Being with What Is

There are days when I wish life was different; when I wish it was somehow easier. Days when I feel overwhelmed, not sure if I can handle another death or injustice or even everyday bad news. Then I remember: resistance causes me pain; loving-presence brings me peace. So I sit down, feel my breath, and stay. I allow for the raw, vulnerable places, and gradually shift from resistance to acceptance. Instead of wanting things to be different, I experience what is. Within each of us, there is an awareness that's like the ocean. It's spacious and wise; it's brave and kind. And it's accessed in a simple way: staying with one breath and then another.

My overwhelm doesn't come from the circumstances of life. It comes from my own actions. When I resist or judge my experience; when I distract from my experience; when I numb my experience, I separate from what I most value: love, presence, compassion, connection, integrity, and wisdom. Staying awake is a brave path. Sometimes I want to go back to sleep. But the more days I show up for life, as is, the more I touch freedom. The more I let things be messy, real, and raw, the more I experience connection. The more I stay with myself and others—even when, especially when, it's hard—the more I cultivate compassion. I'm trying to be both brave and kind; I'm trying to be with what is.

PS: This is me, real and open to what is:

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Guided Meditations|Everyday Mindfulness|Photography|Facebook Page

Choosing Compassion

Last weekend I participated in a silent meditation retreat. I returned home with my heart wide open—wide open to joy and gratitude; wide open to grief and suffering. I wasn’t sure how to navigate daily life with such an open heart. It felt both strange and fully alive. Then I heard about the mass shooting in Orlando, and I wept. I wept for humanity.

Jack Kornfield wrote a compelling, wise response and his words resonate with me:  
“I am filled with tears and an ocean of compassion for so many who have been harmed. Sitting quietly, this tragedy strengthens my resolve to not let terror and fear take over my heart. As we move through this beautiful and troubled world, may we vow to be a beacon of peace, a fearless carrier of respect and lovingkindness for all life, a teller of truth, a voice for justice, a protector of those who are vulnerable or targeted. May the power of wisdom, integrity and compassion be our guide.”

We can be paralyzed by fear and sadness. We can be engulfed with anger and blame. Or we can live fearlessly with open, compassionate hearts. The latter is possible, though it requires engaged commitment. It’s a radical act to stay present, embodied, and aware during difficult times; to move from a place of love in response to an act of hate; to see our interconnection instead of seeing “other.” I stand with Jack Kornfield. May I act from wisdom and integrity. May I bring compassion to more moments. May I continue to live with an unguarded heart.

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Guided Meditations|Everyday Mindfulness|Photography|Facebook Page

Love and Let Go

I spoke at my grandma's funeral. More accurately, I spoke, cried, spoke some more, sobbed, and spoke again. Later I described the event to my therapist. She said, "You felt. You trusted your feelings, Joy." And then she gave me a hug. 

I did inhabit my feelings on that July weekend in 2010. I allowed (publicly!) for sadness, love, regret, and gratitude. I laid open my heart. 

"Don't tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel," my therapist used to say. Most of my life I'd spent in my head: thinking, planning, or judging. I could analyze an issue. I could understand the reasons for my anxiety or self-doubt. But nothing really changed until I opened my heart. I found sadness needn't overwhelm, but it longs to be felt. And I unraveled my protective armor--armor that spared me hurt yet also denied me love.

Just last night, I sat on my back porch, crying. Many of my close friends are in difficult situations. If I love completely, my heart will be broken. Yet it will also burst with joy. Things only get murky when I believe I can save people. In this mode, my sadness morphs into fear and I retreat to my mind. I try to think of an escape. 

From Mary Oliver's "In Blackwater Woods":
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let go,
to let go."

My therapist again: "Joy, your life and growth will mean continually giving up control." Let go. When I emerge from my murkiness, I find balance between loving and letting go. I feel without the delusion of control. My heart expands. A smile forms naturally. I accept all the blessings of pure, unbounded love.

Love Yourself, Love Others

Love is a gift--a beautiful and complex gift. For many years, I withheld this gift from myself. I felt unworthy of my own love and compassion. I pushed and accomplished; I judged myself harshly. But then--after much life experience--there was a shift, a softening. I made space for myself in my own heart. And I realize: 1) I couldn't fully open my heart to another until I opened it to myself, and 2) I couldn't fully accept love from another until I accepted it from myself. Once I made space for myself in my own heart, there was endless space; space for everyone.

On this Valentine's Day, I encourage you to tell people what they mean to you. Express your love. And I also encourage you to love yourself. Not the superficial love of indulgence in sweets, shopping, or avoidance, but real love: What do you need most in this moment? What piece of you needs attention? Give yourself that love. And then pass it on to another.

Trance of Unworthiness

On Friday night I attended a stirring talk by Tara Brach. Tara is a meditation teacher who speaks directly to my heart. Her book, Radical Acceptance, exposed me to life-altering ideas. More simply, I appreciate the book's title. In our culture, it's indeed radical to accept ourselves, as is. Self-love is so counter-culture that it's radical. Her new book, True Refuge, provides a heartfelt framework back to ourselves--dropping the false refuges and regularly connecting with our true refuge: our own inherent goodness.

From Tara I first heard the phrase, "trance of unworthiness." In her experience, most people suffer from this trance--living life with the constant hum of I'm-not-enough. I understand this trance well. I've lost swaths of my life in it. And I've also found my way back to myself. (See my previous post about shame and acceptance.)

My habituated reaction to difficult emotions is aversion--I push away. Through meditation practice I've learned it feels better when I allow for these emotions. It takes more energy to push away than to let them in. Still, my habits are well-grooved. But eventually I release from the trance. I allow for the sadness, anxiety, fear, and shame. Sometimes sitting with an emotion (e.g., sadness) releases it. Other times, the emotion is layered and sticky. In these situations, when I compassionately sit long enough, I typically find this root: something is wrong with me; I am not enough; I am unworthy. In these moments, if I place my hand on heart and say, "Joy, I'm sorry and I love you," I feel release. I feel connected to myself--my true, vulnerable self.

Tara names the common false refuges: striving, distracting, numbing, and judging. I understand every one of these. When I feel unnamed uneasiness, I often 1) try to prove myself via achievement, 2) distract myself with busyness and planning, 3) have a glass of wine and watch a movie, or 4) judge myself harshly (self-judgment is the background chatter of my mind)--or sometimes judge others harshly. These false refuges provide merely seconds of relief and must be reapplied. That is, they don't provide long-term refuge. 

Uncovering my shame and loving myself through it has radically changed my life. I live many more moments not in trance. I'm more present to all of life and all of me.  And once my heart opened to myself, it opened even bigger to the world. Imagine if we all healed ourselves with self-compassion; if we experienced life and others without protective armor; if we walked not in trance, but with open-hearted presence. 

Life is Difficult

I feel helpless. Not the helplessness that might accompany depression (on the contrary, I am filled with and empowered by choice). But I feel helpless with regard to my mom's pain and suffering. And she's really suffering. 

I shared my raw sadness when mom moved to a care center. It's been a life-long process to understand I can't save her. Yet I still relied on my ability to help her. When I sat with her compassionately, I could see her relax. When I listened, she smiled appreciatively. I didn't realize how tightly I clung to those moments--those moments when I could see my mom's response. I helped her. 

Now she's flat: unresponsive, lost in depression, hopeless.  And I'm helpless. It's a new layer of grief.

It's hard to reconcile that being helpless doesn't equate to not caring. It's easy to understand intellectually (I know I can't help her, yet I still love her). But emotionally, it's a more difficult truth to embrace. I love her, so I really want to help her. That's the place in myself I'm trying to nurture. When I feel helpless, I let myself cry. I let myself love my mom; grieve her. And I try to be kind with myself. 

This weekend, I had space (in the peacefulness of nature) for reflection. I realized I'd probably had my last meaningful interaction with my mom. And it wasn't when I visited in July; it was back in May. I showed her photographs and asked her about the hardships she felt. We had a conversation. It may have been our last. Even though her physical body could keep her alive for years.

I've grieved my mom in many ways over many years. It's been difficult to be her daughter. But I don't want the difficult times to overshadow the positive moments--and they exist, to be sure. Sylvia Boorstein talks about a plaque she saw in the early years of her meditation practice. The plaque read, "Life is so difficult, how can we be anything but kind?" What a beautiful way to work with the difficult. Be kind. And where did I learn kindness? From my mom. From her I learned empathy (deep empathy) and the importance of small kindnesses. 

My mom has lived a difficult life; and she's also kind. I love her, yet I can't help her. I'm gathering memories from her friends. Lovely, poignant memories that honor my mom--the pieces of her that depression has eclipsed, but that I can always hold in my heart. 

A Letter To Myself

Joy,

People don't love you because of your garden, photographs, cooking, blog, cards, home, or workouts. They love you because of who you are inside. They appreciate your kindness, compassion, presence, and vulnerability. They love your heart, when it's full and when it's broken.

So it's okay to have weeds, receive no flickr comments, ruin a recipe, quiet your blog, send belated wishes, have dirt on your floors, or skip a workout. It's okay to take care of you as warmly as you take care of others. It's okay to ask for help. It's okay to not always be happy. Just be you, as is. Lead with your heart. People love the real you. More importantly, I love the real you. Trust in that.

Taking in the Good

For years I deflected compliments; I didn't feel worthy. Now I've (mostly) learned to graciously accept kind words--indeed, they are a gift. My external behavior has changed, but part of me still doubts; wonders if I'm a fraud. As with many things in life, it's a work in progress. Recently I've had opportunity to explore my internal process of deflection. During my end-of-career festivities, I've tried to stay mindful. Part of my intention: allow for the appreciation, honors, and kindnesses; do not downplay myself. As a teacher, I've positively affected many students. I take this into my heart (carried with me always). I feel great affection and gratitude for my students and colleagues, why not allow them to express the same? 

On Sunday afternoon, my friends Andrew & Jen hosted a potluck in my honor. It was a gathering of best friends; it was a gathering of love, laughter, and delicious food. Mid-evening, Mark turned to me and said, "you are surrounded by such love and joy." I took in the view and smiled. I agreed, of course, as these are special people who bring with them acceptance, wisdom, compassion, and a willingness to have fun. But Mark's point was a different one: I am surrounded by this circle because of who I am, because of my own large heart. That was a tougher compliment to accept. The resistance came from some mixture of humility, doubt, and fear (what if Mark's right, but then I do something that jeopardizes everything?).

Yet it's vitally important (for all of us) to take in the good. To see the love and generosity around us and know we're a part of it; to let it sink into our bones. We are all worthy of love, just as we are. The circle of love includes others--important others--but it also includes ourselves. We are part of that good. It's okay to sit back and enjoy the ride. It's okay to take in the good. (No lightning strike will come from the sky.) I write these words mostly as a reminder to myself. I am blessed by friendship, love, generosity, and kindness. I am thankful, yet I'm also worthy. And this is an important balance.

Hard Truths

On Memorial Day weekend we typically meet long-time friends near Decorah, IA, where we camp and canoe on the Upper Iowa river. Though a 4.5 hour car ride, the trip is worthwhile, restorative, and fun. So was our plan this past weekend.

But on Friday I was bathed in a funk. My weeknights had been more social than is good for me (big events with many people); my back hurt from car travel the previous weekend; the weather for Saturday was predicted to be 50 degrees and rainy (oh how I hate being cold & wet); and doubt had furtively seeped into my skin (what I am going to do with the rest of my life?). When Mark got home, excited to leave for the weekend, I was on the back porch hoping we wouldn't have to go.

We talked at length, and I cried. I slowly realized all my reasons for not going were rationalizations. My shame and doubt tried to isolate me; I wanted to be alone in my funk. Mark told me some hard truths: it feels like mild depression to him; this is how I get when I'm adrift without a schedule; this is how things could continue now that Lawrence's schedule won't pull me back (read: this is an important time to be mindful); it's the initial friction that's difficult for me, but it's vitally important we still take trips, see friends, camp in the woods. He nailed it. I knew I needed to go. I wasn't happy about it at that moment, but I knew I needed to go--to just get up, pack all the foul-weather gear I have, and make the best of things.

We rode silently in the car--me trying to stay mindful of my fear and shame (and lack of control over, say, the weather). When we arrived at the campsite, rain lightly falling, our friends met our van with their flashlights. They welcomed us warmly. I knew this was exactly where I needed to be.

I was completely funk-free by the next morning. No rain. Just cool weather, warmed regularly by the campfire. The canoe trip was lovely--a meditative, yet fun adventure. The time at camp was relaxing. I laughed belly laughs. I listened. I ate delicious food and drank moonshine from a community jar. I was entirely myself, as is. I was hugged by both nature and close friends. I was away from technology that had been sucking my creative energy. I was happy and content. And deeply grateful for Mark. Thank goodness I have a mate who appreciates and supports me, yet also tells me difficult truths. I love this man with my entire (very large) heart:

Working with Sadness

My body feels creaky. My lower back aches. Yet my osteopath and massage therapist find no structural or muscular issues. This doesn't surprise me. My sacrum and belly are reacting to strong emotions--to deep-seated sadness. Sadness I've held all my life.

When I was five, my mom was diagnosed with bi-polar condition. When I reached high school, mom additionally struggled with severe anxiety and worry. Now, my mom struggles to walk. All my life I've wanted to save her--to take away her pain; allow her to see and embrace her beautiful soul; to give her strength and tools to cope. All my life. 
 

Through therapy, writing, and meditation, I arrived at a place of peace with my mom. I knew I couldn't change her, affect her actions, or save her, but I could love her, treat her with patience and compassion, and listen. Yet even in this place of peace, my insides feel torn apart again. All the sadness comes back as we place my mom in a nursing home. It feels like the final frontier--this could be my last chance to save her, but indeed I cannot. And that makes me sad.

As I make my transition from safe career to soul-filling (unknown) career--as my heart sings and I see the beauty in myself--my mom transitions to a nursing home; her final stop in a life filled with difficulty. Is this juxtaposition ironic or meaningless or telling? I don't know. But it has a powerful pull on my emotions. Does it honor my mom that I'm spreading my wings in a way she never could? Or is that question just another route through which I hope to save her? 

I often think about choices--the choices we all have, even in times when we feel boxed-in. I think of the choices my mom never made. I think of the choices I have made. Perhaps there's nothing here to ponder. I know she loves me unconditionally; she's unwavering in her support of her daughters. I know I love her; I see her kind heart. And, really, that's all I need. So why is this so hard? Why do I feel such strong sadness and pain? Perhaps precisely because of that love. And the complicated nature of relationships and life (and death). No easy answers when working with sadness. The sadness will stay for a while; I'll work with it; eventually my insides will feel less raw.

And, in the meantime, I'm beginning a new path. My mom can't walk, yet I feel like I can fly. And such is the circle of life.
 

Doubt

I am fully in touch with doubt. I greet it every day. Sometimes I recognize it for what it is; other times I believe the mean-spirited stories. Doubt is one of 5 mind energies that, according to Buddhist philosophy, hinder our clear seeing--hinder our ability to see the truth of the moment. And doubt is the muddiest, murkiest, hardest-to-catch hindrance. Why? Because it arrives wrapped in some story. It sneaks onto the old tapes that play over and over in our heads. Tapes we believe perhaps less and less, yet can still grab us--can still make us doubt ourselves.

Here are some doubt stories with which I've recently worked:

You are having far too much fun this summer; eating and drinking too much; probably gaining weight; far too much happiness to be healthy; you're probably really damaging yourself in some deep way.

You are not busy enough. You need to do more. In fact, you're not at all ready for the new school year. You'll walk in the classroom and be a complete failure.

You are sharing far too much of yourself and your feelings; making yourself so vulnerable is embarrassing; people probably laugh at you and your silly endeavors.

First note: These stories are all unkind. Even if they aren't overly mean, there's an underlying sense of judgment. For me that's a tell-tale sign of doubt. Second note: These stories are all untrue--no truth. This is precisely the way doubt hinders clear seeing. (But they can be so easy for me the believe, especially when I'm vulnerable or tired or tender. They can become my reality for minutes or hours or days.) Third note: I will work with doubt for my entire life. There will never be a time when these doubt stories don't creep into my consciousness. And that's okay; it's human nature. But I recognize the stories just a bit sooner and sometimes I can even smile at the new ways doubt has seeped into my head--smile and think, yay, I noticed.

I used to send myself a snail-mail card any time I prepared a batch of cards for loved ones. It was a practice of loving-kindness for myself. Yet I never put my return-address stamp on these letters, because I feared what the mail carrier might think. (She's sending a letter to herself?) This is definitely a doubt story, as it makes me a huge player in the world (really, the mail carrier doesn't think about me at all; or if he does, I have no control over his thoughts) and it makes me second guess myself (not including my return-address stamp dampens the open loving-kindness practice).

I restored my sending-a-card-to-myself practice just recently. And that's when the doubt story of the return-address stamp hit me. Why wouldn't I use the stamp, just like I do for all the other cards I send? So I did it! And two days later, I had a genuine, no-excuses, filled-with-loving-words, sent-from-myself card in my mailbox:

Belonging

It's human nature to want to be liked and to belong. This is something with which I struggle. I want people to like me--in fact, to love me. I want this from my family, friends, students,  and colleagues. Yet when I push for this--that is, external affirmations rather than internal centeredness--I lose sight of my authenticity.

In his book, The Courage to Teach, Parker Palmer openly talks about a class where he fervently tried to engage one particular student; and in doing so, he lost his focus and the bigger-picture of learning. He lost the entire class by focusing on being liked by one student. Such is the human condition. And, as a teacher who really wants my students to learn (and to respect and like me!), I can relate.

Recently I read an interview with Desmond Tutu. When asked about the trait he least likes about himself: the fact that he loves to be loved. Yes, that external validation is SO alluring. Our egos can turn it into the reality--the thing for which we must strive. But, when we constantly search  for okay-ness outside of ourselves, we actually lose our connection. That is, authentic connection is a very different thing from belonging.

Connection comes from a deep self-awareness that we are okay just the way we are. When we are connected (to others & to ourselves), we believe in our basic goodness. When we long to be loved, we doubt our basic goodness. True connection is filling; the search for belonging is depleting.

Every day, I walk the path between wanting to be loved and knowing in my heart I am okay. When I'm mindful, I fully understand that trusting my authentic self actually leads to more connection, more learning, more loving, & more happiness. I know this in my heart, yet I must continue to remind myself. Such is the life path--a path on which I'm grateful to travel, and on which I know I have much (connected) company.

Reset Button

In early November, Mark and I attended a meditation retreat in Madison lead by teachers Cheri Maples and Sharon Salzberg. After months of prioritizing the "doing" part of me, I allowed myself to reacquaint and develop the "being" part of me. What a welcome relief! This was a lovely reset button for my soul.

I found myself reflecting on the teachings and the retreat experience as I re-immersed in busy academic life. For example, a typical distraction from the present moment (and the sometimes difficult emotions and feelings we experience there) is to ruminate on the past or plan obsessively for the future. Sharon told a story about someone who missed an airline flight, and then constructed an elaborate plan about what would happen for the rest of the travel day, ending with the person in despair about whether a cab could be found at midnight in Portland. (We can all imagine ourselves constructing similar stories in a variety of situations.) As Sharon says, we can lose ourselves in the future, OR we can choose to stay in the present and simply remind ourselves, "something will happen." What a great reminder. I gently said this phrase ("and then something will happen") to myself each time I found myself lost in a story of the future (e.g., how will I wrap up my courses? what exactly will my students learn? how will the students feel about the course?).

If we cultivate the practice of being, then we're more mindful of the gaps--e.g., the gap between experiencing a situation and responding to it, the gap between intention and action, or the gap between emotion and speech. If we allow for it, there are many gaps throughout our day, and we can decide how to mind those gaps most skillfully (as skillfully as we can in that moment).

During loving-kindness meditation, phrases (rather than the breath) are the focus of concentration. These phrases (e.g., may I be safe, may I be happy, may I be healthy, may I live with ease) are repeated for ourselves, then a benefactor, then a good friend, then a neutral person, then a difficult person, and then to all beings. (There are actually many different ways to do loving-kindness meditation). At the Madison retreat, we spent time both in seated meditation and walking meditation. Some of the walking meditation was done outside. Mark commented that it's really easy to send loving-kindness to ducks (how true!):

Duck or no duck,

May you be safe,

may you be happy,

may you be healthy,

may you live with ease.