Healing the Poverty Within

Last week, a friend shared this Mother Teresa quote: "Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat." Giving someone food is easy. Giving someone compassion and care is hard. When life gets busy, it's easier to write a check. It's harder to volunteer our time, compassion, and willingness to listen. But care and compassion are desperately needed. And small, kind actions make a big impact.

Today I see this quote through a different lens: Consider the unwanted, unloved, uncared-for parts of ourselves. Self-kindness is not our natural habit. But if we ignore our needs, push away difficulties, and speak harshly to ourselves, we create poverty inside our psyche. A poverty that cannot be helped with food or material goods. 

My new perspective on Mother Teresa came while driving.  After supporting a friend, I was overwhelmed by emotion. Sobbing, I stopped by the side of the road. I paused to feel. And what I felt was resistance. It was like a 5-year-old tantrum: I want this pain to stop! I want my grief to go away. Grief: the unwanted, uncared-for place in myself. So in the car, on the side of the road, I put my hand on my heart, and spoke aloud, "Oh, dear, sweet, Joy, this grief won't go away, and that's okay. Let's stay here as long as you need." 

Here's an equation: pain x resistance = suffering. Here's a different equation: pain x self-compassion = healing. It's possible to develop self-compassion. It's a practice, which needs patience and commitment, but it really works. And it doesn't require scads of time. Too often we're driven by scarcity of time. ("I don't have time to take care of myself.") Time is a big deal in our culture. So many wholesome practices we don't have time for; so many meaningless activities we make time for. But this is just resistance, and resistance can change. (I didn't always say, "Oh, dear, sweet, Joy" in moments of difficulty. This came gradually, with practice.)

You can start exactly where you are. You can start in this moment. Six minutes to begin a practice of self-compassion. With my whole heart, I invite you to try:


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Not Knowing

Poet Jeanne Lohmann writes: "Two more words to let go: never and always, and through the space they leave I look out on possibility where categories become boulders beside the trail." What if the trail was covered in possibility and not knowing?

There's so much I assume I know: the way a person (always) acts, how a situation "should" be, or the conditions I need for happiness. But these aren't the truth, they're just expectations. And when I expect things to be a certain way, I invite disappointment.

Though it challenges me daily, I'm trying to not know; to allow for possibility. Because people change, surprises happen, and curiosity opens my heart. After years in academia trying to analyze, understand, and know, I open to the mystery of this moment: Who knows what might happen? This question makes space for possibility, surprise, and wonder. It softens my heart and opens my mind.

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The Power of Kindness

A story from my last year in academia: It's the first week of term, students wrangling to get into my over-enrolled classes. After a long day, I receive a phone call from my sister: "Dad's in the hospital. They think he had a stroke." I start sobbing. Jackie quickly replies, "Joy, he's okay. The doctors are doing more tests, but it's probably a mini-stroke. He's okay." The rest of the evening, I process and wait. Before bed, I talk to Dad for a long while. He tells me he's fine, answers my questions, and even sounds happy. I feel reassured though still shaken. (Later, we learn it was bell's-palsy of the 7th optic nerve, not a stroke. How quickly things change. A reminder of the preciousness of life.)

The next morning, I'm exhausted and raw. There's a light knock on my office door. I feel irritable, anticipating yet another student who must get into my class. The student enters and I feel armor encompassing me. She asks if there's space in my course. I firmly say "no." She lingers. I begrudgingly ask about her situation, which she explains in detail. I maintain that the class is full. Then something shifts: I really look at her. I see her as a person, and I see the protection around my heart. I know my class is the best choice for her, and though I feel over-burdened, this isn't her fault. So I invite her in. As she fills out a note card about herself, I take a bathroom break.

In the bathroom stall, I quietly cry. I'm tender and vulnerable, but this armor around my heart isn't helpful. It separates me from myself and others. And it separates me from kindness. So I return to my office and apologize to the student. I tell her about my night. I tell her I'm tired and not my best self. She smiles and says, "It's okay. I really appreciate you letting me in the class." 

This was an awakening moment: I saw the importance of kindness. First I saw how kindness gets lost when I armor my heart; how it gets lost in busyness and urgency. Then I saw my path back in: pause, notice, open, and be real. My act of kindness didn't just help this student, it helped me. It helped me return to myself and what I most value.

Now I regularly use kindness to shift my mood or maintain good spirits. These acts needn't be grand. They can be quite ordinary: holding the door for another, giving a genuine compliment, getting coffee for a colleague, smiling at a stranger, or sending well-wishes via postal mail. When I move from a place of kindness, I feel better. I feel more open and connected. And I'm available to accept kindness—to see the good in others.

I think kindness is powerful—more powerful than greed and anger. Whether we give or receive kindness, we benefit. Kindness flows in both directions; it connects us. When we feel overwhelmed, not sure how to navigate this uncertain life, we can take one small step: Be kind. Be kind to ourselves, friends, and strangers. Because kindness changes the world in small yet powerful ways.

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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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