Working with Fear

We live in uncertain times. Amid groundlessness, it’s natural to feel fear. Specific fear about circumstances or vague, roving fear about life. The mental storyline of fear is “something is wrong.” And this wrong-ness is projected inward at self or outward at other. Either way, it constricts our mind and heart.

Florence Nightingale said, “How very little can be done under the spirit of fear.” I disagree. Oppression and injustice occur when we’re plagued with fear. War and violence sprout from fear. Yet I think Nightingale’s true intention was this: meaningful change comes from wisdom, love, and compassion, not fear. If we seek meaningful change in ourselves and the world, we must work with (and through) fear. Once we’re intimate with fear, it no longer holds power. Fear talks a big game, but when we turn toward it—embodied and aware—fear morphs from a scary monster into a small, harmless character.

Turning toward fear takes courage and patience. It’s not a one-shot deal. It’s a life-long commitment to growth and healing. My fear manifests in the solar plexus and sometimes radiates through my chest. Fifteen years ago, fear felt overwhelming and impacted my entire life. Like many, I came to meditation out of necessity. I had to do something differently. Gradually, I transformed not the fear, but my relationship to it. Instead of pushing it away, I began to allow for and feel fear in my body. I stayed, breathed, and inquired: What is underneath? What needs my care and attention? Fear and anger are protectors of our heart. Underneath is often sadness, hurt, grief, shame, or loneliness. And underneath that is our basic goodness and our inner wisdom. 

It’s a brave path to become intimate with fear, but it needn’t be a punishing path. We can work with fear in small, doable, kind ways. When we stay with—instead of resist—fear for just three breaths, we create new habits. When we notice fear and its untrue storylines, even once, we build awareness and wisdom. When we feel what’s underneath, for any amount of time, we open our heart. It's possible to form a new relationship with fear.

We can begin together, in this moment, with a short meditation:

Working With Fear

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Spread the Love

When I volunteer in prison, it includes both group and individual sessions. The pastorals are rich, meaningful, and sometimes difficult. The stories I hear—real stories from real people—are heartbreaking. I try to be a mirror for the inmates. I let them know where they’ve grown and changed and how their meditation practice inspires me. I look them in the eyes and speak this from my heart. Almost always, it brings an inmate to tears, even the biggest, toughest guys. Seeing his own goodness reflected back at him is a revelation. Rarely is he told the ways he’s good, wise, and inspiring.

Like these inmates, I need my own mirrors: friends who support me when I’m caught in fear or doubt. People who reflect back to me the big leaps I’ve taken, the lives I’ve impacted, and the special qualities of my work. Like many, I judge myself most harshly, so it’s helpful when others send a softer, more truthful message. A reality check, not from an effusive place but from a heartfelt place.

We can all look more closely at the people in our lives. They have goodness and light inside them. It radiates in different (sometimes surprising) ways, but it’s there in everyone. What is this person’s special quality? What do I really appreciate about him? How does her unique light shine? These are things we can share with each other. Our lives are wondrous, short, and precious. There’s no reason to hold back: Tell people why and how you love them; spread gratitude and appreciation; share from an open heart.

[This post is part of my Truth Tuesday series, which appears weekly on Facebook.]
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Forgiving Ourselves

Recently, I perused old journals. It was painful to read the vicious words I wrote about myself. Pages and pages of self-judgment (at times, self-hatred) followed by pages of halfhearted self-encouragement, all of this on a repetitive loop. I longed for something different yet wasn't sure how to proceed. In the 20 years since those journal entries, I became unstuck, moving from self-hatred to self-compassion. This process was (and is) complex, effortful, and individual. There's no magic potion that heals our wounds, but I've noticed patterns, essential ingredients in moving forward:

1. Start with self-kindness.
In my 20s, during the heavy self-hatred days, I felt far removed from self-love or self-compassion. They were ridiculous to consider. I read books about loving myself yet never believed it was possible. And this blocked my growth. For most of us, it's hard to make huge internal leaps, but we can take small, ordinary steps. Kindness is accessible. We offer kindness to strangers as well as friends. It's a place to begin with ourselves: How can I be kind to myself in moments of pain? How can I be kind to myself when life is difficult or when I make a mistake? Basic kindness is the starting place.

2. Make well-being a priority.
People ask me, "How did you become so wholehearted, brave, and intentional?" The short answer is this: I committed to myself and my well-being. I just kept showing up as-is (messy, crabby, peaceful, anxious, or happy) and practiced mindfulness in a variety of ways. Instead of looking outward, I began to look inward. Before I could prioritize well-being, I had to understand it: What activities (and people) nourish me and what activities (and people) deplete me? The things that nourish me—meditation, nature, intimate gatherings, photography, gardening, and yoga—may not nourish you. These are individual choices.

Consider the important elements of your own well-being. Make these a priority. There are copious distractions in this world and it takes effort to sustain well-being. People often respond "but there's not enough time!" Indeed, life is full, but if there's time to check a smartphone, "like" things on Facebook, or unnecessarily overwork, then there's time for well-being. Choose with intention.

3. Continue for life.
This is not a one-shot deal, it's a life-long practice. I still experience fear and self-judgment, often daily. I resist uncomfortable circumstances. I get crabby. But I notice these unhelpful habits and redirect my energy. I smile at myself more easily. I practice self-compassion. There's never a time where everything is wrapped up: all neuroses gone, bliss every day. A vital part of mindfulness (of life!) is remembering we can begin again in any moment. We can begin again with self-kindness and prioritize well-being. We can forgive ourselves and trust that—in this moment—we're okay. 

If we accept ourselves as-is, we can finally make the changes we seek. Here's a meditation to get you started:

Forgiving Ourselves

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A Month of Mindful Healing

My e-course, A Month of Mindful Healing, comes straight from my tender, brave, vulnerable heart. Throughout the course, I share personal stories of loss, hurt, shame, growth, happiness, and healing. I've lived and tested all the practices (meditations + writing + daily awareness exercises). If you choose to join me, here's a weekly outline of our journey:

WEEK 1: Healing What's on the Surface
~Small, doable mindfulness exercises 
~Guided meditation on opening to vulnerability
~Writing prompts on vulnerability, feelings, and unmet needs
~Awareness practices to create more nourishment in daily life
~Daily inspirations + meditations + writing prompts

WEEK 2: Healing What's Under the Surface
~Short, encouraging video
~Investigation (meditation + writing) of internal beliefs and letting go of limitations
~Description and guided application of self-compassion
~Awareness practices to create more freedom and choice in daily life
~Daily inspirations + meditations + writing prompts

WEEK 3: Healing What's Around Us
~Guided reflection + writing prompts to discover core values and what matters most
~Four-step process to get unstuck and move forward with intention (includes guided meditation)
~Guidance on healing and changing relationships
~Awareness practices to create more intention in daily life
~Daily inspirations + meditations + writing prompts

WEEK 4: Healing Our Hearts
~Guided meditation on opening the heart
~Writing prompts on joy, happiness, and creativity
~Description and guided application of loving-kindness
~Awareness practices to create more play and happiness in daily life
~Daily inspirations + meditations + writing prompts

EPILOGUE: Meet Yourself Where You Are
~Guided reflection + writing prompts on change, growth, and healing
~Suggestions for moving forward
~Short, encouraging video (includes a loving-kindness chant)
~Additional daily awareness practices
~Short meditation on beginning again

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Chant of Good Will

I first heard the "Chant of Good Will" at a meditation retreat. Each night, a hundred of us chanted the loving-kindness phrases. The simplicity and repetition of these words allowed me to quickly take them into my heart. The practice came home with me. I sing the chant while driving, doing household chores, or setting up chairs for meditation class. And if I'm feeling frustrated or judgmental, I chant. It brings me back to love and intention.

There's a lot of noise in our world: righteousness and self-promotion; angry chants at peace rallies; loud music filled with empty words. The good-will chant provides a different avenue. It expresses wishes of loving-kindness, peace, and happiness for ourselves and others. Not as a way to ignore what's difficult, but as a way to wholeheartedly live in this complex world.

One of my meditation students asked me to record this chant, so she could know it in her bones. My initial reaction was fear: I don't have a nice singing voice; I can't stay on pitch. But my final response was "yes, I'll record it." The process itself a practice in humility and loving-kindness. Imagine if this chant—imperfect and wholehearted—were sung by 1000s of people. It begins with just one of us. Play my recording and sing along. Let it be messy, real, and from your heart.

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May I be filled with loving-kindness, 
May I be well. 
May I be peaceful and at ease, 
May I be happy.

May you be filled with loving-kindness, 
May you be well. 
May you be peaceful and at ease, 
May you be happy.

May we be filled with loving-kindness, 
May we be well. 
May we be peaceful and at ease, 
May we be happy.
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The Chant of Good Will:

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The 3-Breath Pause

It's an interesting human habit: when we most need a pause—a little room to breathe—we're hesitant to take it; we keep pushing forward in a haze of busyness and distraction. A cycle that's magnified during the holidays, as we're encouraged to celebrate, spend, and consume. Yet what we really crave is space, ease, and connection.

If you're reading this post, some part of you already knows what you need. This is our deeper awareness calling us back. When I'm lost in busyness, moving too quickly, there's a voice inside me (kinder and gentler than my pushy inner-critic) that says, "Slow down. Take a few breaths. Open to possibility." 

I've learned two things about the pause:
1. "Not enough time" is the voice of fear. There's time for a 3-breath pause. 
2. Even if it feels edgy and uncomfortable, a pause resets our system. The pause works.

One of my mindfulness students confessed, "Joy, when you first talked about a 3-breath pause, I thought the '3' was arbitrary and the idea too simple. But then I started taking these 3-breath pauses and they work. I feel better." In awareness practice, it's not the amount of time that matters most, it's the regularity. Taking breaks throughout the day. Pausing to notice all aspects of our life, in small, ordinary ways. These make a difference. Little bit by little bit we cultivate more mindfulness, compassion, and ease. And we live life more true to ourselves.

There's time for a short pause: Take three intentional, embodied breaths. Or stay longer and listen to this short meditation:

Short Pause: Rest and Reset

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This Precious Life

[This is part of my Truth Tuesday series, which you can find each week on Facebook.]

An outline of my Mondays in prison: three 30-minute visits (“pastorals”) with individuals, lunch break, 90-minute meditation group, then drive from Oshkosh to Fond du lac for three pastorals at a different correctional facility. It’s a long, meaningful day.

Yesterday after group session, R looked me in the eyes and said, “Joy, you seemed sad today. Is everything okay?” I smiled with gratitude about his care and concern, but assured him I was fine. When I got in the car at day’s end, I cried and cried. R's intuition was correct: sadness. I’m sad for T, who expressed he has no safe space in prison to really feel what he feels—to feel the vulnerability of being abused and being an abuser; to feel helpless yet responsible for changing the horrible language heard among other inmates about women and sexual acts.

I’m sad B has been told his entire life that he’s worthless and never good enough, so that he still questions himself and his beautiful meditation practice. I’m sad that S hasn’t heard anything from her daughter, even though she sent stamped, self-addressed envelopes. And I’m sad that M now mistrusts her beloved brother because he hasn’t sent money (her money) while she’s locked up.

As I sobbed in the parking lot, I realized how much easier it would be to ignore these stories. If I stopped volunteering in prison, I wouldn’t have to face this much suffering and sadness. But those initial thoughts quickly passed, because these aren’t only prison stories—they’re human stories. Life is filled with sadness and pain, just as it’s filled with love and ease. I don’t want to separate myself from life or from others. Instead of “us” and “them,” I believe in “we”: our shared humanity.

I’m inspired that D sees his time in prison as a chance to become more awake, compassionate, and calm. He hopes to counsel recovering addicts when he’s released. I’m touched by heartfelt support I received in my prison meditation group while grieving the loss of a close friend. I’m stunned by the beauty and wisdom L conveys through his poetry.

Life isn’t just one way. It’s many things all at once. Yesterday, I was both sad and grateful, honored to bear witness to inmates. Tomorrow, I travel to Iowa, celebrating Thanksgiving with family and friends. These are not separate events. They’re each part of our diverse, complicated, and beautiful soup of humanity.

May we all bring presence and compassion to more moments.  
May we actively practice peace, patience, and love.
May we all be grateful for small, ordinary things.
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Embodied Awareness

We spend most of the day in our minds: thinking, analyzing, judging, remembering, planning. Thinking is helpful. Our human brains can solve complicated problems in creative ways. Thinking holds an important place in our lives. Yet most of our lost-in-thought time is not spent with creative problem solving. It's spent in the past or the future, ruminating or worrying, daydreaming or over-planning. This kind of thinking exhausts us. And it removes us from our bodies—bodies that are rich in wisdom and insight. As John O'Donohue wrote, "Our bodies know they belong; it is our minds that make our lives so homeless."

As you read this post, notice your body. We often hold tension in our shoulders, jaw, neck, and belly. Be aware of your body and send internal messages of release, melt, and soften. Allow yourself a long exhalation. 

The body-scan technique is used to reconnect with our bodies—to see where we readily feel sensation and where we feel numbness or judgment. It's a chance to relax—the practice is done lying down—while also being awake. Our bodies are wise. They can provide insight and deeper awareness. We only need to look inward, let the thinking-mind rest, and re-engage our alive, beautiful, wise bodies.

Perhaps not in this moment, but sometime soon come back here, create comfortable lying-down conditions, and listen to this guided meditation:

Body Scan --
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Look for the Good

A quick glance at the news tells us what’s wrong with the world: political wars, violent acts, and natural disasters. These are not to be ignored. We live in a complicated world and to make a difference we must face hard truths. But if we focus solely on what's wrong, we become scared, frustrated, and hopeless.

There’s a negativity bias in our brains. We come by this honestly, through evolution. Negative news, which seems to “sell”, feeds directly into fearful, primal parts of our brain. Yet our more evolved brain allows for awareness, discernment, focus, and compassion. And it's important to recognize: where we regularly rest our attention becomes the habit of our mind. Our thoughts reinforce fear or love, greed or generosity, anger or peace.

We can choose to rest in love, generosity, and peace. Not as a way to ignore injustice in the world, but as a way to more skillfully act and contently live. When we look for the good and stay for 3 breaths, embodied, we build new awareness, and we begin to see more good. This brings more ease to daily life and provides renewed hope in the world.

Looking for the good can occur in small, ordinary ways: notice when someone smiles, pause after completing an important task, watch a sunset, accept a compliment, look for kind acts, or feel the sun's warmth on your face. It's okay to pause and take in the good. It's okay to slow down and enjoy life. You can begin right now with this short meditation:

Short Gratitude Pause

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Look Inside: A Month of Mindful Healing

In the last two years, I've grieved and healed. Not just for the losses of people I love, but from long-ago wounds and limiting beliefs. In the process of sharing my stories, I realize that everyone is healing. And we all seek refuge in presence and realness—our vulnerability connects us. 

I created a new e-course, A Month of Mindful Healing, based on the awareness practices that help me grow, heal, and change. The complete course is contained within a 70-page multimedia document: written teachings, guided meditations, writing prompts, videos, reflections, mini-assignments, and photographs. Here are two sample pages from the class:




Open your heart to who you are.

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Open to Possibility

The past few weeks, I've been focused and productive: revamping my website, finishing a new e-course, and teaching mindfulness workshops. Amid abundant yet busy days, I recognize my need to pause; to take a break; to gain a fresh perspective. When I don't pause—when I try to push through and work harder—my creativity wilts, my writing weakens, and my ideas stall. 

As always, the trick is to remember to remember. To prioritize short pauses: a walk around the block, a 5-minute meditation, or a heartfelt connection with another person. These ordinary actions widen my view. Instead of seeing deadlines and limits, I see possibility. I better understand when it's time to stop and when it's time to keep working. It's my own awareness calling me back: slow down and pay attention. What's the next most skillful step?

External sources rarely tell us to rest, pause, and slow down. We must do this for ourselves. It's beneficial to our health and well-being and, as importantly, it sparks creativity, compassion, and insight. We can practice together, in this very moment (our chance to remember to remember):

Open to Possibility
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Acceptance

For years, I’ve practiced letting go—letting go of old stories of shame, responsibility for the world, and wanting things to be a certain way. I’ve sat multiple silent meditation retreats, feeling sensations in my throat and heart, trying to let go, release, and receive. Just recently, I started acupuncture as a new experiment in letting go.

Last week, my acupuncturist did a front-body treatment, including a needle in my heart. She described how that heart point is where we hold our old, deep grief; grief that we think defines us. She wiggled the tip of the needle, then left the room. I cried the whole session. A good cry, where I both released and received.

Afterward, I realized that letting go has become a project for me, another way for me to push and strive: Joy, you must let go before you can be free. Yet another option—or perhaps just put a different way—is to accept. To accept my shame and grief; my vulnerability and flaws; my wanting things to be a certain way while trusting that things are just as they should be. If I accept all this, knowing that darkness helps my light shine brighter, then I’m whole. The resistance is exhausting. The acceptance opens my heart. My old stories don’t define me, but they’re part of me. They’re part of my empathy and compassion; they’re part of my bravery. I no longer want to listen to shame or fear, but I can accept they’re in the background, helping me remember what it’s like to be human.

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The Importance of Teachers

In 2010, I attended my first silent meditation retreat—a doorway to deeper practice and broader awareness. It was a big leap (scary at the time), which I’ve taken another 20 times since. Cheri Maples was my first teacher. She was no-nonsense, a straight shooter. Her dharma talks were clear, honest, and filled with abundant wisdom. 

I’ve sat 10 retreats led by Cheri. In that time, my practice has changed and grown immensely, and Cheri has changed, too. She transformed from a no-nonsense, former cop into a wise, kind, nurturing teacher. She applied self-compassion in her own life, leading by example. She lightened up, while still practicing with deep integrity—she lived her talk

Cheri helped me in more ways than she’ll ever know. While on her retreats, I recognized my unwholesome habit of striving (desperately “doing” to side-step my pain). I saw my identification with a victimized self—clinging to my mental story of unworthiness as an (impossible) way to control this uncontrollable life—and I began to let go; to make different choices; to be more real, vulnerable, and free. Cheri reminded us all, “If not now, when?” And she asked us to question our solid views, “Am I sure?”

Last fall, Cheri was in a horrible, life-threatening bicycle accident. For two weeks, it wasn’t clear she would live. She spent months in various kinds of rehab, where she practiced mindfulness, patience, and skillful effort. Eventually, she returned home in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down. I attended a winter meditation retreat in Madison, typically co-taught by Cheri, but in which she couldn’t participate because of her health. After a silent, mindful lunch, I walked into the meditation hall and saw Cheri, in her wheelchair, on the stage. My heart leapt with love and awe.



Cheri spoke to us for 40 minutes, which took an amazing amount of energy given her condition. Her bottom line, after everything that happened: She’s grateful. She laughs more, accepts help, practices patience, and savors life. During an early juncture in her recovery, she clearly saw two roads she could take: depressed, victimized, suffering person or grateful, genuine, open-hearted person. She chose the latter, with dignity and grace. On that day in February, she was my teacher in new and beautiful ways.

Last week, Cheri got a systemic infection and died within hours. It shocked everyone around her, but didn’t appear to shock Cheri. She understands—in ways very few of us do—that life is fleeting, ever-changing, and not to be taken for granted, even for a moment. The day before she died, she told a friend, “I have lived such a good life.” A teacher until her last breath.

I feel deep sadness. Personal grief as well as heartbreak for the world. We’ve lost a great teacher, a mindful social activist, and a beautiful person. (For a sample of Cheri's wise, compassionate, honest teaching, look here.) A world-wide community mourns. Still, I know where Cheri would invite me to turn my attention: Gratitude. I’m grateful for each bit of wisdom I received from Cheri. I’m grateful for her example of how to live life, especially when it’s hard. I’m grateful I took a chance on that retreat in 2010. It changed my life. Cheri changed my life. I miss her steady presence in this unpredictable world. And I carry her in my heart: a reminder that steadiness is within me, too.

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Back to Basics

Meditation isn't just time spent on the cushion. It's equally about bringing awareness to daily life. At the Y, I bookend my meditation class with suggestions for everyday awareness. Speech and relationships are rich places to pay attention. I pose these questions about speech: Is it truthful? Helpful? Kind? (And is this the right time and am I the right person?) These are deep questions. So much of our cultural chatter is unhelpful, untrue, and unkind. It makes a difference when we attend with care to what we say. The more years I meditate, the less I speak. 

My friend Peter took these questions to heart and wrote a lovely song about skillful speech. When he shared it with a neighbor, he got this response: "Isn't that too simplistic? It sounds like kindergarten." This exchange made me wonder: perhaps all we need are basic lessons learned in elementary school.

I recently met with a group of educators of young children. The preschool director said, "Many days, we don't get into curriculum because we're helping kids resolve conflict. We let them know it's okay to disagree but they must treat each other with kindness and respect." Wisdom from preschool. If we all practiced this, our world might heal.



Karen Maezen Miller is a meditation teacher who resurrected a Zen garden in her backyard years ago. Now people flock to her house for garden tours. Her basic rules: 1) Be kind; 2) Don't throw rocks; 3) No running; 4) Pay attention. Ostensibly, these rules apply to young children, but if we overlay them on our adult lives, they're wonderful instructions. 

We spend so much time in our thoughts. Thinking, judging, analyzing, planning, and replaying. In doing so, we can over-complicate life. We blame (throw rocks), busy ourselves, and speak unconsciously. We see life as a puzzle to solve rather than a mystery to be lived, moment by moment, with our whole being.  Our way back home is through simple lessons we learned as kids:

Slow down.
Pay attention.
Be kind.
Tell the truth.
Apologize.
Get outside.
Take quiet time.
Help each other. 

Back to basics. We don't need much more than this. Simplicity is a beautiful thing. We can practice awareness with the next breath:


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Wholehearted Living

In my prison sangha, there are a variety of men—young and old; tough and tender; expressive and quiet. One of our quiet leaders is a burly guy with a shaved head. No one messes with him. Yet I know he’s a kind soul who had an amazingly difficult childhood. He practices meditation diligently. His heart continues to open in new ways. He shows up every week and sits in the circle.

During a one-on-one visit, another teacher and I shared with our “big, tough guy” exactly how and why we value his wisdom, presence, and practice. We let him know we care. He paused and the tears came, rolling down his cheeks. I asked, “Are these tears because no one has told you this before or because you don’t feel worthy?” He quietly nodded, “It’s both.”

This powerful interaction touched me in two ways: It was a reminder to tell people why and how I love them—to not hold back these words—because it makes a difference; it was also a reminder of our western-culture core wound: a deep-seated feeling of unworthiness.

It’s a life-long practice to build awareness, understand ourselves, and bear witness to our own pain; to apply self-compassion. It begins when others see us—really see us, as is—and accept us without conditions. It continues when we do this for ourselves.

Brené Brown writes, “Wholehearted living is about engaging in our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning and think, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough. It’s going to bed at night thinking, Yes, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes afraid, but that doesn’t change the truth that I am also brave and worthy of love and belonging.”

May we all live and breathe in a more wholehearted way.

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Holding Opposites Within Us

Life is complex. It's not just one thing; it's many things all at once. Part of my meditation practice is making room for everything. I've noticed how opposites arise together: love and sadness; fear and freedom; grief and wonder. When I love from an unguarded heart, I open myself to loss. When I experience fear but move through it, I feel freedom and ease. When I'm cracked open with grief, I see the world anew.

Our well-grooved habit is to resist painful feelings and cling tightly to what's pleasant. This creates tension in our bodies and minds. Elizabeth Lesser wisely notes, "How strange that the nature of life is change, yet the nature of human beings is to resist change. And how ironic that the difficult times we fear might ruin us are the very ones that can break us open and help us blossom into who we were meant to be."

It's possible to hold these opposite within us. Hold them lightly, with spacious curiosity. Opening our heart-minds in both directions allows us to more fully inhabit this ever-changing life. We have far more capacity than we realize. Building awareness takes persistence and patience, but it's possible. You can start right now:



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End of the Day

Evening comes. The day is done. If I stay aware, I do something that settles and nourishes. If I'm distracted, I often do something that overstimulates and depletes. (This is a life-long practice.) Either way, I'm met with thoughts as I lie down to bed. When I follow my thoughts in their endless loops, I stay awake. When I transform my thoughts, from blah-blah storylines to heartfelt gratitude, or when I move away from thoughts and gently into my body and breath, I fall asleep. Letting go at day's end is a powerful practice. Letting go of things undone or plans for tomorrow; letting go of tension, bit by bit; letting go of the copious methods we use to control the uncontrollable.

Short, regular pauses throughout the day—connecting with body, breath, and awareness—help us rest and sleep more easily. But we don't always remember and life interrupts. Whenever you feel anxious or unsettled at day's end, come here—to this post—and listen:

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Small Steps

Over 15 years, I've made huge leaps. Yet each leap contained countless small steps. The path from self-aversion to self-compassion is gradual. It's hard to pinpoint a single moment, but eventually I had appropriate tools and enough practice, and my heart shifted. When I revert to old habits, I trust there's a safe space within me: I re-connect with breath and awareness.

In last night's mindfulness class, I shared a story about my journey. For years, I looked externally for approval. I asked my loving husband repeatedly some version of "Am I okay?" His reassurance was never enough, and not because he wasn't genuine, but because I was looking in the wrong place. What I needed—in the core of my being—was my own approval: my own love and acceptance. And once I found this, I stopped asking him those questions, because I trust that I'm my own anchor; my own friend.

One of my students responded, "How did that transformation happen? Can you describe it?" These processes are difficult to pinpoint. There were many small steps along the way, and the way is zig-zagged, not straight. But I made a commitment: I truly wanted to befriend myself. My tools were meditation, journaling, therapy, self-portraiture, gardening, mindfulness, listening, and being. During one of our unplugged sabbaticals, I went out for a run to the end of the island, not a single person in sight. I sat on a rock and sobbed, feeling old and new wounds. This experience didn't provoke shame nor did it provoke external focus: I didn't want to hide nor did I need help. I could stay with myself. I trusted that everything I need is inside me. As my meditation practice deepened, so did this sense of trust. (I still need human connection—love, hugs, and support—but my true ground comes from within.)

Small steps have huge impact. Small steps pave paths of great awakening. Each person has their own journey; their own deepest intentions. What's most important is to listen to our own heart and then begin: take the next small step and then the next. Forgive ourselves when we falter—which we will—and have the courage to begin again. Bit by bit: this is how we change.

With this in mind, I created two short guided-meditations. Small steps toward awareness:


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Tend and Befriend Yourself

I'm deeply grateful for my new career: As a mindfulness teacher, I can’t escape my own crap. I’m continually called out, not by people but by awareness itself. When I prepare a class on self-compassion, I see multiple ways in which I’m harsh or judgmental, and then I choose differently: I practice forgiveness. When the topic is gratitude, I notice many ways that I protect my heart, and then I choose differently: I practice generosity.

I forget and remember hundreds of times each day. Earlier, I had three projects going and felt anxious about time. As part of my workflow, I edited a guided meditation and then listened to my own words, which returned me to awareness: What’s most important? I focused my attention and softened my heart. (I also smiled at myself: met my own crap with kindness.)

We often push ourselves, past exhaustion, when what we most need—as people, businesses, and society—is rest, creativity, compassion, awareness, and clarity. Yet to have compassion for others, we must first have it for ourselves. It’s okay to rest, laugh, and play. It’s okay to make mistakes. Life requires honest effort; it also requires gentle forgiveness.

If you want to practice a different habit—a habit of self-compassion—listen to this short guided-meditation: 


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