Mindfulness Practices for Work

When I teach mindfulness courses, my students often say, “I feel present and aware when I’m here with you, but I lose myself at work. How can I stay mindful in a busy work environment?” This is a great question, whether our work is done in cubicles, at home, inside classrooms, a studio, or within volunteer organizations. It’s easy to “lose ourselves”: to forget our breath, body, and awareness; to get caught in busyness. Yet we can remember in small, regular ways. With practice, we can return to mindfulness.

Change your perspective.

If you feel sluggish, scattered, stuck, or anxious, change your position. If you’re seated, stand up. If you’re standing, sit down. Take a short walk. Look out a window or, even better, get outside. Sit on a chair in a different room. Twirl or dance. Make a conscious choice to change your perspective. New ideas often arise in the shower, walking to the bathroom, or during an afternoon workout. We need breaks from the overthinking; we need space for creativity. Physically change your position, take a few deep breaths, and try to see the world anew.

Connect in person.

We’re constantly connected through technology. We ask questions via chat clients, email, or text. But complicated questions are asked and answered best in person. One email message can generate an hour’s work, when a phone call completes the task in ten minutes. The way we communicate makes a difference. Connecting in person helps reduce workload and strengthens relationships. The next time you have a non-trivial question, pick up the phone or walk to the person’s office. Engage with each other.

Do something kind.

Life can be difficult and work can be challenging. Our brains have a negativity bias that we must consciously tilt back. If you feel frustrated, disappointed, or just need a break, start looking for the good in people. Compliment a coworker. Give a genuine thank you. Tell someone’s boss what you appreciate about the person. Get coffee for your team. Write an inspirational message on a whiteboard. Listen deeply to a colleague. Do some small act of kindness.

Regular pauses throughout the day help us stay focused, aware, and more at ease. The busier we are, the harder it is to pause, yet it's vital for our well-being and our productivity. Take these pauses: notice your breath and body. And be willing to begin again and again.

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

Embrace Paradox

To navigate this complex world, we must embrace paradox. We must hold in our hearts—at the same time—two seemingly different things: honesty and gentleness; persistence and patience; courage and vulnerability. And we must, with kindness, remind each other: life isn’t just one way, it’s many things all at once. Yet we can live, love, and create within paradox.

Liz Gilbert writes: “Creativity is sacred, and it is not sacred. What we make matters enormously, and it doesn’t matter at all. We toil alone, and we are accompanied by spirits. We are terrified, and we are brave. Art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege. Only when we are at our most playful can divinity finally get serious with us. Make space for all these paradoxes to be equally true inside your soul and I promise—you can make anything. So please calm down now and get back to work, okay? The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes.”

I'm trying to say yes, but as I reread my post, I'm struck by another paradox—within me at this moment—being mindful and making a living through mindfulness; practicing mindfulness while marketing an e-course. This seems an important place to stay true. My work—my life—matters, yet I'm not a big deal. So calm down and get back to work, Joy: just be.

PS: If you're not familiar with me, my story, or my work, you can read my (recently added) short bio page.

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E-Course: Coming Home to Yourself | Monthly Mindfulness | Guided Meditations

Morning Routine

Scenario 1: I wake up, make coffee, and while the coffee brews, I meditate. Post meditation, I prioritize my workflow. Then I put my full attention on the first task: I use my alert morning energy for an hour, focusing on what's most important; working from intention. After an hour, if I choose, I check email or social media, but I return to what's most important. And at the end of the day, I feel satisfaction and ease.

Scenario 2: I wake up, make coffee, and turn on the computer. I check email and look at social media. I'm distracted into an activity that may or may not be important; I put out a fire that probably isn't urgent; I lose touch with my intention. (Email can be a rabbit hole.) Later in the day, I meditate, and I notice I'm off track, lost in trance.

Morning routine sets a tone for the day. Our morning habits create conditions that either support or deplete our intentions. It's always possible to begin again (like when I enter through Scenario 2, realize I'm off track, and start anew), but it's most helpful when I meet the day with awareness and intention. This needn't be grandiose. It can be a 5-minute pause as the coffee brews, deciding what projects are most important. It can be a 3-breath pause as I sip my coffee, even in front of the computer. It can be a short walk around the block, noticing the sights and sounds of nature.

What do you most need in your life? Reflection, focus, ease, quiet, connection, or meaning? Try to bring that intention into your morning routine. Start small. Think of one small change you can make to your mornings. If you forget one day, try again the next. And know this: I'm right beside you in the practice—trying to remember to remember; trying to bring presence and mindfulness to more moments.

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Guided Meditations|Everyday Mindfulness|Photography|Facebook Page

Making Space

Yesterday I looked at my daily planner--crammed with tasks in small font--and felt my anxiety rise. We just returned from a weekend of travel and heavy socialization. I was in busyness mindset--a view that limits my choices. I thought I should push through my exhaustion. But instead of pushing, I decided to pause. Once I slow my pace, I see more clearly: What really needs to be done and what can wait? What is most important? How can I honor my own needs while getting things done?

I love these wise words from Jon Kabat-Zinn: "Simplifying our lives in even little ways can make a big difference. If you fill up all your time, you won't have any. And you probably won't even be aware of why you don't. Simplifying may mean prioritizing the things that you have to and want to do and, at the same time, consciously choosing to give certain things up."

Such an obvious yet profound statement: if you fill up all your time, you won't have any. We convince ourselves we don't have choices; that our time is actually not our own. We lament that we have no freedom--I'm crazy busy right now--yet we continue to over-schedule ourselves (or we lose our free time in mindless activity). There's seldom space for life to organically unfold, because we don't allow for it. We're part of this process.

I remember my first glimpse of freedom at work. I was asked to do something that wasn't an integral part of my job. With kindness and firmness, I said "no." It was an experiment. I feared the worst--loss of admiration and respect--yet my fear wasn't valid.  Everything was okay. So I said "no" in a different situation and noticed what happened. Again, it was all okay. At the time, my plate was too full. I had to consciously give up certain things. In this process, I made space--space for what I value most.

Not every request must be met with "yes." Not every family event must be attended. Not every errand must be run. Not every post, comment, video, or news story must be viewed. We have choice in our lives and that's a wonderful thing. 

The first step is to notice--notice what's happening in your life. The next step is to prioritize: what do I most value? What is most important? This is where we can make intentional choices (do my actions align with what I most value?). From Kabat-Zinn: "It may mean learning to say no sometimes, even to things you want to do or to people you care about and want to help so that you are protecting and preserving some space for silence, for non-doing." There's great freedom when we consciously make space. This freedom comes from knowing and trusting ourselves. Busyness is a band-aid. The real medicine comes when we pause and look inward; when we make space and live intentionally; when we genuinely connect with ourselves and each other.

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Guided Meditations|Everyday Mindfulness|Photography|Facebook Page

Born Joy: Mindfulness Courses

Our current culture of busyness, distraction, and urgency leaves us feeling hollow and uneasy—like we’re constantly “on our way” someplace else. Though this mode isn’t sustainable, there is another path: mindfulness. Mindfulness is being in the present moment in an open, non-judgmental way. When we’re mindful, we listen, notice, focus, and create. More importantly, we’re present in our own lives.

I teach to individuals in small classes, e-courses, and one-on-one sessions. I also work with businesses. I try to be flexible and offer people the practices they most need. Please contact me if you have questions or want more information. (I'm based in Appleton, WI, but I also offer e-courses and Skype sessions.)

Mindfulness for Individuals

E-Courses

Coming Home to Yourself: A 6-Week Course in Mindfulness

Parks & Rec Classes (2017-18)

YMCA (on-going)

Mindfulness within the Workplace

Writing Process

My friend Bella writes honest, heartfelt words at She Told Stories. Last week she invited me to her writing-process blog tour. When I researched the tour, I saw it began with published authors--a look inside the minds of successful writers. Now its taken hold among bloggers; among those of us non-traditional writers. And I think that's a good thing. Sharing a writing process helps both the writer and the reader. 

What am I currently working on?
My long-term project is a book that relates life and photography. Each chapter focuses on a theme in photography that can be applied more broadly--to life experience and personal insight. Since I don't yet have my over-arching conceit, that project simmers in the background. In the meantime, I post regularly on this blog. And I carefully choose the words describing my Flickr photostream. 

How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I blend words and images. And I work really hard at each craft. My blog is not stunning photos absent of interesting ideas. Nor is it great writing with no visuals. I love the interplay between images and words. Individually, they convey a message. Yet together they weave a rich, textured story.

Another difference is that I share hard truths. I bare myself to the reader. My blog is about real life, which can be mundane, difficult, and beautiful.

Why do I write what I do?
I write to both understand and connect. Ideas come in and out of my mind. If one sticks, then I must write. Through the writing process I better understand the idea. If my writing stagnates, then I know the concept (or my explanation) is incomplete. When I finish a piece, I've gained insight I won't soon forget. 

The other reason I write is to connect. The most important part of my life is connection--to people, nature, and myself. Thoughtful expression from my heart is a gift I can give the world and it's also a gift to myself. I think openness begets openness. Bravery begets bravery. Joy begets joy. 

How does my writing process work?
My daily intention is to live mindfully; to notice beauty, act kindly, be present. Both writing and photography are about noticing--noticing details often overlooked. So part of my writing process is my mindfulness practice: meditation, walks in nature, listening. I often let an idea float around for weeks until its ready for the page. That said, it's important that I write every day, even if I have nothing special to say. I'm a firm believer in what Anne Lamott calls "shitty first drafts." In her words, "Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere. Start by getting something--anything--down on paper" (Bird by Bird, p. 25). This is my tenth re-write of this simple blog post.

Now I introduce two talented, thoughtful, funny writers: Cyndi Briggs and Joanna Dane. I'm not sure if they'll answer these writing-process questions, but their blogs are worthwhile reading. I guarantee they'll make you think and make you laugh.

What is Enough?

At a recent meditation retreat, the dharma teachers were asked: "How can I align my inner and outer lives? How did you know when to make the career leap?" Having just taken this plunge, I listened attentively to the answers. David Haskin said his journey was guided by two questions: What is most important? What is enough?

These questions boil down life. And they've stayed with me. Rarely do these enter our cultural conversation. Our culture pleads that doing is most important and there's never enough. It's a challenge to ponder these questions and live by our own answers.

Years before my resignation, I sat with the what's-most-important question. To me, people are most important. My relationships--connections with others, myself, and nature--are most important. 

In this transition year, I better understand the what-is-enough query. I've simplified my schedule and reduced my spending. I can better discern my wants from needs. And I know what it feels like to have extra capacity; to not be exhausted at the end of a day. 

For years I thought I had to be an academic my whole life. With that barrier broken, I more openly view the system of work. If I put in fewer hours, make less money, yet I'm content--if I have energy to pursue the things I love and spend quality time with the people I love--then that's sustainable. I might work longer into my life, but that's okay if I'm happy. I don't have to labor long, tiring hours in order to enjoy myself later--to put off contentment until retirement. That's not the only available path.

These are interesting questions that apply broadly and can be revisited. How do I live a meaningful, contented life? Decide what's most important and how much is enough. And let my daily actions align with my answers.

What Happens Next?

Yesterday I described my road to choice. A road (sometimes rocky) that eventually led me away from academia. This past autumn was the first time in my life I didn't go back to school. Those initial months were magical. My creativity exploded: writing, photography, cooking, and exploring. I felt fully awake. I had extra capacity. I was connected to myself, loved ones, and nature.

Now I see more clearly the divided life I was living. I loved teaching, but I didn't love statistics. I enjoyed talking with students, but I didn't like selling the subject matter. My inner-life had blossomed. I knew myself, my emotions, my worthiness. I valued quiet time for reflection. I prioritized people and relationships over all else. I lived from my heart. But academia is head-centered, not heart-centered. And academia (most institutions?) think more is better, even if everyone is spread too thin. So this was the divide. My inner-life and outer-life were opposites. And I couldn't hold that inside any longer. I'm just glad I noticed before everyone else.

So I wonder: how do I merge these inner- and outer-worlds? I allowed space for art (writing + photography), but now I understand that's not my next path. I write and shoot, just as a breathe--to stay alive. To feed my soul. I don't want to sell my art. I want to do my art. (And if someone pays me for it, that's awesome.)

I do love to teach. I like organizing a course so people understand (even difficult ideas). I like holding a space where everyone is heard. I care about people. 

These months without a job deepened my mindfulness practice. I meditate daily. I sit weekend retreats. I notice. In fact, writing and photography are both about noticing. Noticing details, light, beauty, and emotion. My year has been about noticing. 

How do I merge my inner- and outer-worlds? By teaching mindfulness. By providing a safe space where people experience life--their breath, their bodies, their emotions; where people stay with themselves and the present moment. And I hope to do this in the workplace (an I'll-come-to-you mindfulness class). Because mindfulness is wellness. Mindfulness is so many things. It changed my life in dramatic and positive ways.

Friends, this is all very new. I'm baring myself to you. This is an idea, not yet put into practice. Yet I'm far enough along to share my intention. I know I'll make mistakes (how else will I learn?). But I also have faith. Faith in this wholeness of my inner- and outer-lives. 

My Road to Choice

I wrote this essay last fall. I lived this essay the year before, as I processed my choice to leave academia. It was a story I needed to tell; the words poured from me. I thought it might get published elsewhere. But it didn't. So I'm happy to share these words on my blog. In fact, this feels just right. If you read my story and think it might touch another, please pass it on. Pass the word (choices surround us). And stay tuned. Tomorrow I'll share the current state of my professional path. [Special thanks to Pam for her keen editorial eye and kind heart.]

"Is this your mid-life crisis?" my husband wondered. I clarified, "It's not a crisis; it's more like mid-life deep reflection." He smiled. I understood. My rewording changed nothing. It was the first week of classes and I was in crisis. 

Thirteen years earlier I came to Lawrence University, wide-eyed and eager. I welcomed September and thrived in the classroom. The community embraced me; I belonged. Though I worked long hours, I couldn't imagine a more fulfilling career. No surprise: I was asked to participate all over campus. Naively (and, at first, genuinely), I said yes—yes to everything. I wanted to be seen and appreciated, liked and respected.

I also had a tenure decision looming. In year six, my work would be critically judged by a committee of peers. I felt thick anxiety about this process. Anxiety that shook me awake at night: Am I smart enough? Am I dedicated enough? More must be better. More articles, teaching overloads, and service to bolster my tenure file. I was firmly on the academic treadmill—point of view straight ahead, uphill.

My decisions arose from a distorted reality: if one person didn't really like me, I worried the world would see my unworthiness. If I didn't publish enough papers, I thought the world would see I'm a fraud. I hosted parties, made sure not to offend, did backflips for my students, and gave until depleted. In moments when I spoke freely and honestly, I was quickly filled with doubt. None of this was obvious to others. Since childhood, I learned to hide my insecurities. I achieved while maintaining a positive, happy exterior—it just made things easier.

After I earned tenure, I felt the physical effects of my long, hard push. My digestive tract rebelled and my heart raced. As a life-long athlete, I respected my body. I valued health over work—a realization that motivated my "Year of No." I needed room to breathe. With every new request I kindly said no, honestly explaining my code-red status.

I attended a student art exhibit, where a postcard shared nine important words: saying no is a big part of saying yes. Indeed, if I didn't say no enough, I wouldn't have room to fully say yes—to passionately work on interesting projects. So I selectively said yes, reduced my work hours, and reclaimed my personal life. And the sky didn't fall. My inner-critic warns that I have no choices: "horrible things will happen if you stop incessantly doing." A vital piece of my understanding was to notice what occurs when I make an intentional change. I became mindful of my actions—what stemmed from my inner-critic versus the actual constraints of my job? How could I better align my inner-life with my work life?

To organize my thoughts, I wrote a work mission statement. My primary intention was clear: teach and mentor students about statistics and about life. This brought my focus back to the students and away from distractions; it influenced my choices. Campus politics didn't interest me. The decisions of administrators didn't affect my daily life with students. The students were my compass. If a work activity didn't directly impact them, it fell to the bottom of my to-do list. This helped in the short-term, but I still felt depleted. No longer did I welcome September.

I found new creative outlets: gardening, writing, cooking, and visual arts. I took photography classes and carried my camera everywhere. I made time for my photos and blog, even at the end of a long work day. It was the creative heat I needed to survive. Interestingly, the hours I spent with my hobbies, ostensibly to keep me sane, changed my view of myself—I eventually saw outside my academic identity. I remember a particular August day: while watering the plants, I resigned myself to soul-filling work only in the summer; I resigned myself to gutting through the academic year. The no-choice credo: I earned tenure; Lawrence is a special place; I’m excellent at my job; I will retire in this career, regardless of my contentment level.

But when I hit crisis mode within the first week of classes, I questioned the life-long academic path. A phone conversation with a former student brought clarity to my feelings. Steph began as my advisee; now she's a close friend. She asked probing questions: "Imagine you are part-time, teaching no introductory stats, how does that feel?" (It still feels empty, not heart-filled.) "What if you had paid time to learn new statistical methods?" (Ugh.) "Do you even like statistics anymore?" (I don't know.) Our discussion held pauses when my tears flowed. Identities to which I clung were stripped away. I grieved those identities. And I also saw how painful I'd let my work life become—I was inured to the disconnect between my daily actions and activities that filled my soul. Who was I?

After that phone conversation, I knew I would resign. To many, it seemed a quick decision. To me, it was the answer to years of questions. I was trying to solve my discontent puzzle by moving around pieces within my job. Once I understood I didn't have to be an academic my whole life, my choice was obvious. I could drop the academic identity and still have plenty to give the world.

When I shared my decision with the Lawrence community (a community I cherish), I received two common responses: "I’m really sad for Lawrence, but happy for you" and "I admire your honesty and bravery." I didn't expect the latter reaction, yet it poured in from people—from very different people. A friend recently asked how I came to such peace with the decision. My answer: I accrued enough self-awareness and fully trusted myself. Before I could see my choices, I had to clearly see myself. And this is where my bravery began, in looking.

It took courage to explore layers of myself in therapy. It took courage to sit for weekends in silent meditation—alone with my thoughts and feelings. It took courage to make different life choices from those of my colleagues and to try new creative outlets—to put forth my artistic work in the beginning stages when I was most vulnerable. It took courage to love myself, as is. And I drew from these experiences when I mindfully considered a career change.

For many years I resisted an empowering truth: we all have choices—even when, especially when, it feels like we don't. Our culture encourages us to mistake wants for needs. Our busy schedules convince us that choices are actually must-dos. Some of our well-grooved habits, roles, and assumptions no longer feed us, yet it takes awareness to recognize when this happens, and it's vital to know we have a choice. Once accessed, we can see these wide-ranging choices (from saying a simple no to quitting a job), even when external forces push us in different directions. It's not an easy path, but it's the path to freedom.

The month is September and for the first time in years, I feel an absence of dread. My creative ideas flow, no longer chained to the school schedule. Every day I write, take photographs, connect with people, and fully experience life. Can I make a living through these daily pursuits? That’s an open question. And even we non-academics appreciate the richness of an open question.

What Happened on Monday

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? 

Inner Dialogue

While feeling excitement and uncertainty about my professional life, I realize I'm exactly where I need to be. I have the tools and practices to stay present with all that arises; to see more clearly. If I made this change earlier, I imagine the process would've been murkier--filled with constant (and paralyzing) doubt and self-judgment. But now I can suss out ego and hear my authentic voice.

My dad asked me to define the term "ego." He realized my use of the word is not the dictionary definition nor his personal definition. I said it was Buddhist language that I try to avoid in general conversation (and then I found the word "ego" littered throughout my blog posts). Perhaps my readers also want clarification.

Ego survives on suffering--either 1) reaching desperately for pleasure, gain, fame, praise or 2) fiercely repelling pain, loss, disgrace, and blame. Ego concretizes--sees in black and white (no gray, no changing). And ego is never, ever happy. It is relentless and must be constantly fed. It promises a break, a moment of relaxation, or happiness, but never delivers. In this way, ego is a tyrant. So perhaps I should call it my inner-tyrant.

The inner-tyrant speaks loudly and unkindly. I've learned to reduce the volume of ego. It remains background chatter (I have no expectation it will disappear), but the voice gets quieter--especially when I don't believe or follow it. Sometimes, though, ego sneaks through a backdoor; whispers something alluring and (seemingly) reasonable. And I follow.

I wrote an essay about my last few years; my road map to choice and to leaving my job. It's a nice piece--truthful, well-written, interesting. I wanted to charge ahead and submit the essay--my first step as a writer. Yet my internal compass was absent. I wasn't sure of my motivation: well-cloaked ego edict or intentional push from my inner-artist? I've learned to pause when my compass is absent. So I did (just barely). I shelved the essay. And then I saw the truth: I wanted the essay to wrap-up my life as an academic. This piece was a way to leave that life behind--never to be written about again. When actually this essay deserves more tender care and attention. Someday in the future.

I am 44 years of habituated thoughts. My meditation practice allows me to better see these thoughts and the emotional responses (and vice versa). Each day I feel more awake. More awake to life, others, and myself. I still get hooked by ego, but I always find my way back home. Back home to my open, kind, creative heart.

Getting Out of My Head

Yesterday began in the normal Sunday way: I steeped tea and chopped veggies, Mark made biscuits, we created egg-veggie mixtures, and ate outside. We talked about ideas, food, and the wildlife around us.

Then I got into my head. I tinkered with a recent essay. I worried that it would be rejected. I obsessed about my author bio (in the small chance the essay is accepted): Joy Jordan is a former professor of statistics who now obsesses about writing an unassailable personal essay. My mind was full of thoughts. But not productive thoughts.

I recognized the unproductive nature of my thinking. And so did Mark ("perhaps writing a new essay would be better than worrying this one to death"). So we went for a walk. We walked to the student-run organic garden on campus; we walked to the local urban farm. We surrounded ourselves with wild nourishment. It was a wonderful antidote to my obsessive thinking.

There are different whats about which I can endlessly think--work, plans, projects, rumination on past events, daydreams of life all-wrapped-up. When I'm unproductively in my head, I need to 1) sink into my heart and listen, or 2) move my body--get outside and get some perspective. Yesterday I did the latter. I walked for hours, connected with nature, investigated spaces, witnessed parties on people's lawns--I got outside all the thoughts in my head. And there's so much life out there: so much life to be experienced.

It's Not a F***ing Book

The reality has hit: I'm no longer a professor. School is not my structure. Instead, I take photographs, connect with people, write short pieces for my blog and longer pieces for possible publication. I make space for my writing--how can I share in a way that's new, interesting, and honest? What's my authentic voice?

Yet ego cares little about authenticity. My ego wants a print book with a respected publishing house. Oh, and a great review from the New York Times--something like, "Jordan writes intelligently, yet with raw emotion. Her insights are keen and her writing is beautiful." I shouldn't be surprised. In academia, a well-respected book is the path to success. But I'm so tired of ego's expectations.

I often write free-hand in a notebook before typing on my laptop. During these writing sessions, my emotions flow and creative seeds are planted. Recently a mantra arose: it's not a f***ing book! I'm writing to find my voice; to see what has heat. I'm writing to write, not to produce. And my work might take unusual forms--shapes I won't recognize for months. Like I said, it's not a f***ing book. This makes me smile every single time. It's my (foul-mouthed) bell of mindfulness that brings me back to myself. It brings me back to why I love writing, even when the process is hard.

My ego is focused on external validation. It sabotages the very work I hold dear. And it's speaking very loudly right now. Because at the end of the month, I no longer get a paycheck. Can I make a living through my writing? I don't know. But I'll try. And in this way, I stay true to myself.

Out of Focus

My last few weeks have been fuzzy. I'm ready to start new adventures, yet had to finish previous commitments. I have many ideas, yet no focus. I drew a mind-map, yet haven't followed any path. I want this freedom, yet feel naked without old identities. This is exactly the place in which I wanted to sit--to not know. But it's not a place I want to nest. 

I long for a routine--writing sessions all morning, with short breaks for meditation or yoga. Yet my day skitters away from me. Not in a purposeful lolling way, but in a boldly doing (nothing) way--doing without heart. Too much time online; too many to-dos driven by ego, not my authentic voice; too much pressing, not enough openness.

Yet none of this surprises me. My ego is strong and can jab me from multiple directions. It keeps me on the attention-grabbing doing path and keeps me away from the soul-filling path. And ego can't wait for me to fail at writing, so it can steer me back to safer waters. (Or if I'm going to succeed at writing, ego wants me to do it really, really fast.)

Sigh. 

I'm out of focus, but I noticed; that's always the first step. And the illusion of a perfect morning routine is quite off-putting. I just need to dive in. Flail or hover or flop or soar, I just need to start something and stay with it (even when it's hard). I need to find a path with heart. As I write this, I know I'm not far from that path. I'm connected with people, often connected with myself, and I'm engaged in creative endeavors. It's really a change in habit around work (and what "work" is). 

The focus is there, if only I turn the lens a few notches. Then the white blobs might turn into an actual daisy:

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.

Your One Wild and Precious Life

This morning I gave the baccalaureate address as part of commencement weekend at Lawrence University. It was a joyous and whole-hearted experience, for which I'm very grateful. (If you'd rather watch than read my speech go here and forward in 33.5 minutes, where Tony's introduction begins.) Included below is my speech, "Your One Wild and Precious Life":

I was both honored and touched when the class officers asked me to give this address. Particularly because this is my last year at Lawrence. I assure you, there's no drama; no relocation; no upset; no regrets. I've thoroughly enjoyed my 14 years at Lawrence. I've treasured my time with students, both in and out of the classroom. My colleagues are top-notch. I still believe Lawrence is a place where educational magic happens. But it's time for me to change career paths—completely. Away from statistics; away from academics.

So I can proudly say I am part of the class of 2013. I'm graduating right along with you. And, perhaps like you, I have no idea what I'll do after graduation. (But fortunately for me, I have no need to move back in with my parents.) My talk germinated from this unusual, yet rich vantage point. I viscerally understand that graduation holds both freedom and fear; both sadness and excitement. Graduation holds uncertainty—a place we humans find especially difficult to inhabit.

The title of my talk is the ending line of the Mary Oliver poem "The Summer Day"—a beautiful description of attentiveness that ends with the query: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" That's a powerful question. Indeed, life is wild—it's unpredictable and occasionally untamed. Yet life is precious—it's both fragile and utterly priceless. And of these wild and precious lives, we each have only one.

This stark reality hit home for a palliative-care giver named Bronnie Ware. Her patients shared their joys and sorrows. She began to hear the same regret repeated: "I wish I had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me." In Ware's words, "This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made." Choices. At times we feel backed into a corner, responsibilities and expectations high, yet that's precisely when the idea of choice is important. Choice opens space in the room. It opens space in our lives.

But how do we see our choices? How do we live a life true to ourselves? Before we can live our truth, we must know our truth. We must know ourselves. Yet the inner journey is not often supported by society. Our attention-grabbing culture of gizmos, texting, and social media encourages rapid-fire reaction, rather than reflective response. In the audience, some of you are probably texting right now: "at bacc. service" "joy jordan" "yeah kinda deep" "downtown later?" I don't judge you for this, I simply note we humans are habituated to distract. We distract with technology, work, alcohol, busy schedules, rumination about the past, plans for the future. Why? Because the inner journey is hard. Spending time alone with yourself and really listening means you'll see the good, the bad, and the ugly. You'll see love and gratitude, but you'll also see grief and shame. You'll see your kind heart, but you'll also see anger and judgment. We're habituated, by fear, to run from these darker emotions, as if we aren't strong enough to investigate that territory. But if you want to live a life true to yourself, you must step through the fear.

In her book, "When Things Fall Apart," meditation teacher Pema Chodron tells an interesting story about fear: "Once there was a young warrior. Her teacher told her that she had to do battle with fear. She didn't want to do that. It seemed too aggressive; it was scary; it seemed unfriendly. But the teacher said she had to do it and gave her the instructions for the battle. The day arrived. The student warrior stood on one side, and fear stood on the other. The warrior was feeling very small, and fear was looking big and wrathful. They both had their weapons. The young warrior roused herself and went toward fear, prostrated three times, and asked, 'May I have permission to go into battle with you?' Fear said, 'Thank you for showing me so much respect that you ask permission.' Then the young warrior said, 'How can I defeat you?' Fear replied, 'My weapons are that I talk fast, and I get very close to your face. Then you get completely unnerved, and you do whatever I say. If you don’t do what I tell you, I have no power. You can listen to me, and you can have respect for me. You can even be convinced by me. But if you don’t do what I say, I have no power.' In that way, the student warrior learned how to defeat fear."

I appreciate the truth of this story. I've often had fear close to my face, speaking with urgency. Fear begs for a quick reaction rather than a thoughtful response. Yet, if we take a pause; if we give ourselves a few moments of reflection, then we can see through fear. If you don't do what fear says, fear has no power. Notice this comes back to choice: if you choose not do what fear says, you are free.

Last fall I decided to leave academics; to give up tenure; to relinquish the comfort zone of structured school; to leave my PhD training in statistics. In this process, I did serious battle with fear. I also witnessed the changing nature of a life true to myself. I've spent the last few years mindful of my daily work life—paying attention to my choices, my internal habits (which follow me regardless of career), my energy level, my enjoyment. I wondered if I could rearrange my work day and my priorities so a vocation that once brought me great joy could still be a true path. But I found exhaustion, repetition, and waning enthusiasm. My greatest contentment increasingly came from one-on-one conversations with students about life, not statistics. The tiredness I felt could not be restored by positive classroom energy or quiet sabbaticals. I was cooked. As deeply as I care about the Lawrence community, I knew I needed to move on. This life was no longer true to me.

And it's important to note this decision-making process took great attention; great awareness. In "The Summer Day," Mary Oliver illustrates, within nature, this kind of sharp awareness. The first half of the poem includes keen observations about a grasshopper. I begin midway through "The Summer Day," just as the grasshopper (referred to as "she") leaves the reader:

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

"I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention." How many of us really know how to pay attention? To live a life true to yourself you must understand your own heart, listen to your own voice, uncover activities that bring you alive, identify your core values. And continue this process indefinitely, since the path true to you will naturally wind and meander. If you listen to your internal compass as regular practice, then you won't get lost along the path. There is no "right choice" for the rest of your life. There are many good choices. If you pay attention to where you are in this moment (not where others think you should be), then you're on a good path; a true path.

Yet living in this fashion puts you in a vulnerable position. If I ask you graduates to consider this risk, I should first share with you my uncertain situation. In September, I will not have a paycheck. For the first time in my life, I do not have a plan. In fact, I've purposefully created this space. I don't want to leap at the next thing that might bring temporary safety, yet no lasting fulfillment. I don't yet know what I am outside of academics. I love to write, take photographs, share difficult truths, deeply connect with people. Can I make a career from some mixtures of these loves? I don't know. Will I fail somewhere along this journey? Absolutely. I’ll make mistakes. I’ll feel doubt. I’ll learn. Will people judge and second-guess me? Yes. Some people will call me irresponsible or idealistic. Am I scared? Every single day. Yet I also feel completely alive. I feel an energy resonate within me—an excitement for what comes next. And most importantly, I trust in myself and my gifts. I will find another vocation that lights up my heart.

When I announced my resignation, I received three types of responses: "I'm surprised, but actually not that surprised," "I’m really sad for Lawrence, but happy for you," and "I admire your honesty and bravery." The last response amazed me the most. It's what allowed me to see the cultural undercurrent of a divided life. Circumstances can make us feel as if we have no choices. External and internal forces sometimes lead us down a safe, yet unfulfilling path. Like Bronnie Ware's patients, we put off dreams until later. Why? At least partially because declaring dreams makes us vulnerable. What if we declare a dream—something close to our heart—and then it fails? Our fear stops us—it talks rapidly and flails its arms in our face. But think of the flip-side: what if we live our entire life without openness to dreams or without making choices that correspond to what we most value? Recall our lives are both wild and precious. Let them be wild, yet also honor the preciousness of each moment. In this way, you are laid bare, but in the undisclosed company of many others.

Over 9 million people have watched Brene Brown’s TED talk, “The Power of Vulnerability.” She talks about vulnerability, shame, and taking risks. These are topics our society squelches in many ways. Our current level of societal discourse (e.g., news, social media, politics) is often judgmental, not open to vulnerability. So there's an underlying feeling of uneasiness. People recognize they want to be true to themselves, take risks, make changes, yet it doesn't feel safe. But someplace deep in our hearts we believe the words of Brown: "Vulnerability is the birthplace of joy, creativity, belonging, and love."

To be brave is really to be vulnerable. It's not brave or courageous if we don't expose some part of ourselves. And in doing so, we battle fear. Instead of blindly following fear's urgent voice, we pause, reflect, and listen to our own voice, not that of fear. I think the more brave acts we witness—even small ones—the more courage we gain to tell our stories, be ourselves, and share our passions. The reality is we're all vulnerable. And that real-ness is often what connects us. Whether we're artists struggling to find a meaningful job, students happily attending graduate school, or people re-evaluating life choices after many years, we are connected. We all face fear; we all want to be happy while being true to ourselves.

So, class of 2013, I have some radical suggestions for you: sit in silence with yourself; identify your core values; recognize your choices; pay attention to life—the successes and failures; turn off the television; actively listen to people, including yourself; if you aren't happy, make a change; take a walk without your cell phone; respond instead of react; leave space in your daily schedule; tell your story; stop texting “YOLO” and actually experience your life.

But don't do these things because I, the new-agey professor, tell you or because they seem hip or green. Do all these things so you can know yourself, live intentionally, battle fear, and understand the life that is most true for you (even as, especially as, it changes throughout the years). And whatever you do with this wild and precious life, remember it is yours. Family, friends, and society will give advice, make judgments, and provide support, but the life you lead must be your own.

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.

[Special thanks to my great editing trio: Dad, Mark, & Miriam]