Return to Childhood

There are different types of laughter. Some aren't pleasant: forced laughter in a social situation or unkind laughter at another's expense. But then there's genuine, gleeful laughter that awakens and heals us. The kind of laughter that takes us by surprise; that allows us to open our hearts and let go.

We often protect the childlike parts of us: awe, silliness, wonder, and play. We don't want to seem naive or unintelligent; we don't want to appear Pollyanna-ish. Our habits—and our culture—tell us to get the job done, gain respect, look smart, be serious. All of this is appropriate in measured doses. But it's not how I want to spend this one precious life. Right now, I feel weighty issues. My mom died six months ago. My close friend has incurable Stage 4 cancer. This is serious business. And still, I need to let myself laugh; to let myself be surprised and grateful.

So my radical suggestion is this: return to childhood. Color with crayons. Be amazed. Giggle for no good reason. Ask questions. Do cartwheels or somersaults. Get curious about the natural world. Be honest. Laugh and cry, whenever you need to. Keep your heart wide open.

These childlike qualities are what give me hope for this crazy and beautiful world. Because they allow us to see in new ways. They allow us to be fully present. They allow us to move through life with honest and open hearts.
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How Is It Supposed To Be?

There are moments when I feel overwhelmed by life—when circumstances create upheaval in my world while different circumstances create upheaval for friends. If I express this overwhelm to Mark, he says, "Sounds like a lot of life is happening around you." Reality check: I needn't be overwhelmed or shocked, this is what life looks like. People die, get divorced, lose jobs, and work with illness. No one is immune to hardship—hardship connects us.

And if I resist the hardship, I cause more pain. I get angry at the world: why does so much crappy stuff happen? This resistance separates me from myself and others, and it disconnects me from play and happiness. Irritation masks my pain, when I really need to feel; when I need to move toward the difficult places. So I ask myself: How is it supposed to be? My complicated answers often make me smile, and this lightheartedness brings me home. 

Because life isn't supposed to be a certain way. We can't control difficult circumstances just like we can't control amazing moments of joy. When I let life flow, I more naturally feel silliness and wonder, and I more fully feel sadness and loss. In this way, I'm available to myself and others. Available with an open and spacious heart.
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Pain is Pain; Joy is Joy

We all experience physical and emotional pain. Pain is part of life. Yet we try to avoid it by escaping into our thoughts. Instead of feeling the pain, we judge our experience. Comparing-mind is a dark, murky place, but we often apply it to pain: "I shouldn’t feel sad (or hurt or lonely), because many people have things worse than me." Or the opposite: "That person shouldn’t be so upset, because her problems aren't as big as mine." The first statement separates us from ourselves. The second statement separates us from others. Pain comparison creates separation when we actually need connection. The reality is this: pain is pain. If we feel pain (or see it in others), it needs to be honored; it needs to be felt.

Since mom died, I’ve felt a range of pain. And the pain is unpredictable. Some days I feel pure sadness. Other days I feel joy, ease, and wonder. Yet other days I feel pain that’s unexplained. It’s just pain. I engage thinking mind: Is this grief? Is this something else? What triggered this? But then I remember to return to my direct experience. There’s no need to quantify what “this” is, I just need to feel it. I heal myself by allowing for the pain. This occurs when I move from thinking mind to the visceral sensations in my body. I make space for whatever is happening. Pain is pain. Big or small, I try to allow for what's happening in the moment.

In the same way, joy is joy. If I feel happy, there's no need to mute my happiness, even in the face of world suffering. Likewise, when I see happiness in others, I can make room for it—I can rejoice in the happiness of others, even if I feel irritable (or even if the happiness comes from a person I don't particularly like). Joy is joy; pain is pain. The trick is this: allow for it all—allow for the pain; allow for the joy. In this way, I create connection with myself and others. My heart opens in both directions. This makes me vulnerable, but more importantly, it makes me whole.

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Own Your Humility

From a young age, we develop a sense of self. We build interests, identities, and beliefs. We also build armor, because life is difficult: we all experience embarrassment, loss, and pain. It's natural to protect our heart. Yet it's possible—even freeing—to unveil our heart. It's possible to be vulnerable. To see our innate goodness, as we see the goodness in others. 

My "self" bounces between two extremes: there's something wrong with me (I'm worthless) or there's nothing wrong with me (I'm awesome and undervalued). Each of these extremes separates me. And this separation is an armor; an attempt to control an unpredictable world. But it doesn't feel good. It constricts my body and my heart. When I re-connect with awareness—when I sit in meditation or simply take a pause—I find a place between extremes. I find humility. 

With humility, I hold two ideas at once: I'm lovable just as I am, but I have blind spots that hold me back; I have gifts to give the world, but my gifts aren't more special than others' gifts; I have wisdom and insight, but my ideas are limited (I must keep practicing); my life matters, yet I'm not a big deal. When I move from a place of humility, work hums and connection happens—all without having to try so hard. I simply get out of the way.

Karen Maezen Miller writes, "The world needs fewer people to own their greatness and a few more to own their humility." Each day I wonder: how can I own my humility? How can I know myself yet forget myself? 

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Heart Hunger

Last summer, I read Mindful Eating by Jan Chozen Bays. These words—her words—stayed with me: "Most unbalanced relationships with food are caused by being unaware of heart hunger. No food can ever satisfy this form of hunger. To satisfy it, we must learn how to nourish our hearts." The word "food" is easily replaced by others: work, social media, news, shopping, exercise. (We have many unbalanced relationships.) There's much that consumes us and that we consume. But what do we really seek? What are the whispers of our hearts?

When I was in academia—unsatisfied but unaware—I bought myself books, clothes, and housewares. I didn't look at price tags nor did I consciously choose. It was an unskilled version of self-care: consumption that didn't nourish my heart. From this same place, I hosted parties and filled my social calendar. I was consumed by what people thought of me. My worthiness came from externals. Eventually, my freedom came from within: The connection I craved most was connection with myself.

Yesterday, I found 3-year-old notebook scribblings (a page entitled "Funk Freedom"):
Talk about the difficult stuff. Get outside. Create. Move my body. Meditate. Listen. Open my heart. Hug. Take a break. Smile. Meditate. Be kind. Have lunch with a friend. Dig in the dirt. Chop vegetables. Dance. Cry. Meditate. Donate my time. Watch the light. Photograph. Laugh.

These were (still are) ways for me to nourish my heart. True medicine, not band-aids. When I lapse into craving-mind—that uneasy feeling of not-enough—I try to pause. When I remember to pause, breathe, and be, I better access my basic-goodness; I better access wisdom and awareness, and these lead to conscious choices. Choices that fill my heart.

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Waiting Practice

In daily life, we spend a lot of time waiting: waiting in line, waiting to meet a friend, waiting at the doctor, waiting in traffic. Pieced together, we can wait 30 minutes in a day. Often, there's an underlying annoyance with waiting—it can feel like we're missing out on life. But here's a radical re-frame: waiting as a mindfulness practice; as an intentional time to check in with ourselves. 

The next time you're waiting, try something different. Close your eyes, breathe, and look inward. I try to regularly ask the question: What's happening inside me right now? What needs my attention? If you want guidance with this practice, listen to the audio below. 

And if waiting-as-mindfulness is difficult, try something else: Anytime you're waiting, notice the ways you distract yourself. Just notice. And notice how you feel.


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Blind Spots

Since mom died, I've tried to practice self-compassion. I need gentleness as I move through grief. I need gentleness as I navigate this unpredictable life. And I thought I was doing just that. Then I attended a 3-day silent meditation retreat and received a clear message: I need sincere love and kindness from within. This insight brought me to tears. I thought I was giving self-kindness, but it was on the surface, going through the motions. During the retreat I went deeper: I felt love and gratitude within my body and heart. My practice was sincere.

We all have these inner blind spots--places where our actions are not aligned with our intentions. Sometimes it's obvious: we feel a disconnection and make a change. Often it's not obvious. Our minds are wily. We trick ourselves in complex and varied ways. It's important to regularly check in. Not in a heady way, but in a full-being way. This requires space, stillness, and quiet. Space to sit with the question: What is most important? Then sit with the question: Are my daily actions or non-actions aligned with my values?

Judgment can sneak in, telling us we've failed or we should be different or we should give up. But judgment is not helpful. Honesty, kindness, and awareness are helpful. Judgment closes our heart; awareness opens us. When we find a blind spot, it's a moment of awakening. We can now make conscious choices. Small steps toward wholeness.

But first, we must make space. Instead of packing our schedules and distracting in every free moment, we can choose a different path. A regular check-in can happen through meditation, walking in nature, or savoring a cup of tea. I often ask myself: Am I moving toward or away from wholeness? Do my choices lead to openness or constriction? I'm most present in my own life--and most present to others--when I'm open and aware; when my intentions and actions are aligned; when I feel my interconnection with all beings.

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