Do No Harm--to yourself

Doing no harm would require us to refrain from acting upon anything or anyone in a way that causes injury. What an amazing world that would be: No wars. No bullying. The earth experiencing renewal and healing. But what if we began the practice of not harming by simply not causing harm to ourselves—by not engaging in even the subtle ways that we injure our own mind, body, and heart? 

What if instead of working too many hours, rushing around with too many things on our to do list, or overextending ourselves to others while ignoring our own needs, we practiced slowing down and getting enough sleep? What changes would take place in our relationships, in our workplaces, and in our homes if we said No more to foods that keep us bloated and dull, and Yes to drinking enough water to hydrate the trillions of cells depending on us? 

Speeding to get to meditation: Cape Breton, NS

How would the world change if we spent as much time disentangling ourselves from negative self-talk as we do believing it? What if we stopped believing that there’s not enough time to take a walk, a nap, a break, a day off, and started embracing whatever moves us closer and closer to who we really are? 

I suspect that doing no harm to ourselves would leave us more tender—more able to be touched. It’s when I’m rested and clear-headed that I notice leaves rustling and clouds moving and the suffering of others. And I care—I care more about things and people when I’m not wrapped up in my own harmful suffering. 

Cloud Play: Ligmincha Institute, Shipman, VA

Chögyam Trungpa once said, When the world touches you, let it. Sometimes we’re just too overwhelmed by the world to be touched by it. Doing no harm to ourselves can lay the foundation for letting ourselves be touched. From there, we can do even more than not harm others; we can love them. 

Can I be mindful and loving of whatever arises.

If I can’t be loving in this moment, can I be kind.

If I can’t be kind, can I be nonjudgmental.

If I can’t be nonjudgmental, can I not cause harm. 

And, if I cannot not cause harm, can I cause the least amount of harm possible.
-excerpt from writing by Larry Yang

Mother Love: A practice in opening to others

There is a practice of considering each person we meet as someone who has been a mother to us at some point: someone who grew us inside her body; sang lullabies; experienced the physical pain of giving birth; fed us, clothed us, taught us the best she knew how; dried our tears; stood over our crib and delighted in our gibberish; watched us make poor choices, and loved us anyway. 

A face only a mother could love

This isn’t a practice of treating others as we would like to be treated. Nor is it a practice of trying to figure out how people want to be treated, and then acting in a way that pleases them. It’s a practice of cultivating an unwavering attitude of unconditional respect and deep gratitude for everyone.

Thank you for loving me when I was lovable, Mom

Have you ever known someone who meets new people with a very guarded mindset? Maybe you do this. The “mother” practice provides an opportunity to meet our fellow human beings with less apprehension, less sizing up. It doesn’t mean that we suddenly act all gushy or become doormats. It is simply a practice that allows us to work on our own attitude so that we might be more pliable, more open in our encounters with others, less quick to dismiss those who don’t act as we think they should. 

And when I wasn't

It can also be fun to do this practice. One evening as I was leaving work, I looked out the window and saw a teen-aged boy riding a bike down the street. I said, “Thank you, Mom.” I didn’t try to figure out how a young boy could possibly be my mother, and I didn’t go out and try to do something for him. I simply took the opportunity to recognize that in his humanness, he possesses a potential for the deep caring and intelligence that we associate with motherhood.

Sometimes I can’t recognize even the smallest bit of “mother” in someone, and in those times I try to imagine the person asleep. Sometimes I even shrink them down to their little baby self, and place myself beside their crib to imagine the rise and fall of their belly as they breathe themselves through the night. 

May we all find ways to care for and respect one another.

When They Sleep, by Rolf Jacobsen

All people are children when they sleep.

There's no war in them then.

They open their hands and breathe

in that quiet rhythm heaven has given them.

They pucker their lips like small children

and open their hands halfway,

soldiers and statesmen, servants and masters.

The stars stand guard

and a haze veils the sky,

a few hours when no one will do anybody harm.

If only we could speak to one another then

when our hearts are half-open flowers.

Words like golden bees would drift in.

God, teach me the language of sleep.

An intimate tribute to my sweetheart

At the end, one didn't remember life as a whole but just a string of moments. -David Levien

I love how he thinks about money. We’d like to have a house on the beach someday, but unless it’s earned by doing what we love, we’ll be happy landlocked. I love that our money is spent on great coffee, books, music, and home and car maintenance instead of dinners out and new furniture. I love that he gives gifts to our mail carrier and to the woman who cuts his hair.

I love that neither of us wants children but that he would consider having a pig for a pet at some point, and that he gives real thought to my questions about what a pig might eat or whether a dog might pick a fight with a pig as I walk it down the street. I love that he checks the locks, the lights, the stove, and the faucets a second time before coming to bed.

I love that he says that he won’t stay up late, then I feel him snuggle in way past midnight. I love that he twitches and heats up when he’s dreaming. I love that he dreams. I love that he’s a sleepyhead in the morning and how it feels to slip out of his arms when I get out of bed to go downstairs for coffee and morning writing. I love putting a pillow beside him and tucking the blanket around his chin when I go. I love that he has the coffee beans ground and that all I have to do is add water and press the button.

I love that we pretend to punch and throw high kicks at each other. I love that he’d rather poke himself in the eye than watch the Super Bowl. I love that he reads the obituaries. I love that the TV stays off almost all the time at our house. I love that he gets excited over Apple products and puts songs that he thinks I’ll like on my iPod without asking.

I love how he enjoys working out with weights and eating ice cream and potato chips. I love that he enters all of his expenses on a spreadsheet and backs up his computer every day, sometimes more than once each day. I love that he reminds me to back up my computer so that my writing won’t be lost and asks me to email him a copy just to make sure. I love that we sometimes stay in our pajamas all day.

I love that he tells me when I poot on him during the night and how he tries not to laugh. I love that he sometimes cries when he hears about violence and war and people being mean. I love that he pretends to be my butler and bows before leaving the room. I love when he impersonates our dentist.

I love that he sent me and my sister for a spa day when she was having a rough time. I love that when I talk about a dream that I have for my life, he says, “You’ve got to do it, Sweets!” I love that we made a song in Garage Band called “Gonna Kill You.”

I love that when I challenged him to a race in the long corridor of a hotel, he took off at breakneck speed, leaving me laughing so hard that I had to stop. I love that he must have time alone every day, sometimes much time, sometimes for many days. I love that when I leave for days or weeks that he loves his life, and that we sing a song called Male Independence before I go (there’s a Female Independence version for when he leaves).

I love how we sleep. Sometimes I awake underneath his shoulder or breathing in his face. Sometimes I am holding his hand. I love that when I asked him if he’d be angry if I burned down the house by accident that he said Yes. I love that I do the grocery shopping and the cooking, and that he comes downstairs saying, “Mmmmmm, that smells amazing-amazing” and makes me say that I’m a food genius.

I love that we respect the feelings that we have and hold the space for all of them, even when it’s not comfortable. Once when I was going through a few weeks of depression, he didn’t try to fix it, figure out what was wrong, or cajole. He put an extra blanket on me and rubbed my head. When he is deep and dark and brooding, I trust that he can hold the tension and that it will pass when it’s supposed to. I scratch his head, rub his shoulders, and make him grits for breakfast. I love that we meditate together and that he sometimes says “Man, I’m messed up” when we’re finished.

I love that when I’m channeling the brusque speaking mannerisms of my grandmother who sometimes cooked squirrel for dinner, he tells me that my delivery is lacking. I love that he corrects the pronunciation of some of my words and lazy speech habits. I love that he knows more than I about American history and politics, despite his having been raised in another country. I love that he loves to try different foods, and that a bottle of booze will go unopened for months at our house while a carton of chocolate milk won’t last a week. 

I love that we’ve declared that if one of us ever wants out of the relationship that the other will help with packing. I love that I can’t imagine the sadness that we’d have were our relationship to end but that the sadness would be tinged with the joy that runs through all of our todays. I love that with our sad-joy we’d keep our hearts open to loving again.