New Day

The sun comes up and we arise. Dreams from the night forgotten, the day not yet fully formed. This once-a-day opportunity to breathe in the wonderment of how we might enter our life once again—an opportunity I often zoom right past.

Since we’re hardwired to “go negative,” it’s way too easy to jump out of bed and start scanning for what might trip us up—will we be late, what if we don’t get the tasks done, do we really have time to exercise, and so on. This negativity bias is necessary; it helps us stay alive and maneuver the world. But with each new day there is also the chance to pause and soften a bit.

There is no way that is more correct than another to do this—we might linger over a cup of coffee, go for a short walk, take a few full breaths. It certainly doesn’t have to be anything spectacular. I’ve been reading a poem lately to start my day. While the poem is about the end of day, reading it before the zoominess takes hold will sometimes open me, even if just for a bit. 

I don't want to miss the fresh space of morning. May we all find ways to wake up to each new day. 

Early morning walk: Carlsbad Boulevard

Questions Before Dark, by Jeanne Lohmann

Day ends, and before sleep

when the sky dies down, consider

your altered state: has this day

changed you? Are the corners

sharper or rounded off? Did you

live with death? Make decisions

that quieted? Find one clear word

that fit? At the sun's midpoint

did you notice a pitch of absence,

bewilderment that invites

the possible? What did you learn 

from things you dropped and picked up

and dropped again? Did you set a straw

parallel to the river, let the flow

carry you downstream?

2 responses to impermanence

An elderly woman kept repeating Things change as she told me about things that used to be true for her: I used to like french fries, but now I don't have a taste for them...Things change. I used to have coffee every morning, but after my husband died, I stopped that...Things change. I used to be able to drink water whenever I wanted—now I have to wait for someone to come by and fill my cup. Things change.

Her words convey more than an intellectual knowing of impermanence; she now lives this knowing in a way that makes even a drink of water something to be savored.

Nothing in the world is permanent, and we're foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we're still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it. -W Somerset Maugham

We know that impermanence is the nature of life: things arise, they remain for a time, they dissolve. There is never a moment when anything stops. We can have one of two responses to this ongoing cycle: we can 1) appreciate and maybe even find preciousness in the temporary nature of all things, or we can 2) fear change and struggle against it. 

There is a question that I ask myself when I'm fearful and struggling: What most wants to be lived through me in this moment? By asking this question instead of asking "What do I want to happen right now," I can sometimes realign my mind with the dynamic nature of things. Of course this doesn't always work, and even when it does, it doesn't ensure that I won't feel fear. But if I can lean into the fear even a little, I often see that fear too is impermanent—that it also remains only for a time before dissolving.

We all have to decide if we would rather live closely aligned with impermanence, which means experiencing both the sadness and the joy inherent in change, or whether we would rather live in a more controlled, measured way. Perhaps today you can try to notice the three qualities of impermanence—arising, remaining for a time, dissolving—in the spaces of your own life, body, emotions, and so on. 

A precious sad-joy moment for Pat and her father

There is a koan that points to impermanence: What was your face before your parents were born? Contemplating koans can open the mind in ways that conventional thinking usually doesn't. So, what was your face before your parents' birth? What will your face be 300 years from now? What is it right now? And what most wants to be lived through you in this very moment?

Between Going and Staying, by Octavio Paz

Between going and staying the day wavers,

in love with its own transparency.

The circular afternoon is now a bay

where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,

all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,

rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats

the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall

into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,

watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,

I stay and go: I am a pause.

Eyes, Jaw, Shoulders, Belly: A practice in body awareness

Mindfulness students are used to hearing me say “Eyes, Jaw, Shoulders, Belly” as a reminder to check in on those areas of the body. Checking in like this helps us become familiar with where our unique body holds stress.

Here's how the practice works: We pause for a few seconds to become aware of how each area feels.

Eyes
How are my eyes in this moment? Am I holding tension there? Experiment: Squint (as you might do while in front of a computer screen) while swinging your arms open as though you've just reached the top of a mountain. Bring the arms back down. Now release the tightness in your eyes, and swing the arms open again. Can you tell a difference in the entire body? in the breath? in the way that you feel?

Warrior eyes: Wide open!

Jaw
Am I clenching my jaw, which probably means that I’m also holding my tongue tight in my mouth? Try clenching your jaw and smiling. Not too convincing, eh?

Shoulders
Are my shoulders rounded forward, or up around my ears? A study was done with a group of top college students: they were asked to slump 24/7 for an extended period of time. Overall, their grades went down and many of them reported an onset of depression. 

Belly
As I breathe in, my belly should expand. Is that happening in this moment, or am I holding my breath or chest breathing instead? (When I started taking piano lessons at age 40, I held my breath while playing through lines of music—my teacher had to remind me, Breathe!) If we're holding tension in the belly, among other harm being done, our cells are not getting the oxygen they need to be healthy.

Bum
I've added this one—the sphincter muscle—to the list. We have words for people who stay constricted in this area—“tight ass,” “anal retentive,” etc. Even if there is total relaxation in your eyes, jaws, shoulders, and belly, if you’re holding on for dear life at the point of this muscle, you will not be invited to any fun parties.

A baby has open Eyes, Jaw, Shoulders, Belly, and probably Bum too

You may know of Shakira's hit song, Hips Don't Lie. Actually, no body part lies. If our body is constricted, our mind is constricted, and nobody can hide a tight mind behind eloquent words, good acts, or even a smile.

Let the Soul banish all that disturbs;

Let the Body that envelops it be still,

And all the frettings of the Body,

And all that surrounds it.

Let Earth and Sea and Air be still

And Heaven itself.

And then let the Body think

Of the Spirit as streaming, pouring,

Rushing and shining into it from

All sides while it stands quiet.

                         -Plotinus, AD 205

Mindful ownership: A vow to consider

I bought a great hat for this trip to Gampo Abbey. It has ear flaps and faux fur trim, and I admit to feeling a wee bit fierce while wearing it. But last week I gave it away. I didn't do this as a practice of generosity or as some show of asceticism. I did it because the hat seemed to belong to someone else more than it belonged to me.

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
-Viva La Vida: Coldplay

The hat-belonging-to-someone-else awareness arose while I was taking my daily vows—specifically the vow not to take what belongs to someone else. For 2 weeks I had zipped through that vow because I was confident that I wouldn't take something that doesn't belong to me. But then I became curious about what seems a logical offshoot of that vow: in addition to vowing not to take something that belongs to another, can I vow not to own something that belongs to another? In other words, are there things I have now that belong to someone else? 

Do you remember the matching exercise that children do, drawing a line to connect a picture with its corresponding image—bowl with spoon, sock with shoe, and so on? I pictured the fierce hat. I pictured myself—in Virginia with its temperate climate, and my head, with lots of hair. Then I pictured the monks and nuns here—in blustery, snowy Cape Breton, and their heads, shaven. Even a child could recognize the better match for the hat. I dropped it in the Offering box. I felt no sense of doing a good thing by giving away the hat; I felt a sense of doing a smart thing. 

My actions are my only true belongings. -Thich Nhat Hanh

I don't know if this will turn into a practice of mindfully inventorying my belongings, and I realize that I'm talking about a hat—and not, say, a car. But it has me looking, considering, and so on, which is all part of mindfulness. Soon after I gave away the hat, I saw a book of Mary Oliver poems in the Offering box. Night after night I have lain warm in the bed, listening to the wind and reading her words, which in these moments suit me better than any hat I could ever imagine.

Messenger, by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters, 

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be 

astonished.

The phoebe, the delpinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever.

New Year’s resolutions: BAH!

As December ticks down, many of us reflect on the year that is ending. I’ve even made a list of contemplation points to help me do this (email me if you'd like to receive this reflection list: rebecca@rebeccaeldridge.com). But while deliberate, compassionate reflection can be healthy and helpful, when it comes to making resolutions for the coming year, only one word comes to mind: BAH!

I feel this way because New Year’s resolutions often smack of reprimand—I'm fat: I will eat less chocolate and more broccoli. These almost always sound eerily similar to statements that "naughty" students are made to write again and again as punishment: I will be better. I will be better. 

Javier told me that when he entered 4th grade and was allowed to participate in his first Confession, that a checklist of childhood “sins" was supplied to him—sins such as "I was mean to my sister." It’s no wonder that on a little Valentine made for his parents are written the words “I will try to be a better boy.” The feelings of inadequacy that we carry around usually have early origins. Why establish resolutions as adults that stoke those feelings?

What if we made a resolution not to make resolutions—deciding not to impose on our bodies, our minds, and our hearts even more messages of not being good enough, worthy enough, and so on (women can pick up any magazine in the checkout line for those messages; men, I assume the same for you).

To this end I’ve created an anti-resolution: it goes by the acronym BAH. In 2013 when I’m feeling inadequate, anxious, angry, shut down, puffed up, and so on, the only thing that I resolve to do, for myself, is to practice BAH:
1. Breathe.
(Big, full breaths that soften the face, shoulders, and belly)
2. Ask So what?
("So what that I'm feeling _______ right now?")
3. Hold off on answering.
(I don't need to have an answer for why I'm feeling what I'm feeling. I can let feeling it be okay for now.)

I can imagine how the practice of BAH might play out: I’ll be grocery shopping (I love to grocery shop), and will have dark chocolate, coffee, fresh cilantro, and other goodies in my cart. I’ll get in line to pay. The line will be long, and I don’t mind long lines. That’s when it will happen: a new line will open and people behind me will dash over to it. 

Line-dashing is one of my hangups. It bugs me. A lot. It bugs me so much that I once lunged out of line and held my arms out to block the people who were dashing from the back to get to the new line (this was many years ago, but I can’t swear that I will never do it again). 

Have I told you that I once worked at Trader Joe’s? It was clear to me that I could work there when I saw that the training included how to open a new line: we were to walk to the person who had been waiting in line for the longest period of time and invite him or her to the newly opened line, helping them with their cart.

After my last day at TJ's. I got to keep the box cutter.

Can you hear how my thinking is totally loaded regarding this grocery line-dashing issue? I’ve written too much about it already but I’m still typing. That’s what happens when we talk, write, or think about a hangup (you’ll know your own hangups because they come with complete mental dialogues that you know by heart and play over and over and over, often at 2am).

While resolving to directly oppose our "flaws," such as deciding to “show more patience," makes intellectual sense, hangups don’t respond to intellect. Remembering that back in January we promised to be more patient will likely do little more than leave us feeling like failures when on August 17 the old desire arises to leap out of line to set the world back on its axis. We need something simple and real in the crazy moments. 

It’s interesting that one definition for resolve is “to break a complex notion into simpler ones.” We might consider “I will be more patient” as a complex notion, and BAH as steps of a simpler notion: to stand honestly in the moment. So in the line when Mr. or Ms. “Gotta Be First” makes the mad dash, the simplicity of BAH may just help restore my sanity. There will be no evaluation required as to whether or not I’m being patient, if I could be more patient, what being patient should look like, and so on. I will be left standing in line—breathing, feeling. 

Practicing BAH actually mirrors what occurs when we meditate: During meditation we 1) sit and breathe, then 2) when we realize that instead of being aware of our breath, we’ve been carried off into thought, we 3) return our awareness back to the breath. 

With BAH, similarly, we 1) Breathe, 2) Ask "So what that I'm feeling _____ right now?" (this helps us connect with what we’re feeling and makes space for the story line that’s going to come up anyway), then 3) Hold off on answering the So what? question (this lands us right back at simply breathing, accepting the moment and our feelings). If we decide to take action from this vantage point, the action will be a response instead of a reaction.

An interesting note: While writing this post, I learned that BAH is also a texting acronym for Bored As Hell. Sometimes our hangups are perpetuated because of the rush that we get from being hung up: we act on them with fervor, hoping that our actions will prove how right we are, how good we are, how smart we are, and so on. When we stop perpetuating our hangups, it's true—we may find ourselves Bored As Hell. (Feeling bored? Breathe. So what that you're feeling bored? No need to answer that. Just breathe.)

So if you decide to practice BAH when the SHTF, and you find yourself BAH...DWAI. AAMOF, I’d be surprised if that didn’t happen. THNQ!

Guest House, by Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent 
as a guide from beyond.

What does my nervous system have to do with meditation? Or “Get this monkey off my back.”

Do you replay things in your mind that happened yesterday, last week, years ago? Or maybe you awaken in the night to rehearse what you will do if such-and-such happens in the future? If so, you know the effects of thoughts-gone-wild: muscle tension, headache, stomachache, anxiety, sleep disturbance, increased blood pressure, and more. The fight-or-flight chemicals that allowed cavemen to outrun saber-toothed tigers still surge today, with many of us able to do little more than hold on for dear life in the midst of our incessant mind chatter (aka “monkey mind”).

This is not helping.

Mindfulness practice involves dropping beneath monkey mind to simply be with things as they are; it’s a practice of “coming back” to what the moment actually entails. Do you remember home base in the game of hide-and-seek? “Coming back” during the practice of mindfulness is like making it to home base: we’re still in the game, but we’re relating to it from a totally different vantage point than from when we were hiding or running around trying to avoid being caught.

And avoiding being caught is so very natural for us; we’re hardwired to scan the environment for threats, and the nervous system supports us in this. When an event is perceived as a threat (whether that event is, say, being followed by someone in a dark alley or being belittled by someone in a business meeting), the autonomic nervous system (ANS) kicks it up a notch, releasing stress hormones into the bloodstream. The sympathetic nervous system (SNS) then responds by preparing us to fight, flee, or freeze. 

This is a brilliant system. If we are in fact being followed in a dark alley, we need increased heart rate, rapid breathing, more blood flow to the muscles, adrenaline rush, and so on; it’s time to run away! But in a business meeting? There’s the rub. We’re almost never in imminent danger, yet many of us are in a state of autonomic dysregulation, feeling as though our SNS switch is stuck in the “powered up” position. This can make it feel as though even when things are going okay, it’s certainly only a matter of time before the ball drops again.

I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened. 

                                                                                                            -Mark Twain

Enter mindfulness practice, which, again, allows us to return to the present moment. One practice of mindfulness involves coming back, again and again and again, to the sensation of breathing as a way to be present. This repeated coming back can be about as exciting as brushing our teeth at times. But just as our desire for good dental health keeps us brushing, the desire for good mind-body health can keep us practicing mindfulness meditation. With this return to the breath, we learn to return to the present moment, without the accompanying pain, anger, anxiety, depression, and myriad of other monkey mind outcomes. The parasympathetic nervous system (PSNS) can serve to return us to a sense of calm. 

A favorite "coming back" spot at Karme Choling, Vermont

Without this ability to come back, we have no choice but to continue to spin our story lines until we pop back to the moment by happenstance. Mindfulness meditation is the practice of attending to the moment fully and intentionally, not by happenstance. Unlimited choice exists in the little gap of clear-headedness that comes from realizing that we’re lost in thought, at which point we’re no longer lost at all. Of course we also have the choice to go right back to letting our story lines about past and future spin themselves and pull us around like puppets, but ideally we choose to stop thinking our life and get back to living it. 

Between stimulus and response there is a space. 
In that space is our power to choose our response. 
In our response lies our growth and our freedom.

-Viktor Frankl

***************

This 12-minute video features a BBC correspondent who describes his initial skepticism at being asked to participate in an 8-week mindfulness course: “I was totally phobic about beards, sandals, incense, and anything to do with Eastern mysticism.” Hear how once he understands that these things have nothing to do with taking a mindfulness course (and that even Marines practice mindfulness), he takes the course and finds himself quite transformed (also see what his brain scan shows after he participates in the course). And hear a woman with chronic pain talk about what the practice of mindfulness does for her.

Challenge: See if you can identify the female reporter’s misunderstanding of what occurs during mindfulness practice (listen to what she says beginning at the 9:13 mark).

What draws us to meditation? Or "Cut it out or I'll bean you with a rock."

Nobody comes to meditation because they have it all together. Nobody comes thinking, My life, my body, my marriage—perfect. I have no money concerns, can’t wait for Monday mornings, my sciatica is a beautiful reminder that I’m alive, and, hey, I think I’ll learn to meditate.

We all come to meditation feeling that our lives could be better somehow—that we could be better. We all come feeling, to some degree, not okay. Within the last month, the last week, maybe the last 15 minutes, we’ve likely felt impatient, angry, phony, petty, judgmental, vengeful, apathetic, or something else that doesn't mesh with who we want to be. 

Not every moment is like this, of course. Sometimes we feel lovely. We sit on a bench to enjoy a quiet lunch. The sun shines on us at precisely the right angle. Our shoulders relax and so does our breathing. Then a car trawls by, stereo booming its bass into our very heart center. In 2 seconds flat we go from being at one with nature to wanting to run after the car and hurl a large rock.

I would have turned it down!

Of course we’d never actually throw a rock, on most days, but thinking about lobbing a hefty one at the dolt who isn’t nearly as enlightened as we are really gets the adrenaline pumping. But in our mind we do throw rocks, and those mental rocks pile up. They form walls that fortify our neuroses and cut us off from our highest self, from one another, and from the phenomenal world. 

Suddenly we snap back to awareness that we are still sitting on the bench. The sandwich wrapper is empty but we don’t remember chewing, tasting, swallowing. And when did those clouds roll in? Why does something always happen to mess things up, dammit? Most of us come to meditation at the dammit point. 

But we need not get stuck there. Through the practice of mindfulness meditation we can get unstuck: stop being swept away by emotion and yanked from thought to thought to thought. This all starts with accessing the stillness that already exists within each of us. Through this stillness we discipline the mind for clearer seeing so that perspective is restored and wise decisions can be made; we relearn respect for the body's abilities as well as for its limitations; we keep the heart moist and open. We wake up. 

I remember the phrase "If I should die before I wake" from a childhood prayer. Back then I thought that just by my falling asleep that I was somehow increasing my chance of dying—of not ever waking up again. 

Some semblance of that prayer still lives inside of me: May I not fall asleep. May I, and may all beings, awaken now.

I'm awake and very sweet.

Awakening Now, by Danna Faulds

Why wait for your awakening?

The moment your eyes are open, seize the day.

Would you hold back when the Beloved beckons?

Would you deliver your litany of sins

like a child's collection of sea shells, prized and labeled?

"No, I can't step across the threshold," you say, eyes downcast.

"I'm not worthy, I'm afraid, and my motives aren't pure.

I'm not perfect, and surely I haven't practiced nearly enough.

My meditation isn't deep, and my prayers are sometimes insincere.

I still chew my fingernails, and the refrigerator isn't clean."

Do you value your reasons for staying small

more than the light shining through the open door?

Forgive yourself.

Now is the only time you have to be whole.

Now is the sole moment that exists to live in the light of your true Self.

Perfection is not a prerequisite to anything but pain.

Please, oh please, don't continue to believe in your disbelief.

This is the day of your awakening.

When we can’t feel love: Or “Meditation for a Squirrel”

So far in my life I’ve meditated for a squirrel twice. Both times were during periods of feeling numbed out on the love front. It wasn’t that I didn’t love people during this period; I did. I just couldn’t quite feel love—delight in its tender quality. We all have these lack-of-love power outages, even in regard to our children, partners, best friends—people we’d give our life for, but who, on some days, occupy the “I’m just not that into you at the moment” space.

Most times this is nothing to worry about. Our partner shows up in the kitchen with sleepy morning hair, and we pick up the thread of affection. Our child comes out to the car to help us bring in a bag of groceries, and suddenly we’re back on the loving track. But there’s never a guarantee that a felt sense of love will arise again, so it makes sense that we might put forth intentional effort to keep our heart tuned to love.

It was during a loving-kindness meditation, which involves bringing to mind someone for whom we can easily feel love, that I realized that I couldn’t easily feel love for anyone in that particular moment. I ran down my list of usual people, checking in with my heart to see if a feeling of tenderness arose. Nada. I couldn’t even tap into a feeling of love for myself on this morning, which, of course, is precisely why I couldn’t tap into feeling love beyond myself, so I just continued to sit and focus on my breath. Some days this is simply what happens, and I reminded myself that during these “beige” times that a meditation practice supports our best intention of just extending a sense of friendliness to ourselves...period. 

Sometimes I don't

But suddenly I saw a squirrel walk across my deck rail and stop at a flower pot. I had noticed him weeks before and had named him Mr. White Chest, watching him return again and again to bury nuts. This day I watched him dig up a nut and stand on his hind legs to crack it with his teeth. I felt a tenderness. It wasn’t a tears-rolling-down-the-cheeks tenderness, but there was a softness that hadn’t come from thinking of, say, even my mother, whom I love dearly. On this morning, tapping into how I felt about Mr. White Chest had allowed me to reconnect with the tender heart that I knew was there all along, but that I just couldn’t find my way back to.

The second time that a squirrel brought me back to feeling love was while I was on a solo retreat. I had traveled from my Virginia home to spend 5 weeks alone in a remote area of Pennsylvania. It was solidly winter when I arrived, and my days consisted of meditating, building fires, meditating, preparing and eating meals, meditating, sleeping, meditating, and more meditating. The morning after I arrived I awoke to the sound of frantic scratching coming from inside the wall behind my head. I grabbed my phone and called Javier back home in Virginia. And while it felt oh-so-soothing to hear his voice, when I hung up, I was still alone, and the scratching was still there. 

Frozen: February 2009, Nuangola, PA

The scratcher had fallen down an old chimney that had no escape route. The exterminator said that it was likely a squirrel that was doing the scratching, probably being kept alive by snow and the nuts that had fallen from trees, and that it could go on for a bit, but that it wouldn’t be permanent. As l heard him say that it was likely a squirrel, my mind went to a weird place—that maybe it wasn't a squirrel at all, that maybe it was some creepy person who was watching me sleep at night and trying to scratch its way through the wall during the day. 

I continued to meditate, ending each meditation with the usual dedication that we all stop suffering (by now I really meant that for myself in a big way). Eventually I was able to genuinely include even “the scratcher.” During one of my meditations the scratching got so loud that I yelled, “May you be free from suffering, you little bastard.” Later that day I looked up to see a tiny hole in the wall. It was trying to enter my space; I wanted the bastard to suffer a lot. I grabbed the phone and called Javier again, who advised me to push a piece of furniture against the wall. I was sleep-deprived and weepy, but I was determined not to go home because of a maybe squirrel.

Later that day the scratching got less and less, like something done out of sheer habit in the absence of actual hope. I cried like a baby for the poor thing that was stuck. It was alone. So was I. It was frantic. So was I. It was dying. So was I. In that moment the love that I felt for the squirrel, and for myself, was full and honest; in fact (and it feels silly to even say this), I still have a deepened feeling for squirrels. I write about this because I see that, once again, the squirrels are visiting the flower pots on the back deck. Each year this opens my heart in a way that many other things don’t. 

May my heart continue to be touched in unexpected ways, and may the genuine heart of love expand to all living beings. Squirrels included.

Spring works miracles on the heart

I Know the Way You Can Get

-Hafez

I know the way you can get

When you have not had a drink of Love:

Your face hardens,

Your sweet muscles cramp.

Children become concerned

About a strange look that appears in your eyes

Which even begins to worry your own mirror

And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness

And call an important conference in a tall tree.

They decide which secret code to chant

To help your mind and soul.

Even angels fear that brand of madness

That arrays itself against the world

And throws sharp stones and spears into

The innocent

And into one’s self.

O I know the way you can get

If you have not been drinking Love:

You might rip apart

Every sentence your friends and teachers say,

Looking for hidden clauses.

You might weigh every word on a scale

Like a dead fish.

You might pull out a ruler to measure

From every angle in your darkness

The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once

Trusted.

I know the way you can get

If you have not had a drink from Love’s

Hands.

That is why all the Great Ones speak of

The vital need

To keep remembering God,

So you will come to know and see Him

As being so Playful

And Wanting,

Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:

Bring your cup near me.

For all I care about

Is Quenching your thirst for freedom!

All a Sane man can ever care about

Is giving Love!

What if this is all there is?

What if you never meet your soulmate, find your life’s calling, lose the extra weight, and pay off the bills? What if this is all there is?

Don’t get me wrong; I believe in dreams. Emerson got it right when he wrote, “Hitch your wagon to a star.” But if our “someday” dreams overshadow our “this day” life, the result is always sad: we miss out on the moments that matter, and they all matter. 

Of course it makes sense that we would consider happiness as some future event. From the time we’re young we’re encouraged to put it off—to get through school first, find a good job, meet somebody who will love us, have children, work hard, retire, and then, maybe, we’ll realize that we’ve somehow earned our way to happiness. 

Dad, it all sounds too difficult!

It’s a funny thing—this putting off happiness. It’s like putting off exercise; suddenly we have a paunch and want to take a lot of naps. Without becoming intimately familiar with happiness now—learning how it feels in our body and in our mind and in our heart—can we really expect that, poof, it will just show up for us someday (I could tell you stories of hospice patients who have shared with me about how they “missed it”—“it” being their actual life—in their imperfect relationships, in their imperfect bodies, in this imperfect world). 

And this futuristic mindset that we have regarding happiness not only diminishes our ability to feel happiness; it also shrink-wraps the belief that we’re somehow not okay right now (the future us that we imagine probably wouldn’t even want to hang out with the likes of who we walk around as today). 

Something interesting happens when we get this—I mean REALLY get it, not just get it theoretically. We start living. Right here. Right now. Happily ever after can finally begin—maybe while we’re washing dishes or paying bills or taking a walk. Happiness might start out as just a sense of contentment for a moment here and there, or even as moments where we realize that at least we’re not unhappy. We might reconnect with a sense of curiosity or a sense of playfulness. The world touches us, and we let ourselves be touched.

Sweet Penny Dog: Play with me! 

We might even find that contentment in these ordinary moments can be a great fuel for our wonderful, amazing dreams. It was 6 years ago that I began dreaming about creating a business out of 2 of my loves: hypnosis & meditation. This idea woke me at night in a good way. I could close my eyes and see it happening. And then I’d take walks—go around the neighborhood, feed the ducks, ride my bike. I wasn’t necessarily thinking about starting a business while I did these ordinary things; I was just living the moments of my life while they were actually occurring.

I'd like to tell you that I have lived my entire life in this way; I haven't. It took me almost 40 years to realize that I could actually embody my own life and allow myself to be okay with things as they are (knowing that things are usually plain, old ordinary). In fact it was during an ordinary walk that I looked up to see a For Rent sign in a business park (you know where this is headed). I remember that walk. It was chilly and I was heading toward a bridge. The next week I was knocking down walls, putting in flooring, getting a business license, and hanging a sign out front.

The making of a dream: Hampton Roads Hypnosis & Meditation

Since then the dreams that I have for my business and for my life have changed, which is what dreams do when, while we cherish them, we don't depend on them for our happiness. And when I grasp at dreams instead of letting them be the backdrop for the everyday moments of my life, I stumble. I get scared. I convince myself that I can't just stop, breathe, and wash the dishes in the sink—even when I know that this is exactly the way back to clear seeing. But eventually I come back—we all do. 

Through the ordinary I tap back into the vast heart space of my life that has been there all along—the same heart space that you and everyone else possesses. While I no longer have the physical space that I created, I will always have my heart space. 

Tonight I will eat soup, listen to the rain, maybe read a little. This really is all there is. And all there is is always enough.

Enough, by David Whyte

Enough. These few words are enough.

If not these words, this breath.

If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to the life

we have refused 

again and again

until now. 

Until now.