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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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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The Possibility of Forgiveness

This world contains greed and violence. It also holds hope and healing. I've come to believe that our deepest wound is the harm we do to ourselves. This includes negative self-talk, but it's much wider. We hurt ourselves when we live life that's untrue; when we punish ourselves with self-improvement; when we refuse to see choices; or when we limit ourselves to certain roles and identities. There are so many ways we unconsciously harm ourselves. And these little hurts build up over years. At some point, we must acknowledge the ways we mistreat ourselves, but acknowledge this with an open heart. Yes, I've hurt myself. Yes, I can begin again. I'm sorry. I forgive you. It's an odd inner-dialogue, but it works. Forgiving ourselves is a brave act of healing. It might begin in a heady way, then the real healing happens when we forgive from our heart; forgive in an embodied way. But the starting place is more basic: the recognition that forgiveness is possible.

Here's the third in my video series, "Healing with Self-Compassion": 
Laughter and Forgiveness.

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How Are You Shaping Your Brain?

Human nature is interesting: we receive both praise and blame for the same action. If an idea becomes popular, there's often a backlash. Last fall, Adam Grant wrote an opinion piece for the New York Times: "Can We End the Meditation Madness?" [It's an interesting read, even for this mindfulness teacher.] Grant notes the lack of rigorous studies on meditation, quoting Richie Davidson—a leading neuroscientist and meditation researcher.

Just recently, I watched an interview with Davidson, where he responded to the NYT article. His response: "Here's what I can say with total confidence: our brains are constantly being shaped—wittingly or unwittingly. Most of the time, our brains are being shaped unwittingly." There you have it: most of the time, our brains are being shaped unwittingly. 

There's a sea of information in our culture. There's external cues: conversation, news, social media, magazines, entertainment, workplace activity, home environment, and the natural world. There's internal cues: physical sensations, emotions, ideas, judgments, opinions, and thoughts. We get to choose how this information impacts our minds.

I'll give two (extreme) examples of shaping our brains:
1. Get up; check Facebook; watch a few cat videos on YouTube; eat breakfast while reading the paper; say a cursory goodbye to family; drive to work while checking the phone at each red light; work all day, distracted by texts, FB updates, and thoughts of the past or future; get take-out on the way home; eat dinner, where the whole family is on devices; check email one more time; turn on the television and fall asleep on the couch.

2. Get up; meditate; eat breakfast in a non-rushed way, perhaps catching up with family members; drive to work in silence, no radio; work all day, motivated by the most important tasks; take a walk outside during the lunch hour, noticing sights and sounds; make a homemade, simple dinner; hug someone; while eating, share the ups and downs of the day; intentionally use social media; take another walk outside; choose an activity for the evening that fills instead of depletes; take quiet time before bed.

I'm not a neuroscientist, but the first scenario shapes the brain to be distracted, separated, and anxious. The second scenario shapes the brain to be aware, connected, and content. Most of us exist somewhere between these two examples. But it's helpful to ask: How am I shaping my brain in this moment? What seeds am I cultivating? 

Our brains are plastic. We can allow them to be shaped unconsciously or consciously. If we identify our core values—that which matters most to us—we can use this to shape our brains. Perhaps not constantly, but regularly. And small changes can have a big impact.


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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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Guiding Word for 2016

Winter is a natural time for reflection. The days become slightly longer and the calendar turns. I ask myself: What did I learn in 2015 and how can I move forward? To me, resolutions feel rigid. They feel like black-and-white solutions in a gray world. I try to move from intention. How do I want to live my moments, my days? What word or words can guide my actions? In practice, I must do the work, but it helps to have a guiding intention, expressed in a single word.

My previous words: trust, choice, allow, possibility. Each word was an umbrella for the year. None of these words told me what to do. They served as reminders of what was most important to me. Looking back, I see how they led me through a career change. I did the hard work, but reminders are helpful. Because I make mistakes; I forget and then I remember.

This year I choose "love." My creative work is most alive when it comes from love. My teaching is most effective when it comes from love. My connections—with myself and others—are most genuine when they come from love.

If a word-of-the-year intrigues you, try this guided reflection (there's no way to get it wrong):


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Meet Yourself With Kindness

Grief is rich territory for growth. We all experience loss in different ways at different times. Right now I feel withered and bare. But I also feel the sun. I hear these words from Galway Kinnell: “Sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on the brow of the flower, and retell it in words and in touch, it is lovely.” Sometimes it’s necessary for me to place my hand on my own brow—on my own heart—and send blessings inward. This is the practice of loving-kindness.

Loving-kindness is open and condition-free. It's also engaged. We don't deny that life is difficult; we meet ourselves there with kindness. Instead of "I'm fine, my grief is over," I move toward my tender places. Instead of "I'll love myself after I finish the to-do list," I open my heart right now. It's a radical shift. And it's a life-changing shift. If I stay with loving-kindness practice, my heart softens and opens. From this place, I give more to the world.

The traditional teachings move outward in widening circles: ourselves, a beloved, a friend, a stranger, a difficult person, all people everywhere. It's comfortable to start with everyone—to wish the world well—but if we don't send love inward, we're disconnected. My experience is this: when I offer myself loving-kindness, I offer it easily to others. If I send blessings inward (may I be safe, happy, and free), my circle of love widens. 

With any meditation practice, be honest yet gentle; persistent yet patient. There's no way to get this wrong. Just be. Just be with whatever arises:

Loving-Kindness Meditation

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Open Your Heart

I received a simple letter in the mail: my retirement savings will be transferred to a new company. My first reaction: fear. Fear of change and uncertainty. 

Since my mom's death I feel a heaviness in my chest--pain that feels solid; more solid than anything I've ever experienced. My first reaction: fear. What if this pain never ends?

In small and large ways, we're all impacted by uncertainty; we're all affected by loss. Our pain, as well as our happiness, connects us. Naomi Shihab Nye writes about this in her poem "Kindness" (excerpted here):

"Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore."

For me to know sorrow, I must face fear. I can't know sorrow as the deepest thing inside if I remain afraid. Each time I dip into grief, something shifts and softens. It's not as solid as fear wants me to believe. And if I don't open my heart to deep sadness, then I can't open my heart to wondrous joy. If I don't embrace uncertainty, then I never feel peace.

We humans resist pain. But in that very resistance we give up so much: compassion, kindness, presence, and ease. As we move toward pain, opening our heart to ourselves, we move toward love. The unprotected heart is vulnerable but it's also expansive and free.

I see your hardship and suffering. I see the size of the cloth. In response, I open my heart to everything--uncertainty, loss, contentment, and love. It's only kindness that makes sense anymore. Kindness inward and kindness outward.

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Both Okay and Not Okay

The weekend before my mom died, I attended a silent meditation retreat. (Not yet knowing of mom's illness, I set an intention: bring loving-presence and compassion wherever I go. This intention serves me daily.) On the retreat-center wall was a quote from Pema Chodron: "We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It's just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy."

I'm not okay: I'm sad, vulnerable, exhausted, and raw. But I am okay: I'm awake, loving, present, and true. I can hold both of these at the same time: being okay and being not okay. I've told friends I'm riding the waves of grief, but really I'm riding the waves of life. When grief ebbs, life still provides new waves, each with its own impact. I want to allow for it all. Yet some days I resist, and in the resistance judgment appears (self-judgment, most especially). Then I remember to be gentle. To cradle myself in my own arms; to sing myself a lullaby.

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Let the Love In

Just recently, I realized--in a visceral way--how much easier I give love than receive love; provide support than welcome support; offer help than accept help. My role as "caretaker" is both genuine and protective. When I'm the one giving, I feel in control of this uncertain, difficult world. When I receive, I'm completely vulnerable. I'm open. And in that openness, I could get hurt. But if I don't take the chance, I can't really love. To love wholly, means to accept love wholly. This is a lesson I re-learn often. And each time, my understanding deepens.

We humans have a negativity bias. It's baked into us through evolution. We scan the horizon for danger. We guard ourselves against being hurt. With quickness and ease, negative stimuli go straight to our brains--into memory. Yet we skip over multitudes of positive experiences. Why? Because we don't even notice them; we're too busy scanning the horizon or looking for the next task. Or we notice them, briefly, but don't actually take them in. 

Here's the great news: we can retrain our brains. In brief, regular ways, we cultivate the positive and take in the good. First we notice a positive experience, then we embody it (savor it) for three deep breaths. Thirty seconds at a time, bit by bit, we build a more contented, happy life.

This practice works in a general way. It also works as specific medicine for basic human needs: safety, satisfaction, and connection.  If you feel anxious, notice you're safe--not physically in danger--right now; stay with that feeling of safety for three breaths. If you feel frustrated or irritable, do something that brings you satisfaction; then linger in that satisfaction for three breaths. If you feel lonely or sad, hug a friend or hold hands with a loved one; soak in the connection for three breaths. (Or remember a time of satisfaction or connection, and stay with that enlivened memory.)

This practice isn't grandiose. It's completely do-able. Start by noticing the positive in your life. Then begin to stay with the positive, as it fills your whole being. Then stay longer. These are brief pauses throughout the day. Perhaps 5 minutes of your daily life. Definitely do-able. And perhaps life-changing.

If you want to try this practice, listen to my guided meditation (included below). If you want to learn more, read Hardwiring Happiness by Rick Hanson. 

May we all have more moments of happiness, ease, and connection.

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Resilience

I've been thinking about resilience. The American Psychology Association writes:  
"[Resilience] is 'bouncing back' from difficult experiences." But the idiom "bounce back" doesn't feel right to me. To rebound, I must have a hard shell (perhaps elastic, too, but a hardened exterior). Resilience, like courage, doesn't mean being tough or hardened; it means being open, honest, gentle, and strong. Resilience means grieving my mom while living life with an open heart. It means, in the words of Rainer Maria Rilke, "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final."

Life is an honest yet gentle practice: I need to stay with the difficult; and I need to be inwardly kind. Resilience allows for everything--even the dark places--but it requires self-compassion. I don't see myself as "bouncing back"; I see myself as feeling, learning, and growing. All the while, keeping my heart open (gently) to everybody, especially myself.

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I'll Meet You There

From the poet Rumi:
"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense."

When I eulogized my mom, I began with those words. She loved me unconditionally, without boundaries. She met me "beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing." Mom met me--in whatever state I arrived--with love and understanding.

Now I re-enter life with raw emotions, my tender spots revealed. And I wonder: Who else is grieving, hurting, or rejoicing? Do the strangers I pass feel lonely or anxious? What lies beneath the armor we so habitually wear? I think we're connected, deeply, as humans who navigate this difficult and wondrous world.

In times of sorrow, we have permission to drop the armor; to love and be loved; to grieve and feel. Then the rawness subsides and we return to daily life. Our armor rebuilds. Yet this armor moves us further from Rumi's field--further from acceptance and compassion.

As best I can, I hope to stay unarmored. My intention: keep this heart open to everything life offers; keep this heart open to everybody (including myself). There is a field and it's filled with love, beauty, and awareness. 

I'll meet you there.

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Slow the Pace

As you view this post, you might have an uneasy feeling, a thought in the back of your mind: I have a lot to do; will this take long to read? These nagging thoughts can plague us on the busyness treadmill, where everything feels urgent.

I know that urgent feeling. It can happen as I prepare a mindfulness class. It can happen when I take a photograph. It can happen in my meditation. It can even occur when my schedule is open and free. 

On Tuesday I wrote these words on a piece of paper: slow the pace. This resonated with my whole being. I'm tired of the striving and judging--old habits that sneak in when I'm not looking; when I don't fully see my life. Instead of striving, I want to slow down and be patient: while in the car, I slow my speed; while walking, I notice sounds around me; when washing my hands, I take my time; as I write this, I deepen my breath. Each of these reconnects me with myself and the present moment--reconnects me with gentleness. When I rush, I tend to judge. When I rush, compassion is hard to reach. But when I physically slow the pace, I'm gentler with myself and others. In this way, the quality of my work improves, because I work from a place of love.

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Working with Difficult Emotions

It's human nature to resist pain. Evolution trained us to push away the difficult, to just survive. These habits are well-grooved, but they're no longer necessary. And they block true healing. As Carl Jung concisely stated, "What you resist, persists." 

When I resist pain, I only create more pain. If I resist my grief, anxiety, shame, or fear, I strengthen the hurt not the healing. But when I make space for difficult emotions--when I invite them in and look more closely--there's a release. It's counter-intuitive, but it works every time. After years of practice, I have a new relationship with fear. It's no longer a scary monster in the corner. Now it's a known companion. It's a signal: look inward and be gentle.

Michele McDonald created an acronym for this process: RAIN (Recognize, Allow, Investigate, and Non-identify/Nourish). First we must recognize our situation--what is my direct experience in this moment? Exactly how do I feel uneasy? (This takes time and inner-reflection.) The second step is a big leap: allow for the feeling; allow for the experience, as is. Here, we release our grip and let the feeling flow. (This can be done in small, safe ways; it's a gradual process.) Investigation is the third step. Once we allow for the emotion, we bring curiosity--not in a heady way, but in an embodied way. How does this emotion pulse in my body? What are the sensations and how do they change? (This investigation is worthy of a lifetime.) The last step is resting in awareness, in presence. Our emotions don't define us. If we allow for difficult feelings, eventually they morph and settle, and we sit in a centered place. From this place, we can apply self-compassion and nourish our hearts.

This path is both brave and beautiful. It takes strength and kindness. If you'd like to try, I'll be your guide. This meditation applies when you're in the midst of difficult emotions:

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Everyday Mindfulness: Engage the Senses

There are many ways to escape the present moment and many ways to return. Our senses give us direct access to presence. They ground us in our bodies. When we actively engage the senses, we must be here, right now. And that's a beautiful thing.

I've been practicing with the senses--using them as pauses, sprinkled throughout the day. Instead of only photographing the sunset, I watch it for five deep breaths. If I bake bread, I linger over the smell. When I put lotion on my hands, I feel the sensations. While I walk, I listen to the birds, noticing the different songs. At mealtime, I bring my full attention to the first bite and all its flavors. Aware of my senses, I can't be lost in thoughts. The senses are only alive in this moment.

An easy place to practice is the shower, a regular activity. Senses abound in the shower and it's a pleasant experience. Yet we typically spend that time lost in thoughts. Until I started my shower experiment, I didn't realize what I was missing. I was using the shower as a place to think--not in a broad, open-awareness way, but in a replaying, obsessing, planning way. Now, when thoughts arise, I bring my attention back to the senses--to the feeling of water on my skin--again and again. Now, instead of a rushed 10 minutes, my shower is a mindful experience with my whole being.

Self-Nurture

February. The month of love. I walked into Walgreens, in search of cold medicine. I was bombarded with hearts and candy. In those aisles, I realized who needed a Valentine; who most needed my love and attention: me. 

I can be lulled into thinking I'm doing just fine. That I know exactly how to nurture myself. But then I'm surprised. Tears arise unexpectedly or sickness seeps in. And I must listen anew. Some of my recent discoveries:

Photography feeds my soul, but sometimes the best therapy is a long walk without my camera. It's possible, and quite helpful, to meditate in the middle of a busy farmer's market. Dancing to Bruno Mars "Just the Way you Are" while looking in the mirror melts my heart. A cold is just a cold (not a judgment from the universe), and is nursed well by 12 hours of sleep. Taking a hot shower and putting on clean clothes can shift my mood. Patience is a beautiful form of kindness. Love-filled hugs work every time.

Slow Down

The season is winter. Animals hibernate, conserving their energy. Plants go dormant, covered in snow. Darkness sits on the earth, asking it to sleep. There's a beautiful stillness in winter; a place for restoration. Yet we humans create bustle and doing. We actually choose the busyness--parties, shopping, gifting, scheduling.  

Mark and I did errands on Saturday and saw an interesting juxtaposition: holiday music declared "the most wonderful time of the year" while people with tense, tired faces pushed and rushed. We receive cards in the mail that contain no message, no intimacy. It's as if cards, gifts, and holiday cheer are on the very long to-do list. 

Remember: this is the season of hibernation. We can choose quiet and rest. We can slow down. I want to do less and appreciate more; to make deeper connections with fewer people; to minimize gifts and expand love; to work from my heart, not external pressure; and to listen to nature, as it gracefully rests.

Now for Something Completely Different

Where has my silliness gone? Yesterday I reread my latest posts. The topics: self-judgment, difficulty, fear, over-thinking. All important topics. All exactly where I was at the moment. Yet I've left out my happiness and childlike wonder. Life is heartbreaking, but it's also joyful.

Last night I made a different choice: take my camera, tripod, and remote shutter-release outside. Jump around. Leap, bound, play, and laugh. My first stop was the backyard--a safe place. But my neighbors were gardening or eating, and the mood felt calm not playful, so I walked to the park.

(me walking backwards, a little giddy)

The park felt festive. Families gathered. Smoke rose from grills. Children laughed. Cars drove past. I placed my tripod in a patch of sunset light next to the road. In that spot I jumped and twirled and giggled. I felt playful and free.

When we most need it--when we feel sad or angry or hurt--we forget that life is fun. We're surrounded by joy, laughter, and beauty. Sometimes we need to jump around, do the unexpected, or make our own adventures. When I'm playful, my heart opens and my thoughts subside. I see the magical world that is my life.

(me walking forwards, relaxed and happy)

Life Interrupts

I hit a wall yesterday. Life didn't cooperate with my plan. I felt like Lord Business in The Lego Movie: "You're ruining my perfection!" Desperately, I held tight control. Not real control, just perceived control. That's my habituated reaction to fear, shame, and uncertainty. And I'm sitting in a pile of uncertainty.

I often relearn this lesson: life isn't tidy; life interrupts. Sometimes I move with the flow. Other times I meet my edge. Meeting my edge yesterday was helpful. It exposed my soft spots. I can't fix the world, but I can attend to myself. I can pay attention through all the interruptions: electricity not working, friends' cancer diagnoses, unexpected car repairs, peddling a new business, and my father's heart surgery. I either stay with my edge or abandon myself. I'd rather stay. In these raw, vulnerable moments, I most clearly see my heart--my beautiful, tender heart. These are not interruptions, they are life itself.

Greet Yourself With Elation

Recently, I read through my old journals. I saw the places where I felt stuck and where I gained insight. Life feels like a slow spiral. I revisit certain issues, yet with fresh eyes. A few years ago my inner-nurturer gained important ground. I found self-compassion, at first fleeting but then enduring. And this practice of self-compassion changed my life. I still spiral in and out, but I have a center that holds. I've returned to myself.

This journey is described beautifully by Derek Walcott in his poem "Love After Love" (from Sea Grapes, 1976):

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
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How often do you look at yourself in the mirror and smile? How often do you feast on your life? It is possible to give back your heart to itself--to come home. I wish this for us all.