In fact, my own skeptical side spoke up just yesterday.

I was planning to go to my second full day meditation retreat.  I had had it scheduled on the calendar for months, and I was really looking forward to it after a challenging week of balancing the duties of being a psychotherapist, mom, and wife.  But when I woke up on the morning of the retreat it was snowing.  One week into spring, and it was snowing! Now, if you are reading my blog for the first time, you wouldn't know that my husband plows snow for work and we have 2 small children which means he is always on-call to work when it snows, and I would have to scramble for childcare if I was still going to be able to go to my retreat.  The good news was, it was still early enough in the morning, and I was able to make arrangements for childcare. Great. Sigh of relief. So I keep getting ready to go as I planned.

However, at the moment of leaving the house at 8:15, my 16 month old baby starts crying, sobbing.  We see she has had explosive diarrhea, so my husband starts to change her (he had not been called out for work yet) so I can still leave. But as I get my hand on the door knob, our 80 pound yellow lab jumps up with both paws onto the table and knocks over my 6 year-old to try to steal his scrambled eggs. Now, my 6 year-old is crying in unison with the baby, and my husband is beginning to have his own meltdown as he is simultaneously changing a disgusting diaper and yelling at the dog to get down from the table.  So I turn around and help diffuse the mayhem of a Saturday morning.

But then I finally do get out the door and think, "okay, I'll be late, but not too bad." Nope.  Half-way to the monastery where the retreat was to be held I look in my rearview mirror and see I have mistakenly taken the car seat with me, and if my husband is to bring the kids to childcare so he could go to work in the snow, he'd need both car seats.

So this was the moment. It was this moment, as I was turning around to drive back to my house in the opposite direction of the meditation retreat, that  I said to myself in deep frustration: "the universe conspires? Yeah right!"

Of course you know how this story ends though.  Everything worked out.  Everything...worked... out...And by saying this I don't mean everyone got exactly what they wanted, when they wanted it.  What I mean is, the moment resolved and passed in order for a new moment to manifest.

In Unitarian Universalist minister and Maine Warden Service Chaplain Kate Braestrup's book Here if you need me, she shares her thoughts on the concept of what is a miracle.  She tells the story of a case she took part in which a young woman was brutally raped and murdered.  She makes the point that a whole chain of unlikely events had to occur for this crime to happen, which led the public to call this a tragedy.  But when another chain of unlikely events occurs and it leads to what the public admires or values or desires, it is called a miracle. But is it not the same? And then how can we decide or know when the universe is conspiring for us or against us? Does it even work that way?

And what about the examples in which  miracle and tragedy seem to  co-exist? Like the story of Kevin Hines who attempted suicide by jumping off of San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge at the age of 19.  In my understanding, on the day of the suicide attempt, Mr. Hines said there were multiple moments of intersection in which there were several missed opportunities for other human beings to simply ask him if he was all right, given his obviously distressed state.  Some were  missed and others just blatantly ignored- like the person who asked this sobbing young man standing on a bridge to take their picture, and so he threw himself off of the bridge. 

But wait! Just as  he was jumping, a driver crossing the bridge at the exact same time spotted Mr. Hines and recognize him as someone they knew, and that person called 911 who contacted the Coast Guard.  Then, just after leaping over the rail, Mr. Hines realized he did not in fact want to die, and he forced his feet into a downward position in order to protect his head upon contact with the water. Then, once in the water and still alive but severely injured, a sea lion swam underneath Mr. Hines which ultimately kept him from drowning. 

In keeping with the writer Kate Braestrup's point, in this example of Mr. Hines, how would we characterize this story? A tragedy? A miracle? The universe conspired to help him? Or not?  What do you think?

When I was at the meditation retreat yesterday (yes, I made it eventually) the teacher, Lynn, suggested to the group of participants that we need not respond to the intersections of life's moments with the words "it is what it is" because the undertone of these words is that of enduring and suffering.  Instead, she offered the words "it is like this for now."

It is like this for now. A very different tone. One that has a sense of surrender and acceptance, but holds the truth of impermanence to well remember that this moment is not the end-all.  Time will continue to unfold. I don't know how this will end.  And by "this," I mean this very moment. And as it does, though I may remain an agnostic as to whether or not the universe is conspiring to support me or not, I will continue to marvel at those moments of intersection when I get to witness multiple dimensions of reality including, but not limited to, my own personal experience coming together at the center like spokes on a wheel.

Perhaps this week, you can to.  And if you do, let me know about your experience. I'd love to hear from you.

Evolving Perceptions

I am completely fascinated with dialectics which tell us that there is no one single truth.  Accepting this premise allows us to see our own perceptions, and those of others, as a non-stop evolution of change.

I work in healthcare, and about 6 months ago I was reminded of this philosophy when I went to a training to help staff remember that perception and subjectivity are a constant.  If someone says, "get me a lot of paperclips," how many paperclips should that person get? If someone says, "get me a few paperclips," how many should that person get? Or, to up the ante in a healthcare setting, how important is it to remember specificity versus perception when asking for 10 mg of this or 150 mg of that?

A lot, a few, some, a bunch, not much, a little, a ton, etc. etc. It is interesting how even our very English language can collude with our inner world that says, “the way I see things is reality.”

I took this picture of the parking lot where I work a few weeks ago. It led me to ask: what is "a lot" of snow?  Has that perspective changed after the pounding of literally feet upon feet of snow this year? 

No one single truth...I don't know, that seems true!

Gratitude for the Body

Practicing gratitude is easy. Practicing gratitude for my body is hard. Always has been. 

Though not always for the same reasons. Sometimes it is just forgetfulness. I simply forget to remember to appreciate my body. And, all due respect to god in how she made us, it's kind of understandable since the vast majority of my body systems require little to no effort on my conscious part (e.g. breathing, digesting, circulating). 

Other times though, I have to admit, it is more like neglect. In this case, it's not that I'm forgetting. And it's not that I am ignorant to how amazing the human body is in all anatomical and physiological wonder. I mean, if you marvel at the majesty of the night sky, how could you not be in total awe of the intricacies of the beautifully complicated human body?  So for me, awe, absolutely. 

It's just that I suffer from floating head syndrome. We overly cognitive folks just don't even prioritize our bodies.  I've written about this before. It is a tendency, born of relying far too much on intellectual defenses, to attempt to force our bodies to do exactly what we want as a means to keep transporting our head around efficiently. Speed up: drink caffeine. Calm down: drink camomile tea. Stop the headache: take Tylenol. Stop the stomach pain: take tums. Go to sleep right now. Wake up right now. Don't get hungry yet it's not time for dinner. 

I recently watched Eve Ensler's, play writer and author of "The Vagina Monologues," Ted Talk and she referred to this very issue.  She herself struggled with floating head syndrome until she came face to face with her own bodily neglect when diagnosed with cancer.  In the talk she candidly described how she used to "manipulate" her body to make it do exactly what she wanted it to do when she wanted it to do it. 

Similarly, I read an article in Yoga Journal a while ago where author of Eat Pray Love Elizabeth Gilbert described life before her yoga practice (and her famous book) in which she treated her body as a rental car; strictly an object to get her from Point A to Point B. Nothing to cherish or revere in any formal or informal way. When I read that, I could certainly relate. 

But why? Why does gratitude and a gratitude practice for my body allude me?

Eighteen years ago I began a Gratitude Journal. I still have it. I still write in it. It's interesting too because there is no other book that has remained in my bedside for so long. The same little brown book with unlined brown paper pages within its hardcover. 

I don't write in it everyday. I don't write in it every month. No, I only open it when I feel moved to. And, regrettably, there have at times been long gaps in between such inspirations in the last 18 years. 

I decided when I started it, at the ripe age of 25, that this journal would not be like my regular everyday journal. I would not even write full sentences or use any grammar. Instead I would start each entry with simply the date followed by the words "I am grateful for..." I would then list as many people, places, things, ideas, concepts, experiences, and moments that came to mind.

I decided I would write exhaustibly until there was nothing else springing forth. There would be no forcing or coercing. Sometimes the list had 50 items. Sometimes 3. Neither was better or worse. 

This was not meant to be a task to be accomplished or checked off because in truth I LOVE to check off to do lists.  However in this case, I decided I would not allow this space between the brown pages to be another way I tried to alter, manipulate or improve myself. I would not grade myself on this one or tie the outcome of each entry to any larger meaning about myself. I would just let it flow. 

To give you a taste for the diversity of gratitude bullet points that have made it into the little brown book over the 18 years, here's a sampling in no particular order:

Spare Tires

Sunrises

Extra sharp cheddar cheese

Hope

Lilacs

Long phone calls with a distant friend

Orgasms

My mother in law

Camping

Coffee

Sitting in the sunshine

Trip to Cape Cod

A new snow blower

Forgiveness

An unexpected money gift

My beautiful baby girl

Getting an extension on my assignment

Having a job

Billie Holiday

Naps

Prayer

Dental insurance.

As you can see, the lists could swing from the most trivial and mundane to the bare essentials of a meaningful life. And I'd just let it flow. 

But, in those now dozens and dozens of pages in a half-filled book of gratitude there is one whole area that is quite noticeably absent...my body. And I don't mean just referenced less, I mean a void. A neglect. 

To increase my awareness of this dis-identification with my body, specifically in regards to  gratitude, I've been reading a lot of Thich Nhat Hahn. This Buddhist monk, teacher, writer, and activist commonly reminds us to remember to give a nod of gratitude toward our bodies. Pick up his books or watch him in a You Tube video and you will see him commonly saying thanks to his liver. Or bowing to his kidneys. Remembering it is a blessing to have eyes to see god's beauty and ears to hear the earth's sounds. Simple acknowledgements of vital organs that work for me day in and day out no matter how poorly I treat them. If that's not unconditional love, what is?

A few days ago it was my son's 6th birthday.  Six years ago this week he was born in an operating room by C-Section after 2 days of early to end stage labor and 3 weeks of bed rest due to pre-eclampsia.  In this context it occurs to me that this could be a perfect occasion for an expression of gratitude toward my body.  My body that never has and never will abandon me. No matter what, it will work it's butt off to keep me going and moving toward health and wellness, even if my mind is off doing its own thing. 

They say the relationships that take the worst beatings are the ones we are most secure in; the ones that we know will never leave us in our moment of need. The family member, the friend, the colleague who is most loyal in good times and in bad we are less mindful to be as kind and generous with as we might with someone less reliable. And though that truth has just never sat right with me, I could easily argue I regretfully do the very same thing with my own body. 

So I've given this a lot of thought, and I think the antidote to floating head syndrome is to take a moment each day to express and practice some kind of gratitude toward the body.  Kind of like remembering to say "I love you" to my kids and husband each morning and night rather than "Did you remember to pick up your clothes from the floor?" Practices could look like one of Thich Nhat Hanh's more deliberate body-focused meditations. But it could also be the decision to NOT suck in my belly when I stand in front of the mirror in the morning when I get dressed for work. Or making myself a meal that is both nourishing and yummy. Or it could be briefly engaging in some sort of physical movement when my neck and shoulders begin to spasm after several hours in front of the computer at work instead of pushing through. Or simply saying "thank you for this body" each time I move into a particular yoga pose- my personal preference is Warrior I because I really feel like I am using the strength of every part of my body in that moment as I shift my gaze upward to say thank you to god for this gift of body.  Or, I can simply remember to include some part of my body or my body as a whole when I am listing off my gratitude in my Gratitude Journal. 

Of course all of these ideas are very simple gestures.  But that may be all we need. 

I will try tonight before bed to give back in some way to my body. A body that has been unconditionally loving and loyal to me all day long despite all of my own forgetting and neglecting as I walk around lost in mind and thought. 

Perhaps you can to. 

Practicing Impermanance

I do not take time with my beloveds for granted. I know how precious time is. In theory, this capacity to honor and respect the brevity of life, and therein relationships, should make me well qualified to practice impermanence. But, I must confess, it is in fact the opposite.

I first read about impermanence when I was first exploring yoga in my early 20's. I had been going to Vinyasa classes two nights a week for the asana practice, but I had reached a point of wanting to know more about the other 7 limbs of yoga.  So I went to my favorite used book store and left a couple hours later (I like to linger a while in bookstores) with a book called Living Your Yoga: Finding the Spiritual in Everyday Life by Judith Lasater.  This was the first yoga book I had ever bought and it is still on my shelf today.

Despite the title, as I’ve said before, I was not consciously spiritually seeking at this time, though maybe I was unconsciously.   However, I was intrigued with what I was reading in Living Your Yoga about this idea of “taking your yoga off the mat.” I read chapters simply titled: Faith, Compassion, Control, Perspective, Letting Go, and, among others, Impermanence.

Ms. Lasater primarily borrowed from the ancient text the Yoga Sutras by Patanjali to discuss concepts like impermanence which is defined in the book as “mistaking the noneternal for the eternal.” Which she then paraphrases as “Simply put, when we think that we (or the people and things that we love) will remain the same, we do not understand impermanence.”

Now, by this definition, you could argue that I am actually quite good at the practice of impermanence because I rarely think things will remain the same.  I wholeheartedly understand that life is in near constant dynamic flux and the length of time any single event, person or object will be in my life is absolutely unknown because the world will simply not give you any guarantee for length of stay of a pet, a sibling, a car, a job, a spouse, or even, sadly, a child.

 

There were multiple experiences in my early life that taught me this lesson about the shifting reality of life, but the one that brought it home for me most was losing someone to AIDS as a teenager.

His name was Michael and I was 15 years-old when I first met him.  My parents had gotten divorced the year before and my father had come out of the closet.  Michael was my father’s first official boyfriend. 

By the time I met Michael, he already had AIDS, as opposed to being HIV Positive.  And this was 1992.  In 1992, if you met someone who had AIDS, in your mind, it was a death sentence.  And for Michael it was.  In September, 1995 he died.  I was in the first month of my freshman year of college and it was 3 years after I had met him for the first time.

The experience of watching someone go from being a 200 pound well-built, healthy 40-something year-old stranger, to a thin-as-a-rail, hospice bound friend who could barely speak my name was unquestionably transformative for me.

This was impermanence in action, and it helped me to enter into relationships thereafter with far fewer assumptions and expectations than others around me.  I was also able to be more present with my experiences with the folks in my life because I would not presume to know how long the experience or the relationship would last.  Now I would of course call this understanding mindfulness skills, but I did not have this language then.  All I had was this learning which grew out of the experience of watching Michael die in a period of 3 years when I was a teenager.  And now, as an adult, I feel enormous gratitude for learning these truths, like impermanence, early on.

Judith Lasater writes in Living Your Yoga, “Out attachment to things remaining the same creates suffering.  When we cling to the illusion of permanence, what we actually hope to secure is protection from the terrifying unknown that impermanence may represent.”   I absolutely find this to be true, and believe reality can be the motivating factor for practicing impermanence.

However, I want to caution you of swinging on the pendulum too far over to the other side of this practice.  Let me explain.

I think we can get too good, so to speak, at practicing impermanence that we begin to hold back in fully participating in life and love. This happened to me.  In the insight I gained from watching the life of my friend move out of his body, I also took on an edge of detachment from others.  I did have increased capacity to be fully in the moment in my own life experiences and in relationships with others, but I also began to keep people in general at arms-length because you never know how long someone will be in your life for.  So while I learned to avoid presumptions and expectations in relationships, I also found myself leaning just slightly back rather than fully leaning in.

So the trick is, to find that sweet spot, right? Where we fully engage with all the people, things and events in our lives without holding back, while simultaneously allowing for each person, thing and event to unfold as it will without clinging to or controlling for specific outcomes. Letting the wave come in and wash over us, and then watching it go right back out.  The message of which, as Ms. Lasater reminds us, is as close as our breath: “Every day, all day, our bodies engage in impermanence with each breath. Your current inhalation is unlike any other you have ever taken.  At its fullness, it surrenders to the exhalation, itself different from the one preceding it.

How about you? Where in your life can you practice impermanence today? Where are you trying to cling to and controlling people, things and events? What are you leaning away or detaching from?

Time Has Wings: Impermanance in Parenting

This is a mural on the wall of the toddler play room at my local library.  I find it to be such a beautiful reminder of the absolute truth of impermance which I've been reflecting on lately that is omnipresent in parenting.

Understanding Truth

I tell my patients to be wary of the word "truth."  It is a very enticing word though, which makes it hard to resist. 

I think what is magnetic about the word "truth" is the absolute and resolute quality that it conveys so efficiently. As in when you say to your partner: "But it's true;" like that is all that needs to be said. 

Truth however is such a huge word which defines all that I know AND all that I don't know. It includes everything that has occurred in the past, what is happening now in the present, AND everything that is to come together in the future. Truth is not perception alone. It is not facts by themselves either. I think of truth as a concept far more transcendent and hands-off for us limited human types because it is just too big. 

The writer, thinker, and Buddhist teacher who helped me with "truth" most was Susan Salzberg. When I was pregnant with my daughter in 2013 I read Ms. Salzberg's book called "Faith." In this book Ms. Salzberg helped me to understand the reality of truth in the context of my work as a psychotherapist. 

At the time I was reading "Faith" I had gotten quite upset over a patient who, I felt, had snowed me. Which means, for those of you who don't know, I was seriously wondering what information, if any, that the patient had told me was true. Was the entire treatment a farce? Had anything about the relationship, which I had really felt invested in, been real? 

It was during this growing sense of anger, bitterness, and resentment that I read Ms. Salzberg's description of a children's book called "Zoom." She talked about this small picture book in her book "Faith."  In the book the reader is reminded that at any given time we are only privy to a teeny tiny piece of the reality pie, and that teeny tiny reality is completely biased and colored by our own filters of personal history, assumptions, and interpretations  that inevitably creates a distorted piece-meal version of truth at best. I actually ended up going out and buying the children's book "Zoom" too because it had been so instrumental to my expanding awareness of reality in the context of slippery nature of truth. 

In the end though, this new understanding of truth helped me do 2 things. One, it helped me to let go of the difficult emotions associated with this patient that I had felt hurt by in some small way by her omissions and/or flat out lies.  

And two, more importantly, I was reminded that at any given moment I am only ever aware of a small piece of reality, and that reality is being seen through the blurry, scratchy lens that is me. Which means, by our very human nature, something is being left out. And the farther and farther and farther I zoom into a wider view of the present, or a longer view of the past or future, I inevitably have a deeper truth of reality. A truth far more vast than my eyes can see.

It's like standing on the sea shore and looking out to the horizon. You know there is more beyond what you can see. And yet, the small little square I stand on to look out into the world is just as valid, just as true, however comparatively small and incomplete it may be.  In other words, my experience with this patient was real and valid, but it existed within a larger context than I could possibly know or imagine.  A larger truth that would likely never be revealed to me. A reality beyond the horizon. 

Which leads me to say, truth can be humbling. Truth puts us in our place- often in a not-so-subtle way either. It's like god's reminder to us that we are fabulous, but we are only this small size, and not due all information at all times. It's like reality is given on a need to know basis.  But do not confuse your small reality for truth as a whole. See? Humbling. 

I shared earlier this week that I've been at a professional training in my field of psychotherapy these last few days. During this time "truth," in its fullest sense, presented itself to me again. 

The training itself was truly fantastic. Too fantastic actually because I learned all kinds of things that helped me to understand and conceptualize patients in totally new ways. That's a good thing though, right? Well, what about past patients with whom I wish I could re-do the therapy? The ol' if I knew then what I know now...  A thought pattern of mine that I have become familiar enough with to spot how dangerous it can be in the way it can yield all kinds of emotions like guilt, shame, anger, resentment, sadness, and helplessness. 

But this week, I didn't go there. I was humbled, sure. I silently wished my past patients well wherever they are currently. But I also held Ms. Salzberg's message about truth being a continuum of time and facts that is literally changing minute to minute, second to second. What I perceived to be one reality in 2005, may look entirely different now in 2015. And the 2025 perspective might be something I could not even yet recognize or comprehend. 

Truth is the macro reality that holds all of our micro realities in the balance until a new broader reality can be revealed. And faith, as a verb, is required to access, though not fully grasp, truth. Without faith, truth is illusive and the world can seem a cold, heartless and random place. Faith is what connects us to the unknowable aspect of truth that is beyond our reach, beyond the horizon. Thank god for faith.  Hold on to it. 

Don't take it all too seriously...

I have a funny story to share about this picture that is a reminder, mostly to me, to not take  all this spiritual, religion, and meditation stuff too seriously.  Don't worry, it will be brief- the lessens from humor typically are I've found. 

I began a more formal meditation practice in July, 2011.  And when I did, and ever since until 3 weeks ago, I generally practiced in the traditional way by sitting on the floor on the edge of a folded up blanket.  It's not that I didn't want a meditation cushion to use.  It would have been nice.  I had always enjoyed the firmness of a bolster under my tookis when sitting in prayer at the end of a yoga class.  But I had not yet bought one.

Something always held me back. Some of those somethings, just to name a few, were, and this is in no particular order:

A. Worthiness, I've always had some difficulty buying stuff  for myself.
B. Feeling hesitant to "officially" buy a meditation cushion because it felt like I was declaring myself "a meditator" rather than someone who meditates.  Kind of like someone labeling themselves a "writer" rather than someone who enjoys writing.  It felt like expectations of pressure and discipline would present themselves, along with a little dose of shame in the form of Brene Brown's "who do you think you are?"
C. Space. My little ranch house is runneth over with stuff from the 2 big people and 2 little people who inhabit it.  My meditation practice is certainly not in some gorgeous meditation room that is solely mine, the quintasential Virginia Wolf "room of one's own." Though I absolutely have that on my bucket list!
And D. I didn't want to jinx myself.  I had had so many trials of starting a practice and giving up after a pretty short period of time, that this go-round I didn't want to think about it too much. I just wanted to jump in and do it.  Kind of like not going out and buying new sneakers and a cute outfit if you want to start exercising.  Once you do all that it is nearly guaranteed you will not succeed.

Despite all this, 3+ years later, about a month ago, despite my A, B, C and D, I went on amazon and bought the meditation cushion of my dreams.  I got one that is firm, purple (I love purple!) and extra large for my ample caboose. 

But here's the quite predictable punchline: since buying it, I have had the opportunity to sit on it, you guessed it: Once! Once.

Now, my cat Billie, as seen in the picture above has found it to be a lovely bed.  My 5 year-old son has found it to be the perfect shape, size and texture for having a catch like with a medicine ball at the gym.  My 15 month-old daughter has found it to be very helpful as a stepstool for her to climb up onto the couch and ottoman and all the other hard to reach places that she has wanted to explore but been previously unable to get a leg up.  So, it's not to say that I wasted that $50 plus tax and shipping.  On the contrary, all the members of my family but my husband, and that is probably just a matter of time, have found my new meditation cushion to be quite fun and handy.

So, let's cut to the chase: what did I learn? Don't take it all too seriously.  Laugh. Enjoy humor and irony and best intentions.  This is not rocket science or some exam.  I see meditation as a means to improve  the quality, fullness and meaning of my life however long or short it may be.  And by god, humor and laughter certainly do that just as well, maybe even better.

How about you? What in your life can you take less seriously today? Where can you just sit back and laugh?

Reset, Renewal & Resurrection

This morning my 5 year-old son needed a do-over.  The impact of all the recent changes in our lives from small things like snow days to big things like his grandmother having breast cancer culminated to a tearful meltdown that on the surface had to do with a school project.

I felt so bad for him as I saw him going down, down, down the rabbit hole. In that moment I wanted to hug him close and say everything will be all right. But this was all at 6:45 in the morning, and for me to get to work for 8 a.m. I have to leave the house by 7:15 to drop him off at daycare.  So, rather than a long drawn-out snuggle, I opted for a do-over.

The concept of a do-over is quite simple: let’s act as if we can start again from scratch.  Wipe the slate clean and begin anew.  If only it were that simple...

I’ve said this before that some of these spiritual tasks are so straightforward to describe, and so easy to commit an intention toward, but damn hard to remember to practice when the shit hits the fan. (Sorry to swear, but let’s just call a spade a spade.)  Therefore, we need our reminders in the form of practices, images, symbols and metaphors to help us remember to hit the reset button. 

I imagine that button looking like the red "easy" button in the Staples commercial on television. Or like the decision to just totally shutdown your iPhone or computer when it is on the fritz only to switch it back on to see if that solved the problem. 

A longer and more luxurious version of this same thing could be a retreat.  Lately I have been blogging about some of what I imagine to be the challenges of a mindfulness retreat- like confronting your own restless mind. But what about the fruits of such a time and space? 

The word "retreat" itself is a stepping out of usual routine with the hopeful intention of a reset or renewal when we go back in to the trenches. For instance this week I am spending four consecutive days at an advanced training for the type of therapy I practice as a psychotherapist. It is being held in a gorgeous old New England hotel and is filled with mindfulness practices as that is part of what I aim to do with patients. Though not a formal retreat, I hope to reap many of the same benefits including reset and renewal with the possibility of do-overs when I return with the new wisdom I have grown into. 

But I have to tell you, my favorite re-set of all is resurrection. 

I've heard writer Anne Lamott refer to the word "resurrection" in interesting and unconventional ways that have opened me up to the word itself. Because it is so closely tied to Christianity and Jesus Christ, I had never really considered co-opting the word, nor had felt privileged to do so as a non-Christian.  

However, Anne Lamott challenged me to think of resurrection as something I could practice myself, several times a day if need be. In that way, I am paying less attention to how many times a day I fall down or stumble in some way, and more attention to my comebacks. Isn't a mini-resurrection a comeback of sorts?  When my son glued himself back together, put one foot in front of the other, and walked out the door to re-start his day again, I said to him "great recovery!" It was a 2 minute start to finish resurrection. Sometimes that's all we need. 

It helps us work through our day to day (hour to hour) dysregulation till we can get to experiences like the four day work training I'm at right now, the camping weekend I have planned for the beach in June, or the five day silent meditation retreat I hope to attend in July. Time where we truly are able to go in to the metaphoric cave until we are able (or the times up) to roll the stone away and start anew. 

But not just anew, as in now it's Monday and it used to be Friday, but truly, magnificently imagining ourselves as changed in some small or large way. Embodying that difference or shift in perception or outlook. Allowing for whatever change that took place (more often than not an internal change) to begin to ripple through our lives in unknowable ways. 

I experience this reset each time I take a yoga class. It comes right at the end when I'm instructed to roll onto my right side from corpse pose in a fetal position and pause there. A moment to stop the doing of the yoga class and take usually just a minute or two to notice and experience the being. To allow this moment of transition from shavassana or corpse pose into this primal body posture we call fetal position that will take me back to my seat before re-entering the rest of my day. 

I once watched an interview with writer and local New Englander Dani Shapiro on YouTube in which she was sharing about her yoga practice. She said sometimes her series of asanas done on a mat in her own home can be the only thing that can help her get her day back on track when the challenges of working from home present themselves.  After seeing the interview I thought to myself, "yeah, if I were to do 10 sun salutations in succession, is there any way I could not be recalibrated in some palpable way?" And I like the idea that there can be small, medium and large ways that we can practice this.

Re-do. Re-set. Retreat. Resurrect. Re-enter. All versions of the same thing with various nuances to make each valuable and compatible. I think the most important thing is that we not forget the do-over, the resurrection, the retreat, is a tool always  available to us whenever we need it.  It is just a matter of remembering to pick it up. That's the challenge. 

How will you re-set today?