Pause and Look Inward

My friend Miriam just called. During our conversation, she asked about my day. I replied, "Lot of doings. But some days the doings just have to get done." She laughed at this, knowingly, then confessed she was grocery shopping with her one free hour of time. Though we try to cultivate our being-ness, we must finish work, run errands, and attend to others.

Much of our day is focused on externals, and it's easy to lose track of what's going on inside us. If we ignore emotions as they arise, they squeeze out in unskillful ways. At the end of a long day, I can be angry with Mark, though my frustration lies elsewhere—with uncooperative technology, my own high standards, or lingering grief. If I attend inward, then I'm aware of my emotions—not misplacing them on others. And I'm aware of my body, recognizing the need to shift positions, stretch, and move. 

Life is busy. Interruptions happen regularly. Still, it's possible to pause—for 3 breaths—and check in with ourselves: notice the state of our thoughts, emotions, body, and breath. The more we practice, the more quickly we notice. Choices present themselves in the pauses. Even when life is busy, we can find a little more ease. And on those days when we think, "I can't possibly pause or attend inward," that's when we most need the practice. Give it a try now (if not now, when?):

Brief Check-In With Yourself
---
Welcome Page (start here) | About Joy | Courses | Monthly Mindfulness | Facebook  

Wisdom from the Woods

Mark and I spent three nights in a rustic cabin in Hiawatha National Forest, just after a fresh snowfall. Our tiny cabin had no running water or heat. We relied on a trusty wood-burning stove and camping equipment. Getting to the cabin entailed a 1-mile snowshoe, carrying everything on our backs and a sled. Carry in, carry out. The forest was calm, quiet, and welcoming, both in sun and moonlight.

Daily, I try to live a mindful life, paying attention to what's most important. Yet at the cabin I realized busyness still fills my days. In the woods, I slowly made coffee, savored a cup, watched the fire, and eventually cleaned dishes. No rush. No calling to do anything except what's right in front of me. I brought books to read, but they were unnecessary. I didn't need distraction. Hours went by without boredom. (Such a contrast to my typical day filled with doing.)

We snowshoed each afternoon. It felt good to move our bodies yet have no goal or expected result. When snow fell from the trees or birds flew overhead, we paused. We walked in silence; we walked in deep conversation. We returned to the cabin whenever it felt right. And our return was met not with email, phone, or text messages, but with quiet and simplicity. Being unplugged brought freedom.

On the third morning, I awoke with craving mind: I want to go home, sleep in my own bed, and be warm. But there are important lessons in being uncomfortable. Being uncomfortable allows me to see new parts of myself. It lets me see I'm capable of far more than I realize. So I got out of bed, made coffee, and let go into rustic-ness. That day—one day past my comfort zone—was our most satisfying. I want to remember this as regular practice: become more comfortable with being uncomfortable.

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

We Have Time to Pause

When we most need to pause, we often resist. Life feels urgent, scattered, anxious, or uncertain and instead of pausing we continue the cycle of busyness. We think: "There's no time to pause. I'll make time later." But later never arrives, because there's always something more to do. Until we actually pause.

I have a mindfulness bell on my computer. It sounds once an hour, as a reminder to pause for three breaths. Often, I step into another room: take a quick break while checking in with myself. Sometimes the bell arrives in the middle of what feels like very important work. (I take myself too seriously at times.) In these moments, I curse the bell; I might even yell a little. But if I remember to remember, I step away, because that's exactly when I need to pause. Nothing in my life is urgent. But if that's the story I believe, I'm not in a good place. I'm tense, disconnected, and not doing my best work.

When I create a little space, I feel and see differently. I remember what's most important. I reconnect with myself: my creativity, wisdom, and heart. And it doesn't have to be a big deal: it can be a small pause. My friend Steven thinks there should be a deity called "Wait a minute!" We invoke this deity whenever we pause. Instead of reacting from habit, we respond from intention. We refrain from unkind words, revive our work, and reflect on our lives.

An honest yet gentle reminder: We have time to pause. You can start right now:



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

What Gets Lost

A few months ago I taught mindfulness at a local business. On that morning, I did final preparations for class, allowing little wiggle room in my schedule. I left with just enough time to arrive 15 minutes early. I got in the van (we're a one-car family) and noticed the gas tank was empty--completely empty. My first thoughts: "Argh! What was Mark thinking? He knew I had an important meeting. I rarely use the car and this is what happens. Now I'll be late." 

Poof--mindfulness gone. Right away I went to blaming and judging. In my rush, kindness was lost. And this was eye-opening. At that particular moment, I regained my composure, forgave Mark, forgave myself, and moved forward. Yet I saw how easy it was to make a different choice: to stay angry or deny responsibility. Either of these would lead to more suffering--for me and everyone around me.

In a strange way, our culture values busyness. We pack our schedules, allowing little free time for life to happen--for empty gas tanks, long lines, sick days, unexpected repairs, or genuine emergencies. When life feels urgent, important things get lost. We lose kindness, creativity, and compassion. We lose the ability to listen deeply or see anew. We lose faith in ourselves and connection with others. We might do more, but we experience less.

A meditation teacher once asked me two questions: What is most important and what is enough? Thoughtful answers to these questions guide my daily choices. Even small simplification lets my life flow more freely. When I understand what's most important, I invite presence and connection. When I know what's enough, I make room for forgiveness. And when I'm mindful, I stay open to possibility. Even as busyness swirls around us, we can make different choices. We can practice peace and spread kindness. We can be the change we want to see.

---

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.

---

Guided Meditations|Everyday Mindfulness|Photography|Facebook Page

Everyday Mindfulness: Red Lights

Daily life can feel hectic. We cram our schedules full, leaving no space for surprises and interruptions, both of which we can depend on regularly. This feeds our irritation and separates us from joy. Yet it's possible to make breathing room in the tightest of schedules. Momentary pauses abound. 

Red lights and stop signs are beacons of stillness. It takes this subtle shift: I'm stopped from moving forward (argh!); I'm allowed to pause and be, to relax for a few breaths. This practice has buoyed me. I now welcome red lights. I don't look in my purse or at my phone or obsess in my mind, I bring my awareness back to my breath and my body. I rest at the red light.

I also do this as a pedestrian. When crossing a busy street, I must wait for traffic. I wait and breathe deeply. Or I repeat loving-kindness phrases to myself: may I be safe, may I be happy, may I live with ease. Whatever the practice, it creates a break in the busyness. It gives me access to the present moment. It moves me toward both stillness and aliveness.

The Holiday Blur

Ten years ago my focus was solely external: Am I achieving enough? Do people really like me? What will others think of [fill in the blank]? The I'm-not-enough feeling heightened with holiday expectations. I bought presents for everyone, decorated the whole house, wrote cards, hosted parties, and filled my social calendar. I hoped these externals would generate comfort, but I always felt depleted (and a little cranky).

Now I carry a different holiday intention: how do I spend quality time with people I love and also attend to myself? The answer varies from year to year, but always involves mindful choice. This year there are no decorations and few cards; there are some dinners and parties. There's lots of love and creativity; there's presence.

December brings the shortest days. It's a natural time for hibernation. And an important time for self-care--even in the festive bustle. If we let choice slip away, the holidays become a blur of must-dos. If we live in choice, the holidays provide heartfelt connection. We can't do it all and still enjoy the moments. Doing it all is exhausting (and actually impossible). 

In this holiday season--in this life--what's most important to you? Identifying what's most important is a gift to ourselves. Choosing what's most important is a gift to ourselves.  And with these gifts we become more alive, open-hearted, and available to those we love. Life is no longer a blur, but a series of moments--both happy and sad, yet fully and purposefully lived.

I'll Be Happy When...

There's a mind game that goes like this: I'll be happy when ... [fill in the blank]. I'll be happy when my work stress ends. I'll relax when I finish my to-do list. I'll love myself when I lose weight. Yet the self-improvements, to-do items, and work projects are endless. It's not possible to wrap up life.

There's a sign in our kitchen that reads "the time to be happy is now." The letters are all capitalized, so Mark sometimes yells the phrase during an apt moment. But the message is sincere. We have a choice in our happiness. We can choose to reduce our commitments; we can choose to prioritize what matters most; we can choose soul-filling activities; we can even choose non-doing. 

Currently I have no job. And I have no children. At a bare-bones level, I'm free of responsibility. Isn't this the dream scenario? I'll be happy when I'm retired. I assure you life with no responsibilities isn't non-stop bliss. I still want to control uncontrollables; be liked and respected; and avoid difficulty. I still judge myself harshly. These habits do not disappear, because we can't wrap up life. And there's great freedom in this realization.

Last week I envisioned a new creative path--a possible career that resonates with my heart. I was excited and motivated. I was alive. Then what happened? Distractions. It's easy to fill a day with striving and busyness not related to my core mission. It's easy for this to occur even when my mindfulness practice is strong. What a wonderful lesson.

I forgive myself for the distractions. And now a friendly reminder: dearest Joy, you choose how you spend your days. What a precious choice since "how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives" (thank you, Annie Dillard).

Reclaiming Fall

It's late August, and for the first time in years, I feel an absence of dread. Human behavior is fascinating. While walking the must-be-an-academic path, I regularly made rationalizations: it's okay if I'm exhausted all term, because I get some breaks where I can sleep and maybe create; it's okay if I let autumn slip away, because I must give myself over to my job (and, really, I had a good summer).

No longer in academia, I can build a new relationship with fall; I can let it fully into my heart. The changing leaves, cooler air, tasty apples, garden closing, animals gathering--all of this I can experience completely; no need to hold back.

Teachers have a schedule that aligns with the seasons. I'm not sure of other professions where specific seasons are blocked out--lost in the busyness.  (I'm sure they exist.) Sometimes the busyness is so great that all seasons are lost.

Nature grounds me. It provides easy access to the present moment.  And the seasonal changes supply awareness practice: what's different today? How exactly is it different? What emotions do I project onto the change? 

This year I'm especially grateful to walk beside autumn; to lean into her and see what she's about.  And I welcome company along the path.

Unplugged Sabbatical

I'm a space filler. Coming off the long hours of an academic term, it's hard for my doing-self to slow. My ego (doing-self) is uncomfortable when idle. If I'm not mindful, then my day is crammed with new things (e.g., errands, new--not necessarily well thought out--projects, list making, plans, extra correspondence). These are all efforts to prove my worth--who am I if I'm not doing or achieving? I'm always curious about the new tasks in which I place my self-worth. When I'm mindful, when I make space to just be, then I know my self-worth is inherent. It exists, always. I am always worthy, just by being me; there's no doing that changes my self-worth. But ego is wily and often circumvents my true intentions, though I'm onto ego: I recognize its machinations more quickly and when I do, I immediately pause, breathe, or meditate.

Lucky for me, I will be soon be away from all external pressures and duties. On Saturday, Mark and I leave for 5 weeks in Nevis, West Indies. While there, we rent an 800-square-foot cottage on a beautiful property--filled with gorgeous gardens and just a short walk to the beach. And we're completely unplugged: no Internet, email, television, newspaper, computer, or cell phone. It's interesting to notice my reactions when first there--I'm trained to look at the answering machine or check email. I have that reaction in Nevis and then I smile. And soon I have no expectations. That's when I'm really unplugged. And I feel so very free. So available to experience life with all my senses.

While on Nevis we don't check email, watch TV, read news, travel in a car, dine at restaurants, or surf the Internet. What do we do? Read books, cook food, take long walks, commune with the ocean, sit in silence, have deep conversation, experience the moment, do yoga, run along the beach, play scrabble, take photographs, play music, ride bikes to the market, listen to the wind, watch the hummingbirds, write, take naps, look at the stars, create, and just be. We experience life through all our senses, no distractions. Does ego still add commentary? Of course, daily commentary. But it's much easier to turn the volume dial to low or mute.

So, friends, I'll be away from this blog for a while. (Although, in some sense, I'll take you all to Nevis with me--in my heart and my experiences.)  Check back later in the week--I have some ideas for you to ponder and experiment with while I'm gone.

Space To Do Nothing

Life is busy: work, home, relationships, appointments, creative activities, errands, exercise, etc. Most days there is too much busyness and not enough space. We tightly cram our days and there isn't space for life to happen (e.g., helping a friend in need, spontaneous fun). And there's little space to simply be--to do nothing.

I've recently made a career-changing decision that has no detailed what's-next plan. Yet my ego desperately wants that plan. Ego wants me to do and plan. One of my recent ego stories: there's no space for you to let this process unfold; you must know right now what you'll do for money in September; without money you are not enough; without a job you are not enough; if you really think your creative path might make you money, then you must start writing a book right now; you must blog interesting material every day; you must do more to be enough.

Hmmmm. Let's do a fact check on this ego story: the entire story is lies. These fear-based lies are how ego and doubt thrive; if I ignore the lies, then ego is weakened (and my true, wholehearted self is strengthened). Yet my habituated pattern is to listen to the doubt. So my current life path is to plaster that particular habituated groove and re-groove new paths.

Right now I want to groove a path of doing nothing. Well, still serve my students and carry on with life, but allow space to do nothing. I'm tired. At the end of a long day, I can simply enjoy a nice meal, share stories with Mark, and then sit in my big, comfy chair. Just sit. Maybe write in my journal or read a book. Or maybe just sit. Sit and watch my list-making mind think of all the things I could do and purposefully not do those things. My priority for right now: doing nothing. It's what my heart and soul need.

Reflection

Last week I wrote about my back-to-school slow down. It was a lovely and mindful first day of classes. And then my old habits kicked in. My habits of not pausing during the day, pressing on with a project even when I feel tired, expecting too much production from myself. These habits reappeared so quickly. New academic year, same habits.

Sometimes I tell myself the story that it's the students, my colleagues, or the Lawrence community that creates my busyness and urgency. I was mindful enough last week to notice this story is untrue. Who creates this busyness and urgency? I do. It's my ego working overtime; my inner-critic knows the new school year provides opportunity to sneak in unnoticed. Then I start believing the stories: this project must be finished right now, if I don't have every detail ready for class it will be a disaster, I must respond to all these emails right now.

Sneaky ego. It got me again. But then I noticed. And this week I've made some changes. Slowed my pace; let the feeling of urgency pass; set more realistic expectations; experienced and enjoyed my time in the classroom. Ultimately, this life path is inner-work and self-reflection. I'm the one who creates my own suffering, yet I'm also the one who creates my own happiness, peace, and contentment. The externals are just that: external. They are things over which I have no control. (She says, while still desperately wanting some control.) So who is ultimately the boss of me? Me. If I need some rest, kindness, reassurance, love, or wisdom, I only need look into my own eyes and heart:

Back-to-School Slow Down

What's your reaction when you hear the phrase "back to school"? My mind quickly fills with certain words: excitement, busyness, anew, planning, learning, bustle. At Lawrence, the students bring a wonderful energy to campus. They're excited to reconnect with friends and get back in the classroom, and I appreciate their enthusiasm. But if I ride that excitement too far, then my daily life becomes too busy, too urgent, too much. 

Radical idea: what if I slow down as everything else ratchets up? What if I bring mindfulness to the first day of school? Stay present, pause, listen, look, and take breaks. What do I notice? How does my experience shift? These questions set my intention for yesterday--the first day of classes.
 

  
Slow-down musings from the first day of school:

• Nature is oblivious to the first day of classes. The morning light glows, chipmunks and squirrels seek food, birds chirp and tweet, and fall blooms deepen in color. The rhythms of the natural world don't change according to the academic schedule. I find comfort and grounding in nature--it provides a bigger perspective (and gets me out of the "me" story).

• Sunshine on my face gives me a burst of energy, always.

• At 8:37am, the campus is peaceful and quiet. Interesting contrast to the bustle my mind associates with back to school. Inside the class buildings, rooms are filled with attentive students. 

• My relationship to the computer is complicated. It's a vital tool for me as I prepare my courses, yet it's also a pathway to an unfocused, multi-tasking, doing-things-too-quickly mode. If I'm not mindful, I attempt too many things too quickly, which leads to irritation and movement away from my work intention: my students. 

• If I pause more, listen more, and let students fully ask questions or explain situations, then the entire experience feels more authentic and much less urgent.

• When I purposefully slow down, I'm more present in the classroom and less exhausted outside the classroom. (This result is not surprising, but often I know these things in my mind, but I don't actually put them into practice. It takes repeated experiential learning for me to form a new habit--even if I already know the habit is positive.)

• At the end of my school day I attend Pilates at the Rec Center. Typically I arrive in a rushed state of mind. But yesterday was different. I allowed more space and a few breaks; I let student laughter (during the butt-squeezing exercise) wash over me like a balm.

• On my bike ride home, I slowed to smile at a little girl playing in her yard. She smiled back; her face softly lit by the rays of sunset. That brief moment was a lovely snapshot of my entire day.

Lovely Reminder

Each fall, I get caught in the busyness of the new academic year. This initially comes from a positive place: students bring excited, happy energy into the classroom. I'm energized by them and by my own creative plans for my courses. The first week is magic--it's exhausting, but deeply fulfilling (reminds me why I love my job). Gradually, though, the busyness takes a turn. In fact, it's not the external busyness, but my own internal busyness--the busyness of ego, unrealistic expectations of myself, and the need for control.

Whenever I feel vulnerable, control is my go-to habit. Yet it's a cage; it clips my wings. So I've developed some new, more freeing--yet not as familiar--habits to replace the cage. But what happens when my vulnerability is ramped up? I not surprisingly revert back to familiar--if unhealthful--habits. This has been the back and forth of my days and weeks. Sometimes I quickly realize my need for a genuine pause to recenter; other times I plow through the day without a single deep breath. Such is the work of creating a new habit.

Quality time with my nieces and nephews always brings me back to my authentic self. Being with them allows me to easily access mindfulness, joy, perspective, and play. These are things I always carry with me, but sometimes (like in the middle of the term) I need a reminder. I got that pleasant reminder last weekend.

Yay for that! And yay for cookie monster cupcakes: