Last May, I hung an exhibit in an interactive gallery. I asked viewers to caption four of my self-portraits and caption themselves in the mirror. I'm curious about perception. How two people can experience the same moment in completely different ways.
Look at the image above. How do you caption the emotion? Some answers from the May show: sadness, leaning in, doubt, fear, anticipation, relief, concentration, humility, depression, defeat, solace, grief, joy, contemplation.
A single image, yet varied perceptions. Defeat and solace; grief and joy; fear and relief.
Into every encounter, we carry a filter. Sometimes that filter is clear, but often it's cloudy--clouded by our expectations and our history. We think someone is unkind when she's actually distracted. We assume someone is happy when he's actually in pain. We perceive chaos where there's magic or tension where there's beautiful honesty. It's difficult to see clearly.
And it's helpful to know our perceptions are not reality. They are not the truth. When we're mindful, we open ourselves and remove these filters. We understand there are many views of the same situation. We might not like it. We might really want our particular view. But that's not how life is. There's freedom in letting go.
This holiday season, can you see someone in a new way? Can you remove an old, muddy filter? Can you view a situation differently? Can you see yourself as beautiful?
Europe feels like a dream. A lovely, awe-inspiring, beautiful dream. A fully-awake dream. I loved every city, every space, every experience. I loved them differently yet fully. I took books, but required no reading. The scenery provided a rich and unforgettable story.
Jet lag is a strange feeling. It doesn't impede my sleep, but something feels off--like I've lost track of time and place. I feel in-between lives and cultures. And this liminal space allows me to not know; to let things be fuzzy. While inhabiting the in-between, I judge less. I feel embodied. I go with the flow. I feel weird, yet connected to others (don't we all feel strange at times?).
Within the fuzziness of jet lag there's a rich learning environment: space to be more and do less; to accept more and judge less; space to see through the old stories. Sometimes fuzzy can be beautiful.
My niece Emma gave a suggestion for this blog: include a few whimsical or what-happened-this-weekend posts ("your blog is cool, but sometimes it's like really deep"). Emma also made a PowerPoint presentation where she offered me new career paths (e.g., Mrs. Clause, children's book author, rickshaw operator). She's a creative, soulful, and humorous girl. This post is in her honor.
Monday was weird. It was exactly my vision of morning routine: meditation, breakfast, free writing, work on my book that's not a f***ing book. Yet my words felt forced and my mood dark. So I took a walk with my camera. (Yes! Take a break and do another creative activity. It's all part of my vision.) The weather was cold and windy. My hands went numb. I shot a few photographs and returned home. All day this tape played in my head: my writing voice makes me want to vomit; it's always the same--blah, blah, blah; this is torture.
Later, I wept on the stairs described my discomfort to Mark. His response: "Isn't that what all writers think? In fact, doesn't that indicate you're actually a writer?" In the midst of my doubt attack, I smiled then laughed. My husband is observant and funny. (Maybe he should be the writer.)
That night I spoke with Emma on the phone. In a previous email she asked, "Have you published a book yet?" After rich and varied conversation, I mentioned the book--no, I haven't published anything, but I have topics and notes for nine chapters. Her enthusiastic response: "Really?!" Yes, it's the book about life + photography. "No, I meant the children's book." Again, I smiled then laughed. She shared helpful advice: children love bright colors, curvy lines, and inanimate objects that talk. (Maybe she should be the writer.)
Besides all the laughter, there is some good news. When I danced around my living room to loud music I felt no doubt or judgment. Do you think Florence & The Machine needs untrained yet spirited back-up dancers?
Compliments are on my mind. I've written previously about taking in the good--the tension between accepting the good yet doubting our worthiness. In The Story of You e-course, Jen & Ria posed an interesting question: what kinds of compliments do you readily accept and what compliments do you quickly deflect? This was a revealing exercise for me. And I'm still thinking about it.
In general, I try to graciously accept compliments (regardless of my internal struggle). Kind words are gifts offered by others--gifts I don't want to diminish. And mostly my outward acceptance mimics my internal process. Except for two types of compliments: 1) kind words about something I've done (e.g., food, photo, writing), but I don't feel is my best work; and 2) kind words about something with which I have a complicated relationship.
I know people have different perceptions about the exact same event. We all see things through our particular lens. (Sometimes my lens feels clear and other times it feels cloudy--tainted by my internal stories.) So back to the first compliment type: isn't it possible that someone genuinely enjoys a piece of my work that I don't feel is my best? Of course, it's possible. In fact, it's likely. Yet I doubt the sincerity--I assume the person must be offering a compliment just to be nice. This is a reaction from a place of unworthiness. Re-framing the situation: I can accept the compliment and ask what, in particular, the person likes. Maybe I'll learn something about my own work; something to which I was previously blinded.
I'm a caretaker; a giver of open-hearted love. Connection to other people is an essential part of my life path. But if I'm not careful, my authentic action can morph into must-dos. When I receive a compliment about a care-taking action, I drink it in (for a moment). But then I'm filled with doubt: now I must keep doing this particular action for the rest of my life (or I'm not a good person). Doubt is such a nasty mind state. It casts a strong shadow on our basic goodness--our worthiness, as is. With this second compliment type, perhaps I can just rest in the acknowledgment of my heartfelt work. Just rest there, no future action required.
Oh, compliments. They seem so simple, yet can be complicated. It's interesting for me to view both sides of compliments--to be authentic in giving compliments and to be mindful in receiving them. I think both ends reveal much about our inner-dialogues. Dialogues that include voices we want to nurture and voices it's best we ignore.
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.
I participate in a weekly photography group (thank you, Bella!). This week's theme is doorways; I'm intrigued and fascinated by doorways. Doors and windows have lovely lines, textures, and reflections. They're visually interesting. As a photographer and a viewer, I'm drawn to them. But it's not just the visual--it's something deeper. Doors can represent choices, freedom, adventure, new views; alternatively, they can represent blockage or confinement. It depends on how you view the door.
Reaction to transition can be the same: excitement or dread. So doors and transitions are on my mind. Personally, I'm transitioning from summer-mode to fall-mode. This involves not only a movement in natural seasons, but a movement in the pace of my life. A new academic year begins and my daily schedule is packed; this in stark contrast to the flexibility in my summer days.
Often I face this transition with some dread. The dread story goes like this: I have no choices or freedom; the fun ends; how can I maintain the life I've so authentically crafted while being so busy? I must resign myself to the daily grind and give up all creativity. But this is just a story in my head--really, it's not true. (See my previous posts on doubt stories and unhappiness stories.)
What's really true? My schedule does change, but I always have choices. The transition requires endurance and initially I'm quite tired, which is a lovely reminder to take good care of myself. Each school year is another doorway of opportunity--in fact, many doorways. Places where I can try new things, experiment, create, and connect. This flips the switch from dread to excitement. Yet how quickly the dread story forms in my mind--each year I work with it. (Interestingly, I also work with the summer's-here-so-now-life-is-perfect story at each academic year end. The reaction is excitement, but the "story" is that life is now wrapped up and everything is perfect. Nope. Difficulty still happens in summer.)
As with all of life, mindfulness helps. My simple intention for this week: be very mindful of the transition--all parts of the transition. What doorways are actually open when my story perceives them as closed?
Last weekend, Mark and I camped at Hartman Creek State Park with the wonderful people of the Green Apple Folk Music Society. It was 24 hours of trees, music, crickets, connection, quiet, reading, song sharing, bugs, friendship, stars, and happiness. Yet by early afternoon on Saturday, I entered a mild crankiness that quickly fed into a juicy, unpleasant story. The process went something like this: I've read enough for the moment, what now? It's really, really hot. I need something different, but it's too hot for a bike ride. I'll go sit with Mark and friends. Actually, I don't really want to talk with anyone. What I really want is to go home. In fact, I can't wait to get out of this place. It's hot; there's bugs; there's too many people around.
Boom! I went from peaceful and happy, enjoying the moment, to a huge story that was all about me and my unhappiness. Truly, this happened within a 10-minute period. While stewing in my mind, an offer came to go for a swim at a nearby lake. This was a lake about which I'd heard great things from multiple people. And it seemed just what I needed--a get-away from the heat and an opportunity to move my body. Yet I initially resisted. Part of my story was that I wanted to stay unhappy. So I quietly stewed a bit longer. (Luckily, it takes the group a while to mobilize, so I had processing time). I sat in the muck, but then I realized it was muck. I noticed--yay! These are times to celebrate: when I notice the story and take a risk to leave it.
At the last minute, I grabbed my swimsuit and caught a ride to the lake. Even that action lifted my mood. And then the experience itself blew my mind. The lake is surrounded by beautiful, thin pine trees. It's deep, spring-fed, and incredibly cool in temperature. It's large enough to really move your body and deeply connect with nature. It was fabulous. I was back in the moment. I was connected with my authentic self and with nature. I was out of my story.
I share this experience as a way to remember it in my bones. To remember all parts (the yucky story, the risk, the return to myself), so I can access them viscerally when I'm in the next story. Because that story will come. In fact, many have come and gone since our camping trip. This is my nature as a human being. But I more fully realize the choices I have when working with my stories. And I'll always remember my refreshing lake swim.
Yesterday I wrote about doubt. And, not surprisingly, I had a huge doubt attack after sharing so personally. This is the wily way in which doubt works. The antidote to doubt is trust--trust in myself, in my basic goodness, and in the truth of the present moment. Trust that I am okay, just as I am (without any doing, achieving, accomplishing, changing). When I'm mindful, I'm in touch with my kind heart, and I trust. When I'm not mindful, I inhabit fear and doubt and then more busyness. My therapist once said to me, "Joy, everything you need is already inside of you." This is a mantra I've repeated weekly, if not daily. In fact, her statement is true. I'm already okay, enough, strong, lovable, wise, capable--these are things in which I can trust deeply (yet pesky doubt still sneaks in). Each day is another step on the trust path.
Wednesday evening, as Mark and I relaxed in the backyard, I asked him to write the word "TRUST" on my chest with a black Sharpie. All my wonderful hubby asked was, "does it matter what font I use?" I said "no." And then I smiled, as this was all part of the trust exercise. After he emblazoned me with trust, I let it seep in. And I took many self-portraits in order to fully remember and embrace the moment:
I am fully in touch with doubt. I greet it every day. Sometimes I recognize it for what it is; other times I believe the mean-spirited stories. Doubt is one of 5 mind energies that, according to Buddhist philosophy, hinder our clear seeing--hinder our ability to see the truth of the moment. And doubt is the muddiest, murkiest, hardest-to-catch hindrance. Why? Because it arrives wrapped in some story. It sneaks onto the old tapes that play over and over in our heads. Tapes we believe perhaps less and less, yet can still grab us--can still make us doubt ourselves.Here are some doubt stories with which I've recently worked:You are having far too much fun this summer; eating and drinking too much; probably gaining weight; far too much happiness to be healthy; you're probably really damaging yourself in some deep way.You are not busy enough. You need to do more. In fact, you're not at all ready for the new school year. You'll walk in the classroom and be a complete failure.You are sharing far too much of yourself and your feelings; making yourself so vulnerable is embarrassing; people probably laugh at you and your silly endeavors.First note: These stories are all unkind. Even if they aren't overly mean, there's an underlying sense of judgment. For me that's a tell-tale sign of doubt. Second note: These stories are all untrue--no truth. This is precisely the way doubt hinders clear seeing. (But they can be so easy for me the believe, especially when I'm vulnerable or tired or tender. They can become my reality for minutes or hours or days.) Third note: I will work with doubt for my entire life. There will never be a time when these doubt stories don't creep into my consciousness. And that's okay; it's human nature. But I recognize the stories just a bit sooner and sometimes I can even smile at the new ways doubt has seeped into my head--smile and think, yay, I noticed.
