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.]
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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.

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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.
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The Chant of Good Will:

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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.
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Navigating Life and Web

I started this blog years ago, while I was a statistics professor. Something deep inside me longed to share in a different way. My posts began as explorations of teaching. Gradually, they morphed into discussions of authenticity, vulnerability, and wholeness: bringing heartfulness into the heady world of academia. Perhaps some of you followed me back then as "Joy of Statistics." When I switched careers, my focus changed to mindfulness, compassion, and being with everything—the joyous and the difficult. "Born Joy: Mindfulness" was launched. Yet at its core, this blog stays the same: writing from my heart, sharing insights and struggles, hoping to connect with anyone interested.

For you long-time blog readers, I want to provide an update. I've added pages to this blog. Everyone in marketing tells me: "You MUST have a website." Because I feel comfortable here, with the style and feeling of my blog, I decided to create a website(ish) within this space. 

My business URL, BornJoy.com, now points to my Welcome Page. Please visit if you're curious about all my offerings. In particular, you might be interested in bonus pages I created (freebies with heart): Self-Care Page, Gentle Reminders, and Guided Meditations.

I'd love to hear from you. What do you think of this space? Does it feel inviting? Is information easily accessible? Is there something additional you seek? I welcome all feedback, as well as ideas for new posts and meditations. You, my dear blog readers, are the heart of my business and my practice. Thanks for being here and thanks for being you.

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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.
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Open to Possibility

The past few weeks, I've been focused and productive: revamping my website, finishing a new e-course, and teaching mindfulness workshops. Amid abundant yet busy days, I recognize my need to pause; to take a break; to gain a fresh perspective. When I don't pause—when I try to push through and work harder—my creativity wilts, my writing weakens, and my ideas stall. 

As always, the trick is to remember to remember. To prioritize short pauses: a walk around the block, a 5-minute meditation, or a heartfelt connection with another person. These ordinary actions widen my view. Instead of seeing deadlines and limits, I see possibility. I better understand when it's time to stop and when it's time to keep working. It's my own awareness calling me back: slow down and pay attention. What's the next most skillful step?

External sources rarely tell us to rest, pause, and slow down. We must do this for ourselves. It's beneficial to our health and well-being and, as importantly, it sparks creativity, compassion, and insight. We can practice together, in this very moment (our chance to remember to remember):

Open to Possibility
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Connect, Listen, and Be Kind

In 2008, I was still (happily) a statistics professor at Lawrence University. During commencement weekend, I gave the baccalaureate address. Just recently, I found my speech, which was never shared on my blog. In general, these words still ring true. So, here's a blast from the past, a view from 10 years ago...

Perhaps some of you have heard of the “six-word memoir” started by SMITH Magazine. SMITH is an online magazine that celebrates storytelling. In 2006, the editors challenged their readers to write six-word memoirs—a short six words to summarize a life. The response was overwhelmingly positive and sometimes deeply personal.  The magazine published a book that includes hundreds of these memoirs. 

Some of the memoirs are humorous, for example: “One tooth, one cavity, life’s cruel.” “The psychic said I’d be richer.” “Where the hell are my keys?” “College was fun. Damn student loans.”  

Others of the memoirs describe life’s difficulties: “Learning disability, MIT. Never give up.” “Hard to write poems from prison.” “Widowed. Forging reluctantly forward with faith.” “Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends.”

This second set of memoirs addresses topics we all encounter but often don’t discuss—difficulty, death, heartbreak, disease, struggle, depression. In not having the discussion, we isolate ourselves during a time when we might desperately need connection. Life is difficult for everyone. If we struggle, it doesn’t mean we personally did something wrong—it just means we’re living life. And it’s through these difficulties that we grow stronger as a people.

In his translated Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke writes about the transformative, not necessarily negative, effect of sadness: “You have had many sadnesses, large ones, which passed. And you say that even this passing was difficult and upsetting for you. But please, ask yourself whether these large sadnesses haven’t rather gone right through you. Perhaps many things inside you have been transformed; perhaps somewhere, deep inside your being, you have undergone important changes while you were sad.” 

I encourage each of you, within your own comfort zone, to talk about the difficulties and the struggles. To know you aren’t alone. To not compare your difficulties with others. Difficulty is difficulty, and pain is pain. Sylvia Boorstein, a Buddhist teacher and author, talks of an inscription she encountered while on retreat. The words are simple, yet meaningful: “Life is so difficult. How can we be anything but kind?” Let me repeat that: “Life is so difficult. How can we be anything but kind?” Kind to others and kind to ourselves. Just a slight softening during a difficult time. Softening of words, responses, and actions at a time when hardening is often the status quo. This is not to say we should naively ignore inappropriate or damaging behavior by people (ourselves included). But it does say that as a general rule, kindness is helpful. And connection is helpful. Let's have those difficult conversations—both as a sharers and as a listeners.

Some of the other six-word memoirs are about mistakes made and experience gained: “Afraid of everything. Did it anyway.” “Most costly mistakes, learned valuable lessons.” “Happy now that I know myself.” “Learned. Forgot. Better off relearning anyway.”

Another reality of life is that failure, although sobering, is vitally important. Without taking risks, without making mistakes, without occasionally failing, we don’t push our boundaries and gain valuable insight. I know graduation is a time when we celebrate and honor people’s accomplishments, and this is important. But as you think back over your college career, weren’t there failures and mistakes made, and didn’t these make the accomplishments possible and the appreciation of the accomplishments more rich?

As with other difficult things in life, we don’t often talk about failures—we tend to shove them away, perhaps only discussing them years afterward. Yet there's richness in mistakes that can be mined for helpful insights—insights into ourselves, others, and the world. There’s a fine line, though, between learning from our mistakes and wallowing in the negativity of failure. Kindness is again the key. Can we effectively analyze our mistakes through a lens of kindness? Instead of, “Well, I screwed up again,” can we pause and gently ask, “What can I learn from this process?” Additionally, this understanding and non-judgment can be extended to others. We can give others the space to fail and grow and change. What a wonderful gift to give and receive.

Woody Allen once said, “If you’re not failing every now and again, it’s a sign you’re not doing anything very innovative.” Personally and at a societal level, we need innovation and we’re strengthened by creativity. This kind of creativity does not come from a perfect track record. Expect failures, know everyone fails, listen for the lesson or insight, be kind, and move on.

Happiness, passion, and creativity are the themes of others of the six-word memoirs: “I colored outside of the lines.” “Seventy years, few tears, hairy ears.” “Laughing until I pee my pants.” “Found great happiness in insignificant details.” “I live the perfect imperfect life.”

I encourage us all to do what we love. Spend time doing things we’re passionate about—that get our creative juices flowing. A lovely effect of human variability is that happiness and passion come in very different forms for different people. I get really excited talking with students about statistics. [This was back in 2008. Now I find contentment teaching meditation.] Others of you love playing music or making art or being with children or programming computers or reading literature or gardening. These loves might translate into a paying job or they might simply stay as cherished ways to spend free time. 

In his book Earth in Mind, David Orr writes: “The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as our culture has defined it.” 

The society in which we live typically defines success by traditional achievements and accomplishments—your grades in school, your advanced degrees, the amount of hours you work, the amount of money you make, your career advancement. Certainly, these are indications of hard and often good work, but they aren’t the only definitions of success. Advances in technology allow us to multitask and be in constant contact with others—checking things off our to-do lists and putting more items on the list. At a time when we're connected to the world through email, cell phones, text messaging, etc., we are often disconnected from ourselves—from our creative thoughts and deep emotions. 

It’s important for us all to reconnect with our hearts—how do we want to spend our precious time? Not because we have to or we should or we’re expected to, but because of a strong creative craving from inside us. Sometimes we’re so busy that we don’t even know what we truly want. So we must make some space, some quiet to reconnect and listen to ourselves. This can be difficult in our current society, but it's not impossible. And the more we pause and think and listen and be, the healthier we and our society become.

I challenge us all to redefine what is meant by success. Not to exclude traditional ideas of success, but to add to the definition. Let it also include pursuing our dreams, doing what we love, making and learning from mistakes, talking about difficult experiences, connecting with others, being kind, and really, truly listening. In the words of David Orr, be a storyteller or a healer or a peacemaker. Connect with and support your own inner longing, while also creating space for others to do the same.

So what do you think your six-word memoir is? And is it perhaps different from four years ago? Will it again be different in four more years? We all change—from year to year, and sometimes from moment to moment. I think we should embrace and celebrate these changes (what wonderful evidence of the life process). 

As I wrote this speech, I thought about and created my own six-word memoirs from various stages of my life. For example, “Love koala bears and Andy Gibb.” (In middle school, the number of koala bear stuffed animals I owned was outnumbered only by the number of Andy Gibb posters on my wall. You students probably don’t know of Andy Gibb, but I can tell you he was a dreamy teen idol who wrote wonderfully cheesy pop singles—“shadow dancing, baby you do it right.”)

A six-word memoir for me in college is “Deeply love volleyball, hate intense pressure.” (I went to Indiana on a full volleyball scholarship. My love of the game was challenged by the intense pressures of winning in the Big Ten. I learned a lot from this experience, and I treasure those memories, but it was difficult at times. Difficult, gratifying. and important.)

My early graduate school experience can be described with the memoir, “Very smart people, do I belong?” (Like most graduate students, I'd done very well in college. In graduate school, though, I felt merely average, surrounded by brilliant people. This was humbling for me, but gradually blossomed into an experience in which I learned about myself and my particular strengths. I found successes in applied coursework, creative solutions, and inspired teaching.)

There are many ways I can currently describe my life. One possible six-word memoir is “Most important thing in life? People.” (My relationships with my husband, my family, my friends, my students—these all easily trump the busyness of daily life. The people are why I love my job. You students are a pleasure to work with in so many ways. And my colleagues are equally engaged, generous, and committed. People, relationships, and connections are what I find most valuable—and this includes my relationship with myself.)

This celebratory weekend is a good time to talk with your friends and family about their six-word memoirs—about their experiences, failures, difficulties, and successes. It’s also a time for personal reflection—how have you changed and grown and what is your current six-word memoir? This is a time to share, listen, laugh, and cry. To be fully present for each of these precious moments. 

And, as you proceed with your next steps after Lawrence, I encourage you to 
Stay connected with yourself and others. 
Have difficult conversations. 
Have joyful conversations. 
Pause regularly. 
Listen intently—to yourself and others. 
Take risks. 
Do what you love. 
And be kind.

[Joy's note: Ten years later, relationships are still the most important thing in my life. Some new six-word memoirs for 2017: "Left academia. Found a different calling." "Be brave. Live wholeheartedly. Love well." "Feeling cranky? Get off the computer." "Tell people why you love them." "Sit on the cushion. Find peace."]
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Lessons from My Garden

Yesterday, I spent two hours in my yard. I made new flower beds last fall, using compost and cardboard. I worked in one bed: digging out dandelions (how do they still exist in no-light conditions?), cleaning grass from edges, and loosening soil. It felt good to place my hands in dirt; to connect with the earth. It also felt good to be outside: to hear birdsong and talk with neighbors.

After planting groundcover in the front bed, I walked into the backyard. My intention: obtain an overview of my other garden spaces. But my “overview” turned into a focused mission: get rid of weeds. I was hijacked by some primal part of my brain, and although I was tired, I went to the garage for a trowel and began digging out weeds. Once I started looking, I saw weeds everywhere.

I credit my mindfulness practice with bringing me back—back to patience, perspective, and gratitude. I dropped the trowel, stood up, and walked slowly around the yard. Having released my grip, both literally and figuratively, I felt ease and wonder. I looked at copious plants, in different states of development. I saw possibility: open spaces where I can transplant or plant anew. I felt satisfaction with my careful work in the front bed. 

Gardening provides me important life lessons. Here are a few from yesterday:

1. When I focus on weeds, I ignore beautiful flowers. Where I regularly place my attention becomes the habit of my mind. When I cultivate peace, compassion, and generosity, I feel better. When I feed resistance, irritation, and judgment, I feel worse. Sometimes I incorrectly believe there’s no choice: I see only weeds and work angrily to get rid of them. Most times, I recognize the choice: yes, there are weeds—in the ground and in my mind—which I'll never eradicate, but I can be with them differently, and I can also consciously savor the flowers.



2. Everyone has weeds. When I inhabit the small-mind of ego, I take things personally. My thoughts feel real but aren’t true: “My yard is the only one with weeds—it’s a personal failing; I'm the only person who feels shame and inadequacy.” These untrue thoughts isolate me when I most need connection. We all have weeds. We all feel pain. It’s part of our shared humanity. Deep connection comes when we show each other our “weeds” and accept one another as the beautiful, imperfect creatures that we are.

3. Persistent effort is important; patience is even more important. My garden brings me satisfaction, both in short-term effort and long-term results. Still, I get tugged by impatience: I want all the weeds gone now; I want all the planting done now. These are just thoughts. And they aren’t actually true. My true intentions: to enjoy my experience; to feel satisfied but not exhausted; to work, not from fear or anger, but from love and creativity. This requires patience. I need to put in effort, but I also need the gentle reminder that everything takes time. 

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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.

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Our Core Wound

Over the years, I've interacted with diverse groups of people: accomplished academics, endurance athletes, prison inmates, college students, service workers, recovering addicts, and meditation teachers.  Within all these groups—within me—there's a core wound: an underlying feeling of "not good enough." Our mental narratives come in different flavors, but the wound is similar. It's a soft spot of vulnerability; a place where we wonder: "If people see this part of me, will they still love me?"

To protect these soft spots, we use varied strategies: achievement, judgment, busyness, blame, and fierce independence. These strategies work for a while, but eventually they exhaust us. In our own time, we realize: it's easier to feel vulnerability than to resist it.

Though we're all connected by this core wound, we apply strategies that make us feel more alone. The healing comes when we unveil our soft spots, and this takes bravery. We live in a culture that values mental toughness and individual accomplishment. Yet our healing asks for a vulnerable team effort.

As part of our global team, I'll begin. My wound calls to me through outward signs: striving to be perfect and save the world. These actions make me feel "good enough" for a while, but they don't cover my deeper ache: what if I'm really not good enough? What if I'm unlovable? This is a painful, lonely feeling. Through practice, I've learned to stay in meditation with the pain and notice how it changes. Gradually I apply self-compassion and restore my perspective. Yet I realize this medicine, though helpful and necessary, doesn't connect me to others. It keeps my story hidden.

So, if you feel alone and caught in some version of "not enough," please know I'm beside you. Daily, I feel this same uneasiness. We're connected in far more ways than we realize. Most of us feel like we're not enough, but the truth is: we are enough, as is; we're perfectly imperfect; we're flawed and lovable.

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Fleeting

"A solid rock cannot be moved by the wind, the wise are not shaken by praise or blame." The Buddha spoke these words 2500 years ago. And they're still relevant today. We seek praise and resist blame. We're shaken, not unmoved. I find it interesting when we receive both praise and blame for the same action. This dissonance—when we're "wise"—tells us to take everything with a grain of salt. We grow from feedback, positive or negative, but it doesn't define who we are. 

Social media is complex territory. It allows for connection across continents. And it also feeds into a primal part of us that seeks external approval. It magnifies our need for praise. What's popular becomes more popular, sometimes viral. And still we're not satisfied: we need the next thing to go viral and the next. This is being "shaken by praise."

I share my photographs on Flickr. Sometimes I post a photo with trepidation and everyone loves it. Other times I post an image that resonates deeply within me, yet doesn't resonate with others. There's no "blame," but the lack of praise has the same feeling. I see my craving for "favorites" or "likes," and—if I'm wise—I step away, because I'm on Flickr for community: for sharing images, being inspired by others, and building relationships. When my focus moves from relationships to "favorites," I'm off track, not living by what matters most. Popularity is fleeting. Meaningful connection is lasting. When I'm not shaken by praise or blame, I feel more at ease and my work rings true. 

When I gave the Lawrence baccalaureate address in 2013, I ended with words that seem appropriate to end this post: "My students will recognize this mantra: you are not your grade. You are also not your job or your title or your number of friends on Facebook. Your self-worth is not connected to these externals. You are all worthy, as is. And you decide how to live life true to yourself. You have choices—important choices. Because how you spend your moments is how you spend your days is how you spend your one precious life. Make it count; make it real; pay attention; start today, in this moment. Live your life, and know I'm living my own life right beside you."
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Staying Awake

My last post was about staying put: sitting on the meditation cushion, staying with whatever arises. This is an important practice, worthy of a lifetime. Equally important is taking mindfulness into daily life. 

In 1965, Martin Luther King Jr. gave a commencement address at Oberlin College. It's called "Remaining Awake Through a Great Revolution." Fifty years have passed, yet his words still resonate: "Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability. It comes through the tireless efforts and the persistent work of dedicated individuals. Without this hard work, time becomes an ally of the primitive forces of social stagnation. We must realize that the time is always right to do right."

I meditate so I can better understand myself: the relationship between thoughts, emotions, and sensations. I meditate so I can cultivate awareness and compassion. And I meditate so I can move through this complex world in more skillful, kind ways. It's not only about staying put on the cushion. It's about staying awake during a great revolution. It's about "doing right."

We are interconnected, all of us. Fear and blame constrict us—they clip our wings and close our hearts. Each day, I ask myself: How can I stay present, discerning, and compassionate in this complicated world? What’s the next skillful action to take?

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Truth Tuesday

I began my “Truth Tuesday” series as an antidote to on-the-surface sharing within social media. If we only see people’s public faces—faces that appear happy, well-adjusted, and successful—we miss the real story, because we all struggle. Just as we feel love, happiness, and excitement, we equally feel sadness, doubt, and fear. None of us has all our sh&t together, and it’s helpful to hear this from other people. Our imperfections connect us as much as our successes.

While in academia, I often felt inadequate. I thought I failed my PhD comprehensive exams. After receiving a formal letter saying I passed (which is a big, awesome deal), I immediately wondered if they made a mistake. When I got tenure, instead of focusing on the positive, amazing student and colleague comments, I chewed on the few minor criticisms. I had earned tenure, but was I legitimate? This is the all-too-common “impostor syndrome.” Many of my colleagues felt the same way, though we didn’t talk about it. But here’s the deal: It’s helpful to talk about it. Not to ruminate on it or believe it, but to openly share doubts and fears. This connects us in important ways.

Just recently, I gathered with a group of talented, hard-working, gifted women. All of us in service careers, trying to help others. Through honest conversation we admitted how, at times, we feel like frauds. Who am I to teach mindfulness? I sometimes yell at my computer. I spend entire meditation sessions lost in thought. I still judge myself harshly. Academics or service workers, we all experience doubt. None of us has all our sh&t together.

I’ve learned something about doubt: If it speaks in an unkind way, it’s not to be listened to. There’s wise discernment: “This isn’t my strength, but it’s important for my career, so I’ll ask for help.” And there’s unhelpful, untrue doubt: “I’m a fraud and should quit.” When I feel safe to speak aloud my doubts, it’s easy to see whether they’re helpful or silly. If we share honestly, we feel less alone and better able to see our gifts or ask for help.

Who am I to teach mindfulness? I’m exactly the person, because I practice every day. When I scream at the computer, I step away and reconnect with myself. When I have busy mind, I still make time to meditate. When I judge myself, I try to apply self-compassion. I’m imperfect and in-process, and from this place, I connect more deeply with students, friends, and strangers.

PS: You can follow my "Truth Tuesday" series on Facebook.

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We Have Time to Pause

When we most need to pause, we often resist. Life feels urgent, scattered, anxious, or uncertain and instead of pausing we continue the cycle of busyness. We think: "There's no time to pause. I'll make time later." But later never arrives, because there's always something more to do. Until we actually pause.

I have a mindfulness bell on my computer. It sounds once an hour, as a reminder to pause for three breaths. Often, I step into another room: take a quick break while checking in with myself. Sometimes the bell arrives in the middle of what feels like very important work. (I take myself too seriously at times.) In these moments, I curse the bell; I might even yell a little. But if I remember to remember, I step away, because that's exactly when I need to pause. Nothing in my life is urgent. But if that's the story I believe, I'm not in a good place. I'm tense, disconnected, and not doing my best work.

When I create a little space, I feel and see differently. I remember what's most important. I reconnect with myself: my creativity, wisdom, and heart. And it doesn't have to be a big deal: it can be a small pause. My friend Steven thinks there should be a deity called "Wait a minute!" We invoke this deity whenever we pause. Instead of reacting from habit, we respond from intention. We refrain from unkind words, revive our work, and reflect on our lives.

An honest yet gentle reminder: We have time to pause. You can start right now:



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Gratitude Surprise

In research studies, gratitude is strongly and consistently associated with greater happiness. If we reflect on what's good in our lives, we start to look for and see goodness in others, ourselves, and the world. Though I've practiced gratitude in different ways, there's one practice I resisted: choose a gratitude buddy and share every day. I resisted for varied and unimportant reasons: I wasn't sure who to ask; I was leery of creating another to-do; it felt forced. But one morning I realized a gratitude buddy might be good medicine. Especially now, in my current circumstances, which are difficult, heartbreaking, and raw, as well as beautiful and life-affirming. 

I called my friend Steph and pitched the idea. She was game. We established guidelines: share gratitude daily via text; no expectation of response; try it for a month. We've been doing this for a mere two weeks and I notice a positive change. Two things surprised me: 1) having a gratitude buddy keeps me accountable (though I imagine myself practicing gratitude each day, that's not reality—having Steph on the other end keeps me focused on this practice); and 2) each day, I receive a message about something good in Steph's life—I enjoy the receiving as much as the sending.

Some days I hear the text-message sound and think, "What now? Who needs me?" or "What's wrong?" It's a wonderful re-frame to open my phone and see a simple message from Steph, sharing something positive about her life. Likewise, it's helpful for me to get off autopilot and send a text with intention, care, and gratitude.

As with all practices, the process is personal—what works for me might not work for you. But I know this: I resisted for a long while something that now brings me ordinary and profound joy, and this feels worthy of sharing. I'm grateful to be in this world with so many wise, interesting, and beautiful people. Thanks for being you!

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Small Steps

Author and mindfulness pioneer, Jon Kabat-Zinn, recently wrote these powerful words: “It strikes me at this particular moment on the planet that the well-being of the world itself depends on our willingness—each and every one of us—to tap into our capacity for embodied wisdom… The tiniest offering of your full presence, kindness, or generosity to others—as well as to yourself, of course—and a willingness to see your own tacit assumptions and biases about those who are not like you, and not be ruled by those biases, is the beginning of real freedom and compassion.”

I agree: tiny offerings can have big impact. We often sabotage ourselves by thinking effort must be big and grand. In doing so, we remain stagnant. My experience tells me real change happens with small steps. For example, regular three-breath pauses; smiles at strangers; tech-free space to connect with and listen to people; heartfelt thank-yous; and permission to fill our own wonder/playfulness/joy jars, so we can serve others from an abundant heart. Whenever we slow the pace—even for a brief while—we notice more, feel more, and love more. And this is the beginning of real freedom and compassion.

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