Spread the Love

When I volunteer in prison, it includes both group and individual sessions. The pastorals are rich, meaningful, and sometimes difficult. The stories I hear—real stories from real people—are heartbreaking. I try to be a mirror for the inmates. I let them know where they’ve grown and changed and how their meditation practice inspires me. I look them in the eyes and speak this from my heart. Almost always, it brings an inmate to tears, even the biggest, toughest guys. Seeing his own goodness reflected back at him is a revelation. Rarely is he told the ways he’s good, wise, and inspiring.

Like these inmates, I need my own mirrors: friends who support me when I’m caught in fear or doubt. People who reflect back to me the big leaps I’ve taken, the lives I’ve impacted, and the special qualities of my work. Like many, I judge myself most harshly, so it’s helpful when others send a softer, more truthful message. A reality check, not from an effusive place but from a heartfelt place.

We can all look more closely at the people in our lives. They have goodness and light inside them. It radiates in different (sometimes surprising) ways, but it’s there in everyone. What is this person’s special quality? What do I really appreciate about him? How does her unique light shine? These are things we can share with each other. Our lives are wondrous, short, and precious. There’s no reason to hold back: Tell people why and how you love them; spread gratitude and appreciation; share from an open heart.

[This post is part of my Truth Tuesday series, which appears weekly on Facebook.]
---
Welcome Page (start here) | Courses | Monthly Mindfulness  | Self-Care | Facebook

Chant of Good Will

I first heard the "Chant of Good Will" at a meditation retreat. Each night, a hundred of us chanted the loving-kindness phrases. The simplicity and repetition of these words allowed me to quickly take them into my heart. The practice came home with me. I sing the chant while driving, doing household chores, or setting up chairs for meditation class. And if I'm feeling frustrated or judgmental, I chant. It brings me back to love and intention.

There's a lot of noise in our world: righteousness and self-promotion; angry chants at peace rallies; loud music filled with empty words. The good-will chant provides a different avenue. It expresses wishes of loving-kindness, peace, and happiness for ourselves and others. Not as a way to ignore what's difficult, but as a way to wholeheartedly live in this complex world.

One of my meditation students asked me to record this chant, so she could know it in her bones. My initial reaction was fear: I don't have a nice singing voice; I can't stay on pitch. But my final response was "yes, I'll record it." The process itself a practice in humility and loving-kindness. Imagine if this chant—imperfect and wholehearted—were sung by 1000s of people. It begins with just one of us. Play my recording and sing along. Let it be messy, real, and from your heart.

---
May I be filled with loving-kindness, 
May I be well. 
May I be peaceful and at ease, 
May I be happy.

May you be filled with loving-kindness, 
May you be well. 
May you be peaceful and at ease, 
May you be happy.

May we be filled with loving-kindness, 
May we be well. 
May we be peaceful and at ease, 
May we be happy.
---

The Chant of Good Will:

---
Welcome Page (start here) | Courses | Monthly Mindfulness  | Self-Care | Facebook

This Precious Life

[This is part of my Truth Tuesday series, which you can find each week on Facebook.]

An outline of my Mondays in prison: three 30-minute visits (“pastorals”) with individuals, lunch break, 90-minute meditation group, then drive from Oshkosh to Fond du lac for three pastorals at a different correctional facility. It’s a long, meaningful day.

Yesterday after group session, R looked me in the eyes and said, “Joy, you seemed sad today. Is everything okay?” I smiled with gratitude about his care and concern, but assured him I was fine. When I got in the car at day’s end, I cried and cried. R's intuition was correct: sadness. I’m sad for T, who expressed he has no safe space in prison to really feel what he feels—to feel the vulnerability of being abused and being an abuser; to feel helpless yet responsible for changing the horrible language heard among other inmates about women and sexual acts.

I’m sad B has been told his entire life that he’s worthless and never good enough, so that he still questions himself and his beautiful meditation practice. I’m sad that S hasn’t heard anything from her daughter, even though she sent stamped, self-addressed envelopes. And I’m sad that M now mistrusts her beloved brother because he hasn’t sent money (her money) while she’s locked up.

As I sobbed in the parking lot, I realized how much easier it would be to ignore these stories. If I stopped volunteering in prison, I wouldn’t have to face this much suffering and sadness. But those initial thoughts quickly passed, because these aren’t only prison stories—they’re human stories. Life is filled with sadness and pain, just as it’s filled with love and ease. I don’t want to separate myself from life or from others. Instead of “us” and “them,” I believe in “we”: our shared humanity.

I’m inspired that D sees his time in prison as a chance to become more awake, compassionate, and calm. He hopes to counsel recovering addicts when he’s released. I’m touched by heartfelt support I received in my prison meditation group while grieving the loss of a close friend. I’m stunned by the beauty and wisdom L conveys through his poetry.

Life isn’t just one way. It’s many things all at once. Yesterday, I was both sad and grateful, honored to bear witness to inmates. Tomorrow, I travel to Iowa, celebrating Thanksgiving with family and friends. These are not separate events. They’re each part of our diverse, complicated, and beautiful soup of humanity.

May we all bring presence and compassion to more moments.  
May we actively practice peace, patience, and love.
May we all be grateful for small, ordinary things.
--
Welcome Page (start here) | Courses | Monthly Mindfulness  | Self-Care | Facebook

Noticing What's Underneath

This afternoon, I had a routine conversation with a potential client. I prepared my notes and readied to call, knowing I'd done this many times before. Still, I felt fear and doubt. My relationship with fear and doubt is long-term and sometimes unpredictable. I took a few deep breaths and made the call, recognizing fear but not letting it control my listening or speaking, nor my ability to stay present. The call went well: kindred spirits talking and details decided. A new opportunity to practice and teach mindfulness.

Just now, as I sliced tomatoes and peppers, I had an insight: my fear was not about the phone call; it reflected my circumstances two years ago on this day. September 23 is when my dad, sisters, and I made decisions about mom's end-of-life care. We had to decide, without consulting her, whether to extend her life via medical machines or to allow her to die. The news stunned us in its suddenness yet we all agreed, through tender, broken hearts, to let her go. We held a compassionate vigil, working closely with hospice nurses to ensure she didn't suffer. It was both deeply painful and vitally important.

This—much bigger and heartbreaking—decision is where my fear and doubt arose. The phone call was just a phone call. When I'm open and aware, I notice my internal weather. If a storm brews over a routine action, I need to look closer. On this particular day, I needed to cry and grieve. To put my hand on my heart, and bear witness to my pain. To remind myself that we made the best decision we could under terrible circumstances. I have no regrets about those last hours with mom, yet fear and doubt arose because that's what emotions do. Underneath is sadness. And deeper underneath is trust in my capacity to stay with everything.

I don't know why this anniversary resonated so deeply with me. Grief is unpredictable, just as life is unpredictable. I wonder: who else is walking around today—or any day—with a tender, vulnerable heart? This helps widen my circle of compassion, for myself and others. Life is difficult, wondrous, heartbreaking, and beautiful. How do we stay wholehearted and awake? I think we do it together, as community. Sharing what's real and true, and listening with kindness; hitting the pause button and connecting with each other; bearing collective witness to joy and sorrow and everything in between.
---
Welcome Page (start here) | Courses | Monthly Mindfulness  | Self-Care | Facebook

How a Baby Raccoon Saved Me

Late Tuesday night, biking home from a friend’s house, I spotted a furry object on the sidewalk. This surprised me, as most critters flee when a person approaches, but not this one. So I stopped right there and met the eyes of a distressed baby raccoon. He looked at me, mewing and peeping. I spoke in a gentle voice: “What’s going on, little one? What do you need?” He clambered up my bike tire and clung for dear life, peeping in earnest: a direct cry for help; a situation I could not ignore.

I called my friend Miriam, whose house I’d just left, knowing she was awake and knowing she has a compassionate heart. Quickly, she researched our options and said she’d be by my side soon with a box and blankets. The raccoon retreated from my bike and laid in the grass. I sat cross-legged next to him, singing a loving-kindness chant. (A chant I’d just taught in my mindfulness class that evening.) He calmed, tucking his face into his fur, cold and scared.

Miriam constructed his evening nest, and we hoped mama would return for him that night. When we stood, about to part ways, still wide-eyed from these events, Miriam spotted a different baby raccoon in the street, recently killed by a car. A sibling of our little friend. It's no surprise he emphatically asked for help: he just witnessed a traumatic death. In life, we don’t often see the backstories of others, but they’re there and they're important, and this particular backstory was clear.

After little sleep, I awoke and readied to teach meditation at the Y, but first needed to check with my raccoon. When I approached the box, his eyes were open. He was alive and okay, but not retrieved by mama, so box and baby came home with me: sat on my back porch while I taught. 

I cleared my day to find this little raccoon a refuge, trying to embody the words of Mary Webb: “If you stop to be kind, you must swerve often from your path.”  In beautiful weather, I drove to Green Bay, where the Bay Beach wildlife refuge was teeming with kids and adults. I unloaded the box and walked inside. The setting felt strange, like a hotel lobby, people milling around while I attempted to “check in” my animal—a process I expected, somehow, to be more intimate. And in this sea of humanity, I was told, “We only take raccoons from Brown county. We don’t have room for others.” My Outagamie-county puffball was turned away—no room at the inn. Though this was disappointing, I understood the situation. My parting gift: two more numbers to call. The first shelter only accepted squirrels. A sinking feeling spread through me: what if—due to limited resources—I must send this baby back into the wild? I tried to stay present: make the next and last available call.  

Sue, from Wildlife of Wisconsin, answered the phone and wanted to hear my story. Where did you find him? She listened with care and compassion. “Yes, we’ll take him. I can meet you at a gas station in Reedsville later this afternoon.” (By the end of this day, I’d drive 3 hours during my “swerve to be kind.”)

Late in the afternoon, on my way to meet Sue, I saw multiple dead animals on the road, including raccoons. I knew I wasn’t “saving” this one—who knows how long he’ll live—but I was answering his call for help; making a small difference. He purred, chattered, and moved around the box. I drove, feeling fear—the uncertainty of life—and also feeling focused and aware. At the gas station, Sue was in the midst of a hectic day and still attended to us with care. She transferred the animal to her car, saying, “We’re only supposed to take 60 raccoons, but I always take more.” I was teary-eyed with gratitude, thanking her both for her work and her kindness. She replied, “We need people like you who really care. Imagine how many people just walk on by.”

I returned to my van and sobbed. Big, heavy sobs of relief, love, gratitude, and grief. (My friend Miriam, who tended this raccoon with me, recently lost her husband—my dear friend—to cancer. This was all interrelated in a raw and powerful way.) Seeing more roadkill on my drive and listening to a dharma talk on death and impermanence, I knew I hadn’t done anything grand. My actions were a small drop in the kindness bucket. I can’t save all raccoons, but I could support this raccoon, who so clearly asked for my help. It seems that's the most important thing we can do: Help the person right in front of us. When someone asks for help—in either a straightforward or hesitant way—we can stop to be kind; we can swerve a little from our path.

When I got home, exhausted and relieved, I walked around my yard. The previous week, I saw only weeds in my flower beds, which reflected the resistance in my grieving heart. But on this evening, I felt joy and wonder. I saw only flowers and abundance. I felt love, gratitude, and happiness. And slowly I realized: I didn’t save that raccoon; He saved me.
--
E-Course: Coming Home to Yourself | Monthly Mindfulness | About Joy |
Guided Meditations | Facebook Page | Photography

Grief and Gratitude

Four months after mom died, I began my volunteer work in prison. During our mindfulness sessions, we sit in a circle, volunteers and inmates together. We begin with meditation and then check in. The check-in is group meditation: each person shares from the heart while the group listens, in a spacious, deep way.

My first few check-ins were raw: the relationship between meditation and grief. I didn’t hold back; I let myself be vulnerable. After everyone shares, there’s time for general discussion. One inmate (I’ll call him “R”) looked right at me and told a story from his previous incarceration.

He went to a parole hearing, not expecting much but received wonderful news: he would be released in a week. He'd be released! R was beyond happy; he was giddy. When he returned to his cell, there stood “white shirts.” (Blue shirts are guards; white shirts are administration.) R immediately thought, “Oh no, something happened and they reversed the decision. I won’t be released.” But that wasn’t the news. The two men in white shirts said, “We’re sorry son, but your mom has died.” This took his breath away. His mom was his best friend. She was the first person he wanted to tell about release. On the very same day, two extremes occurred: he received freedom and his mother lost her life. Through tears, he said—still looking right at me—that for the next week he bounced repeatedly between joy and grief. And this juxtaposition helped him heal. He hoped that I could find the beauty and growth within grief. This was his genuine wish for me.

The whole group silently bore witness to this exchange. Both me and R in tears. Vulnerable, brave, raw, and real. A group wish for growth and healing within pain. A wish for insight within grief.

Only now, a year later, do I fully understand R’s words. I understand how sadness and gratitude exist in the same space of my heart. To love fully means to grieve fully. Once the heaviness lifts, there’s spaciousness, gratitude, and even joy. When I'm tugged by heaviness, I allow for tears—for sadness—yet I also allow for ease and gratitude. I smile as I think of mom (and Patrick and Mary and Grandma). I’m deeply grateful they were in my life; that I knew and loved them for even a short time.

I’m equally grateful for the compassion, wisdom, and vulnerability I witness in prison. In an institution that actively de-humanizes people, I observe humanity and caring in unique and beautiful ways. Greg Boyle writes, “Compassion is not a relationship between healer and the wounded. It’s a covenant between equals.” My prison sangha is just that. And this would make my mom smile.

--
E-Course: Coming Home to Yourself | Monthly Mindfulness | About Joy |
Guided Meditations | Facebook Page | Photography

The Practice of Mindfulness

The practice of mindfulness has two important pieces: 1) notice when you're distracted, and 2) return to the present moment, with spaciousness and compassion. We can't stop our thoughts and judgments, but we can form new relationships with them. Noticing is the first step in any awareness practice. We can't make changes from autopilot, but if we notice, we make more conscious choices. 

Though sometimes we might notice and make judgments, "Joy, I can't believe you were lost in thoughts again. Pay attention!", our return to presence—through sensations of the body or sounds in the room—can be gentle and effective: "Joy, you've been ruminating. It's okay. Come back to your breath." Letting thoughts rest, letting judgments rest, for just a few moments. This cultivates awareness and compassion.

Mindfulness is a practice, not an end result. It requires a willingness to begin again and again; to drop expectations; to pay attention in a spacious, kind way. And it's possible to do this practice in small doses. Small changes have big impact.

I encourage you to practice now—in this very moment. If you feel a tug of resistance or not-enough-time, that's a clue you might really need this pause. Give yourself permission to just be; to listen to this short audio:

Building Awareness and Compassion

---
Welcome Page (start here) | About Joy | Courses | Monthly Mindfulness | Facebook  

Join the Kindness Movement

Today is World Kindness Day, which feels particularly relevant: After a tumultuous week here in the States, we need kindness. We need many things: honest sharing, deep listening, tolerance, equality, compassion, and healing. But kindness is accessible right now, in this moment.

You can make a pledge for World Kindness Day. They suggest interesting and varied ideas. For example, "Pick up trash in a local park", "Send a thank you note to your favorite teacher", "Learn about another culture", "Tell someone how much they mean to you," or "Let someone go ahead of you in line." Such wise, beautiful guidance. In a world filled with greed and hatred, we can generate generosity and love. It only takes a few minutes to be kind. And kindness changes the world in quiet yet powerful ways.

My pledge: Write a touching, inspiring note and leave it on someone's windshield. This secret kindness mission warms my soul and makes me gleeful. Because kindness opens the heart in ways that benefit everyone. Please join me.

--
Monthly Mindfulness | Guided Meditations | Facebook Page | Photography

A Different Path to Compassion

During elections, sporting events, or work conflicts, it's easy to fall into us-and-them thinking. "We" are good, "they" are bad. This creates division and disconnection. We no longer see others as human—as people doing their best in a complicated world. This isolates us: we lose touch with our kind heart. 

Instead of "us" and "them," we can envision humanity: we all want to love and be loved; we all want to live with ease. We might disagree—we might have different opinions—but we're still interconnected. If we ignore the human-ness in each other, we lose touch with love, compassion, and healing. 

We often resist difficult circumstances and cling to happy ones. These habits of aversion and craving are natural, but they don’t feel good. They constrict our mind, body, and heart. A different choice is to make space for painful feelings and give away positive ones. Breathe in pain, breathe out healing. Breathe in fear, breathe out compassion. Breathe in difficulty, breathe out the appropriate and wholesome antidote. This practice—which can be used in meditation or in daily pauses—retrains our minds and enlivens our compassion. With each breath we reduce aversion and craving, while we build generosity and love. Another “simple” practice that moves us toward connection. 

Create space, look inward, and allow for compassion. Give it a try, listen to this audio:



--
Monthly Mindfulness | Guided Meditations | Facebook Page | Photography