Working with Difficult Emotions

It's human nature to resist pain. Evolution trained us to push away the difficult, to just survive. These habits are well-grooved, but they're no longer necessary. And they block true healing. As Carl Jung concisely stated, "What you resist, persists." 

When I resist pain, I only create more pain. If I resist my grief, anxiety, shame, or fear, I strengthen the hurt not the healing. But when I make space for difficult emotions--when I invite them in and look more closely--there's a release. It's counter-intuitive, but it works every time. After years of practice, I have a new relationship with fear. It's no longer a scary monster in the corner. Now it's a known companion. It's a signal: look inward and be gentle.

Michele McDonald created an acronym for this process: RAIN (Recognize, Allow, Investigate, and Non-identify/Nourish). First we must recognize our situation--what is my direct experience in this moment? Exactly how do I feel uneasy? (This takes time and inner-reflection.) The second step is a big leap: allow for the feeling; allow for the experience, as is. Here, we release our grip and let the feeling flow. (This can be done in small, safe ways; it's a gradual process.) Investigation is the third step. Once we allow for the emotion, we bring curiosity--not in a heady way, but in an embodied way. How does this emotion pulse in my body? What are the sensations and how do they change? (This investigation is worthy of a lifetime.) The last step is resting in awareness, in presence. Our emotions don't define us. If we allow for difficult feelings, eventually they morph and settle, and we sit in a centered place. From this place, we can apply self-compassion and nourish our hearts.

This path is both brave and beautiful. It takes strength and kindness. If you'd like to try, I'll be your guide. This meditation applies when you're in the midst of difficult emotions:

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

Love and Let Go

I spoke at my grandma's funeral. More accurately, I spoke, cried, spoke some more, sobbed, and spoke again. Later I described the event to my therapist. She said, "You felt. You trusted your feelings, Joy." And then she gave me a hug. 

I did inhabit my feelings on that July weekend in 2010. I allowed (publicly!) for sadness, love, regret, and gratitude. I laid open my heart. 

"Don't tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel," my therapist used to say. Most of my life I'd spent in my head: thinking, planning, or judging. I could analyze an issue. I could understand the reasons for my anxiety or self-doubt. But nothing really changed until I opened my heart. I found sadness needn't overwhelm, but it longs to be felt. And I unraveled my protective armor--armor that spared me hurt yet also denied me love.

Just last night, I sat on my back porch, crying. Many of my close friends are in difficult situations. If I love completely, my heart will be broken. Yet it will also burst with joy. Things only get murky when I believe I can save people. In this mode, my sadness morphs into fear and I retreat to my mind. I try to think of an escape. 

From Mary Oliver's "In Blackwater Woods":
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let go,
to let go."

My therapist again: "Joy, your life and growth will mean continually giving up control." Let go. When I emerge from my murkiness, I find balance between loving and letting go. I feel without the delusion of control. My heart expands. A smile forms naturally. I accept all the blessings of pure, unbounded love.

Under Construction

In 2001, I created my first webpage. Unsure of my work, I included a hard-hatted man next to the words "under construction." My initial viewer was Mark. (Besides being my husband, he's a software engineer with a good eye.) He gave many suggestions, but this was his first: "Every webpage is under construction, always. You needn't make that announcement." 

Thirteen years later I see that everything is under construction. Every idea, project, and relationship. We're all works in progress. It's impossible to wrap up life with a colorful bow and say "done!" Life is continual practice, sometimes on shifting ground. Everything is under construction. But this feels vulnerable, so we protect ourselves with explanations. This is only a first version, an initial idea and I'm in the process of making changes (read: these are all the reasons my work is imperfect).

I often provide unneeded words of clarification or explanation. This habit has stumped me for years. I assumed my behavior was unconscious armor against the judgment of others. Yet when I look deeper, I see it as distraction from my own self-judgment, which is far fiercer than external criticism. With this insight, I have a new practice: each time I feel my throat tighten around words of justification, I try to come home to myself. I notice my breath. I investigate and stay with difficult emotions. I treat myself tenderly. And I do this over and over again. 

Life Interrupts

I hit a wall yesterday. Life didn't cooperate with my plan. I felt like Lord Business in The Lego Movie: "You're ruining my perfection!" Desperately, I held tight control. Not real control, just perceived control. That's my habituated reaction to fear, shame, and uncertainty. And I'm sitting in a pile of uncertainty.

I often relearn this lesson: life isn't tidy; life interrupts. Sometimes I move with the flow. Other times I meet my edge. Meeting my edge yesterday was helpful. It exposed my soft spots. I can't fix the world, but I can attend to myself. I can pay attention through all the interruptions: electricity not working, friends' cancer diagnoses, unexpected car repairs, peddling a new business, and my father's heart surgery. I either stay with my edge or abandon myself. I'd rather stay. In these raw, vulnerable moments, I most clearly see my heart--my beautiful, tender heart. These are not interruptions, they are life itself.

The Weather Forecast

It's been a wild weather week. First came the rain--days of rain. Then came the cold. My backyard is puddles of water and snow. Ice falls from trees and telephone lines. I worry about the green shoots in my flower beds. Yet it's out of my hands. Nature is a wonderful teacher--of patience, loss, resilience, and growth.

It's also been a wild week for my internal weather. I've seen the depths of sadness and the heights of joy. I've experienced fear and calm, frustration and contentment, exhaustion and creativity. Our emotions mimic patterns of weather. Some feelings stay longer, some visit briefly; some emotions we enjoy, others we dislike. But no weather is permanent, just like no feeling is final. Change is what we can count on.

I question my internal weather forecast. At times it's helpful to predict my emotions, if they might be strong and I might be tender. But that's merely a prediction. Who knows how I'll actually feel until the moment arrives? Again, it's out of my hands. 

I chuckle when I read an incorrect right-now weather forecast. Like when the current status is rain, yet I see clear blue sky. The same happens with our internal weather. We assume we're fine when the actual feeling is sadness or frustration. We think we're fearful when the real emotion is excitement. We expect to be angry yet encounter empathy. 

It's good to question the internal forecast: What am I feeling right now? What needs attention inside me? In this moment, what stands between me and happiness? It's good to ask these questions and make space for the answers--to actively view our internal weather. Because the layers of unpredictable snow can melt and reveal lush, green grass.

Declare Your Life

On Saturday, I shared Kwanzaa dinner with wonderful people. It was my first encounter with the seven principles of Kwanzaa. All are thought-provoking, but one (self-determination) struck me: define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves, and speak for ourselves . The focus is internal. Speak, live, and create for yourself, not for external approval.

My friend Cyndi recently posed this question: How do you declare your life? How do you show up and announce your presence here, now? While enjoying the Kwanzaa meal, I understood one way in which I don't declare my life--when I focus on the expectations or approval of others. In those moments, no announcement (nor creativity nor realness) occurs. 

The declaration of life seems bold. Initially I thought of brave decisions (leaving academia) or public vulnerability (raw blog posts). But that's not how I announce myself. In fact, my claim on life is not bold or attention-grabbing. Yet it's absolutely real. (I answer Cyndi's question in the present moment. Forty-four years of life precedes this answer. And much of my growth came from self-determination.) 

How do I declare my life? By staying compassionately present with myself and others. By giving my full attention to people. By allowing for joys, sorrows, surprises, and truths. By listening to my own story and the stories of others. Open-hearted presence is how I announce myself. It's not sexy or popular, but it's me. It's how I declare my life.

The simplicity is striking: I announce my presence by staying present. When I'm mindful, I don't leave my body and emotions behind. I allow for my feelings, while listening to another. I stay with that person, whether their story is happy or terribly sad. Depending on the situation, I share tears, hugs, laughter, words, or silence. In doing so, I announce that I am worthy and you are worthy (all of me and all of you--even the dark places).

Some days I actively declare my life; other days I passively (and inattentively) watch life--or I search for the approval of others. But I notice the latter more quickly. And I spend many more days announcing my presence. It's the natural push and pull of life. It's how we learn, grow, and form new habits. On the cusp of a new year, I wish us all a deliberately and genuinely declared life.

(This is a collaborative effort with my friend Cyndi. You can read her wise words here. She is a gift to this world.)

Be Vulnerable (Be Brave)

What does it mean to be brave? The Oxford Dictionary claims it's the readiness to face and endure danger or pain. Certain kinds of bravery are revered in our culture; others are overlooked. I think it's brave to be emotionally vulnerable--to face fear, hurt, shame, disappointment, and grief. To not only face these emotions, but to honor and tend to them.

Yet there are few models of brave vulnerability. Our cultural discourse leans toward judgment and certainty. In response, we create emotional armor. Armor that disconnects us from others. It disconnects us from ourselves. This protection might allow us to face pain, but it's not sustainable for enduring pain. It's not wholly brave.

Before we can be brave, we must understand vulnerability. We must explore our tender places and gradually expose them--in small and safe ways. I think it's brave to declare a dream, share a difficult piece of our story, and lead from our hearts. It's brave to be uncertain and try anyway, to express gratitude and love, and to make purposeful choices (perhaps different from those around us). I think vulnerability is a gift. And as I accept this gift, I become stronger, braver, and more alive.

It's not easy. And it's never complete. We can spend a lifetime noticing and embracing our vulnerabilities. We can spend a lifetime understanding what it means to be brave. A lifetime fully lived and experienced. Sounds like a worthwhile journey.

Permission

Initially I resisted my unplugged Saturdays. Now I welcome them. My spirit craves the weekly, 24-hour break from technology. Once I gave myself permission, the hesitation eased. All the what-if scenarios sprinted through my mind (something could go horribly wrong). I let them pass. The only permission I needed was my own.

While on meditation retreats, people agree to Noble Silence. We don't speak. This allows for inward focus; space to watch thoughts and emotions without the distraction of speech. I've been asked if this silence is challenging for me. Just the opposite: the permission to not talk provides great relief. My aversion appears when silence lifts. It's important for me to realize: at any moment, I can choose not to space-fill with my words. (For me, speech contains many long-held, emotion-masking habits. A topic for a different post.) 

Freedom exists in the present moment--if I allow for my experience, as is. If I let in difficult (and pleasant) emotions and investigate. Where does a feeling manifest in my body? Does the location change? Does the feeling change? Is there another emotion underneath? In order to be curious, I first must allow. I must take off my protective armor. I must open my heart.

To allow (to grant ourselves permission) feels counter-intuitive. We're used to rejecting difficult feelings. We're used to striving and improving. The permission of which I write is not acceptance of malicious behavior by others. It's not weak. It's not apathetic. It's the permission to be in this moment (a very brave choice). It's allowing for our own experience, as is. Not trying to change or fix. Just allow. And the only permission we need is our own.

A Compassionate Heart

I remember a conversation with my high-school volleyball coach. She advised me, as setter, to be a sponge: soak up team emotions, but remain even-keeled; be a positive leader. I absorbed negativity, upset, and frustration. I took responsibility for everything and beamed enthusiasm. This was natural for me. From an early age, I sensed the emotions of others.

Eventually, though, the emotional-sponge model didn't work for me. I took on the difficulties of others as if they were my own. I thought I could save people. I thought I was responsible for the world. My heart was overwhelmed. 

I needed to look inside myself; to understand my own emotions. With enough self-awareness, I began to discern my feelings from those of others. I could see my response to the pain of friends. Then I tried to work skillfully with the situation--applying loving-kindness to both myself and others. It took practice to develop compassion--to open my heart completely and yet not be overwhelmed. Sharon Salzberg writes in Loving-Kindness: "It is a state of peace to be able to accept things as they are. This is to be at home in our own lives. We see that this universe is much too big to hold on to, but it is the perfect size for letting go. Our hearts and minds can become that big, and we can actually let go. This is the gift of equanimity."

The last two weeks brought sad news from different arenas. Distressing things happening to people I love. Some days I'm overwhelmed by sadness--so many people suffering. I try to remember Sharon's words: the universe is much too big to hold onto. I can't possibly save the world or take away the pain of loved ones. And if I dwell in an overwhelmed state, I only create more suffering--my friends suffer and I suffer. A different strategy is to open my heart; to not resist the pain and sadness. Then do what I can to help. And when I can't help, I let go. (The universe is the perfect size for letting go.) Sometimes I forget, but then I remember: I only need trust in my compassionate heart.

Trance of Unworthiness

On Friday night I attended a stirring talk by Tara Brach. Tara is a meditation teacher who speaks directly to my heart. Her book, Radical Acceptance, exposed me to life-altering ideas. More simply, I appreciate the book's title. In our culture, it's indeed radical to accept ourselves, as is. Self-love is so counter-culture that it's radical. Her new book, True Refuge, provides a heartfelt framework back to ourselves--dropping the false refuges and regularly connecting with our true refuge: our own inherent goodness.

From Tara I first heard the phrase, "trance of unworthiness." In her experience, most people suffer from this trance--living life with the constant hum of I'm-not-enough. I understand this trance well. I've lost swaths of my life in it. And I've also found my way back to myself. (See my previous post about shame and acceptance.)

My habituated reaction to difficult emotions is aversion--I push away. Through meditation practice I've learned it feels better when I allow for these emotions. It takes more energy to push away than to let them in. Still, my habits are well-grooved. But eventually I release from the trance. I allow for the sadness, anxiety, fear, and shame. Sometimes sitting with an emotion (e.g., sadness) releases it. Other times, the emotion is layered and sticky. In these situations, when I compassionately sit long enough, I typically find this root: something is wrong with me; I am not enough; I am unworthy. In these moments, if I place my hand on heart and say, "Joy, I'm sorry and I love you," I feel release. I feel connected to myself--my true, vulnerable self.

Tara names the common false refuges: striving, distracting, numbing, and judging. I understand every one of these. When I feel unnamed uneasiness, I often 1) try to prove myself via achievement, 2) distract myself with busyness and planning, 3) have a glass of wine and watch a movie, or 4) judge myself harshly (self-judgment is the background chatter of my mind)--or sometimes judge others harshly. These false refuges provide merely seconds of relief and must be reapplied. That is, they don't provide long-term refuge. 

Uncovering my shame and loving myself through it has radically changed my life. I live many more moments not in trance. I'm more present to all of life and all of me.  And once my heart opened to myself, it opened even bigger to the world. Imagine if we all healed ourselves with self-compassion; if we experienced life and others without protective armor; if we walked not in trance, but with open-hearted presence. 

Life is Difficult

I feel helpless. Not the helplessness that might accompany depression (on the contrary, I am filled with and empowered by choice). But I feel helpless with regard to my mom's pain and suffering. And she's really suffering. 

I shared my raw sadness when mom moved to a care center. It's been a life-long process to understand I can't save her. Yet I still relied on my ability to help her. When I sat with her compassionately, I could see her relax. When I listened, she smiled appreciatively. I didn't realize how tightly I clung to those moments--those moments when I could see my mom's response. I helped her. 

Now she's flat: unresponsive, lost in depression, hopeless.  And I'm helpless. It's a new layer of grief.

It's hard to reconcile that being helpless doesn't equate to not caring. It's easy to understand intellectually (I know I can't help her, yet I still love her). But emotionally, it's a more difficult truth to embrace. I love her, so I really want to help her. That's the place in myself I'm trying to nurture. When I feel helpless, I let myself cry. I let myself love my mom; grieve her. And I try to be kind with myself. 

This weekend, I had space (in the peacefulness of nature) for reflection. I realized I'd probably had my last meaningful interaction with my mom. And it wasn't when I visited in July; it was back in May. I showed her photographs and asked her about the hardships she felt. We had a conversation. It may have been our last. Even though her physical body could keep her alive for years.

I've grieved my mom in many ways over many years. It's been difficult to be her daughter. But I don't want the difficult times to overshadow the positive moments--and they exist, to be sure. Sylvia Boorstein talks about a plaque she saw in the early years of her meditation practice. The plaque read, "Life is so difficult, how can we be anything but kind?" What a beautiful way to work with the difficult. Be kind. And where did I learn kindness? From my mom. From her I learned empathy (deep empathy) and the importance of small kindnesses. 

My mom has lived a difficult life; and she's also kind. I love her, yet I can't help her. I'm gathering memories from her friends. Lovely, poignant memories that honor my mom--the pieces of her that depression has eclipsed, but that I can always hold in my heart. 

Saying Goodbye

For months I've purged the innards of my Lawrence office. Each time the recycling bin is emptied, I throw in more paper. It's a cleansing process (with occasional nostalgia). But outwardly my office didn't change--until last week. In just 20 short minutes, Mark and I dismantled the feng shui I had carefully cultivated. The lamps, throws, photographs, water fountain, rugs--all purposeful choices to create a relaxed, living-room feel--were packed in mere minutes. And I felt verklempt. I took a moment to process the change and grieve the space. This space that made students feel safe; this space that witnessed much learning--about statistics and life. It was an unexpected wave of emotion. And then it passed. (Of course, spaces can be cultivated throughout our lives in many different environments.) 

Initially my sadness about leaving Lawrence focused on students. I care deeply about the students--not just as learners, but as people. Then the sadness extended to my amazing colleagues. Yet I've had closure in these areas--end-of-year parties filled with both emotion and celebration. I thought I'd processed it all. But when I left my office for good, Keith and Mike--the custodians in my building--expressed sadness. They told me how much they'd miss me ("miss seeing my smiling face"). Indeed, I'll  miss not only my students and my colleagues. I'll miss the custodians, administrative assistants, admissions counselors, career advisors, and on down the line. Lawrence is a special community. I feel blessed to have touched many different lives and to have them touch me back. Saying goodbye was a great lesson in saying hello. It made me realize the importance of everyday interactions--a smile, a patient ear, an act of kindness. These simple, yet intentional actions build community. And I'll carry that with me wherever I go. Whether for a friend, coworker, stranger, or myself, a genuine smile goes a long way; it has a ripple effect.

We Can't Jump Over Ourselves

I often hear Pema Chodron's words in my head: "We can't just jump over ourselves as if we were not there. It's better to take a straight look at all our hopes and fears." There are times when I really want to step around myself; I want to avoid my feelings of shame, fear, helplessness, and grief. When I'm in avoidance mode I search for external validation and distract myself in varied ways. Eventually I awaken from this trance. And that's when I hear Pema's words in my head. I can't jump over myself; I must sit compassionately with myself, as I would with a good friend. 

I sit with the fear and doubt of having made such a bold professional decision. I let it wash over me and realize I'm strong enough to deal with fear (to listen but not follow). Wave after wave of fear and I'm still here; I'm okay. This process is actually easier--takes less energy--than jumping over myself. But I need consistent reminders.

I sit with the raw helplessness I feel about my mom's emotional and physical state. Helplessness is a difficult place to sit. I want to soothe and save; I want to feel like I have some control. Yet I remind myself that helplessness and compassion can coexist. I deeply love my mom and also know I am helpless. This is new territory for me--a particularly tender place. All the more reason to sit gently and explore.

I sit with my creative excitement. I watch my mind ping between multiple creative projects. I notice what's authentic and what's ego. I sit until my mind calms enough to take intentional action. 

Interestingly, when I desperately want to leap over myself--to avoid at all costs--that's exactly when I must sit. It needn't be formal meditation. I only need sit down, calm my movement, notice my breath. And ask myself, what's going on right now? In order to understand the answer, I quiet my mind and listen to my heart. Yet, I regularly forget this lesson. That's just part of being human. We want to jump over ourselves, but gradually we learn that staying with difficult emotions takes less overall energy. Through the process we become more whole; more in touch with our true nature.

The Truth of the Moment

We view all interactions and experiences through a filter. Sometimes our filter is clear--like crystalline, still water, where it’s easy to see all the way to the bottom. Often our filter is clouded, and occasionally it's completely covered in black slime. In those moments, we can't see the truth of the moment. We're too involved in rumination, planning, anxiety, or old stories that we can't stay present; we can't hear the words of the other person; we can't see through the old movies playing in our heads. 

The Buddha gave analogies on how mind states hinder clear seeing: craving is like water filled with beautiful colors; aversion is like boiling water; sloth is like water covered in algae; restlessness is like wind-churned water; and doubt is like muddy, unsettled, cloudy water (lots of layers to doubt).

Craving (read: wanting) and aversion (read: fear, anger, anxiety) are human habits--habits to avoid difficult feelings. The craving typically comes from a feeling of lack. I want this do-dad, cookie, compliment, or change of scenery, because deep in myself I don't feel enough. Rather than sit with that pain, I feed my cravings. Although aversion is a different hook, it also comes from a place of dis-ease: something is wrong. When we experience the something-is-wrong feeling, we typically direct it in one of three places: something is wrong with me (self-judgment), something is wrong with you (anger), or something is wrong with the world (not fair!). Again, aversion arises when we avoid the dis-ease--instead of exploring the something-is-wrong feeling, we leap to anxiety or anger or judgment. If we miss craving or aversion completely, then we can fall into restlessness or sloth. And doubt is the mother of all hindrances--it weaves a nasty web of cloudy filters that are hard to detect (doubt is wily).

So many potential obstructions to clear seeing--no wonder there is war, oppression, and everyday misunderstanding. Seems hopeless, huh? Actually, it's not. Because the simple act of noticing can make a big difference. If we notice a not-enough feeling and sit with it (just for a moment), then we move forward on the clear-seeing path. One of the most powerful realizations I've gained from meditation is that I am not my mind state. I am not fear or sadness or excitement or crankiness or contentment. I experience these emotions, but they do not define me, and they always pass. Sometimes it feels like the fear will last forever, but it never does. And if I notice when the emotional weather changes, then I trust it will pass the next time, too.

Moving away from the present moment is a human habit--it happens to us all. (I could write an entire blog post on the multitude of ways I distract from difficult emotions.) We move away because of dis-ease. It's a well-grooved habit, but interestingly it doesn't take away the dis-ease; it's an avoidance path (which is sometimes quite necessary). The paradox is that moving into the truth of the moment (into the dis-ease) is the path to freedom. The more we trust in the present moment--whatever it brings--the more alive we are. And it's these moments that we can string together (bit by bit) to make a more contented life.

Human Connection

Today is my last official day in the classroom at Lawrence. (I'm here spring term, but on sabbatical--a lovely, low-key way to transition.) This is an emotional day--more emotional than I expected. Not because I doubt my decision; because I deeply care for my students. My interactions with students (in and out of the classroom) are what fill my heart and lift my spirit. I enjoy talking with students about statistics, but enjoy even more talking about life. I see the creativity, strength, and light in all my students. When possible, I try to reflect my view back to them. The stories that play in our own minds are often distorted; the inner-critic wants to squash our light. It's a gift to see ourselves through the eyes of another. In Lawrence students I see kindness, creativity, emotion, intelligence, vulnerability, and light--in a variety of ways.

Recently I wrote some six-word memoirs, concisely summarizing where I am right now. Here's one  of my memoirs: achievements fade away; people matter most. Indeed, people matter the most to me. Thanks to the whole Lawrence community for making me feel so connected.

Map of Self-Exploration

Sometimes I need grounding--a break from the busyness to anchor on my breath. Last week I noticed the mental energy I spend in the past and the future, which inevitably leads to fear and anxiety. But when I come back to the present moment, the fear is manageable and often dissipates. My mantra for last week: in this particular moment, I am really okay. Even with uncertainty about the future and anxiety about the past, if I slow down to notice the moment I'm in, I know I'm all right. There's no emergency, no urgency, no impending threat. It's just me and my breath. And it's all okay. The most important pieces of this process are the noticing and pausing. (And the willingness to start over again and again.)

Just as I need grounding, I also need to look up:

Too much time spent searching for ground (read: certainty) or keeping eyes on the pavement leads to a distorted view of self, others, and the world. My spirit is recharged when I deeply connect with others, including myself. This means looking people (and myself) in the eyes, hearing difficult stories, sharing my own truths, opening my heart, staying with the moment, and--when appropriate--lightening the mood with laughter and silliness. It's taken me years to be comfortable having the difficult conversations; but through the process I've strengthened my relationships. And I feel more at home.

What can be most challenging is looking deeply inside ourselves. We encounter dark places and pieces of ourselves that we don't particularly like. We feel the painful emotions (e.g., shame, sadness, grief, loneliness) that we've spent years trying to avoid. And our avoidance habits are well-grooved. For me, I watch movies, busy myself, plan, make lists--anything to avoid just sitting with myself. And that's precisely when I know I must sit. Because sitting with myself is the only way through the pain. Via the dance of avoidance and self-exploration, I've slowly learned to know myself, trust myself, and actually see my beauty. Because it's not just darkness we encounter when we look inward; we also see the special, beautiful light that shines inside us. Each light unique and extraordinary.