Generosity as a practice

I'm alive today because of the generosity of others; so are you. Someone had to feed us and keep us safe or we wouldn't have survived. What we have today is also because of the generosity of others—the generosity of ideas, time spent planning and creating, tilling the earth, and so on.

Lineage of generosity (my mother, far right in back, and her mother), 1950

Generosity is the first of 6 paramitas. The word paramita means “gone to the other shore.” We might think of the paramitas (generosity, discipline, patience, enthusiasm, meditation, and unconditional wisdom) as qualities that open up the shut down parts of ourselves—so that we might move from the shore of where we are to the shore of more compassionate living. To make that trip, we must leave firm ground and become more fluid. 

Rumi writes about generosity in his tale of a man begging for a crust of bread at someone’s home, and the homeowner replying, What do you think this is, a bakery? The beggar then asks for some gristle. No butchershop here, says the man. Finally the beggar asks for at least a sip of water, and the man tells him, This is not a well. At this point the beggar runs into the house and squats to defecate. Whoa! yells the man. What do you think you’re doing? The beggar explains that since the space seems vacant and unused, that it could use a little fertilizer. 

Since it’s often difficult to see our own vacant, unused potential, I sometimes choose to practice something for a period of time—to become curious about it and how it is playing out in my life. I am currently practicing generosity. But instead of focusing on generosity as it relates to possessions, I’m noticing how generous I am with these 4 intangibles:

Praise

It feels wonderful to receive authentic praise, and I want to be generous with my praise of others. I’m noticing when it’s easy to offer praise, and when it would feel disingenuous or trite. When I feel as though I'm holding back praise that is warranted, I'm asking myself why: Am I jealous? afraid to show tenderness? Or is something else causing me to hold back? I notice also when I am praising out of guilt or a desire to be accepted or liked—or simply to fill up silence. Part of the practice is also being specific with praise. There are studies that point to how generic praise (Great job, Way to go, and so on) can actually inhibit motivation in children, whereas specific praise (You always do a great job of putting your dirty clothes in the hamper) is motivating. I wonder if that holds true with adults. I'm checking it out.

Thanks

I'm also working on being specific with expressions of gratitude: Thank you for always being on time. I appreciate how you tuck the sheets in extra tight on the bed. I feel welcome when you smile at me. Expressions such as Thanks for all you do aren’t wrong, of course, but I’m trying to offer more personalized expressions of gratitude—the stuff we might remember for a long time.

Space

I am currently on retreat in Canada. I arrived on a Friday; my luggage showed up 4 days later. I got to the abbey late at night, ready for a good night’s sleep, when I learned that I would be living offsite in a cabin with 4 other women. The prime spaces were already claimed, with personal belongings in place. It was interesting to watch my mind turn flips as I considered how to mark my territory without physical belongings. I’m still working on ways to loosen up in my sharing of physical space, especially when space is at a premium.

Christmas dinner at the abbey: Not much room. A lot of space.

Silence

Silence is a formal practice here much of the time, but even when it’s not, I’m focusing on letting my generosity with praise, gratitude, and space speak louder than my conversational speech. It usually doesn't require many, if any, words to share in these ways, which leaves me in silence a lot. I am certainly listening a lot more than usual, and trying to speak words that promote peace and love.

With That Moon Language, by Hafiz

Admit something:

Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.”

Of course you do not do this out loud;

otherwise someone would call the cops.

Still, though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect.

Why not become the one who lives with a full moon in each eye

that is always saying,

with that sweet moon language,

what every other eye in this world is dying to hear.

Get tough and meditate. Meditate and get tough.

We meditate even on days when it hurts to meditate. Maybe it’s the body that hurts. Maybe it’s the mind or the heart. This sitting still and welcoming pain goes against what we have been taught—to distract ourselves from discomfort, find a way around it, or just muscle our way through. The bravest thing that I know to do when I experience pain is to go ahead and allow myself to hurt, be scared, be sad, and so on, without either reaching for the quick fix, calling up a friend who will tell me that it’s okay, or throwing myself a pity party. Some days we just need to get tough and meditate.

So what that you're scared? Meditate!

This moving up close to pain isn’t so different from training a puppy to stay. I once had a pug who loved mandarin orange slices. When I held one in front of his nose, his body quivered and he whimpered. But he stayed with all this discomfort until he heard “Okay." We’re not trying to be martyrs when we sit in meditation, but we are cultivating a strong sense of being with ourselves in every moment of our life, not just the ones that feel happy and easy. How can we expect to be with others who are in pain if we haven't learned to hold that space for ourselves?

The practice of being with pain, heartache, loneliness, and so on, is why I became a hospice volunteer—not because I’m so kind and loving, or because I thought that I could fix anything at all. Being with the dying has allowed me to be a student of mindfulness in a way that nothing else has. Someone dying is either lying down or sitting (prime positions for meditation). They are aware of most every breath (the instruction for meditation). And they live moment to moment to moment (bingo). As much as we may try to “live like we’re dying,” I can’t imagine that we will actually do that until we actually are. So for now, as we celebrate our life, maybe we can include even those moments when we quiver and whimper.

Sit, stay, quiver all you want

One day as I was telling my meditation instructor why I hadn’t been able to work on a writing project, she interrupted me with “Stop making excuses.” It stung to hear those words, and it helped. Staying present to what scares and hurts us can foster courage, confidence, and kindness. Bravo to the brave counselors, dear friends, and glorious teachers who are practiced enough to speak the truth in whatever way our ears can hear it.

Tired of Speaking Sweetly, by Hafez (translated by Daniel Ladinsky)

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,

Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and

Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,

He would just drag you around the room

By your hair,

Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world

That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly

And wants to rip to shreds

All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,

And with others,

Causing the world to weep

On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,

Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself

And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants

To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down

And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear

He is in such a "playful drunken mood"

Most everyone I know

Quickly packs their bags and hightails it

Out of town.

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.

Meditation: Don't take it personally

I swept the deck this morning. By afternoon it was covered over again with pollen. I didn’t take it personally. Our mind works in a similar clear-then-covered-over-again way. We need not take this personally either.

Practicing mindfulness can help us respond to each other and to life situations in a way that feels clear, even when our mind seems anything but. This is because mindfulness is not about finding a fixed state of clear mind; it’s about responding clearly to ever-changing states of mind. (Think Stepford Wives to get a glimpse of what living in a fixed state of mind might look like...scary).

By mindful response I don’t mean deciding not to complain, faking anything, or sucking it up when we’re in pain. Those responses are fueled by suppression (and are also annoying as all get out). I’m talking about a way of responding that is fueled by the clarity that is present even in tough times.

Palmyra Inn, Wakefield, VA: Built 1745. Still needs sweeping today.

I don’t want to make this way of responding sound easy. It’s often not easy. But it can be made easier by an intentional, regular meditation practice. Each time that we get still and quiet, we practice being with ourselves in a very ordinary way. This ordinariness is a key component of the clarity that is always there, with or without us.

Through regular practice we become keenly aware that the practice of mindfulness is personal—that it involves working with our unique situations—but that we need not take the practice personally. The practice is just the practice. Sweeping the deck is just sweeping the deck. And even though we know that the pollen will appear again and again, we continue to get out the broom and sweep.

The Hippo, by Steven Hickman

The hippo floats in swamp serene,

some emerged, but most unseen.

Seeing all and only blinking,

Who knows what this beast is thinking.

Gliding, and of judgment clear,

Letting go and being here.

Seeing all, both guilt and glory,

Only noting. But that’s MY story.

I sit here hippo-like and breathe,

While inside I storm and seethe.

Would that I were half equanimous

As that placid hippopotamus. 

4 gates of speech

There is a meditation practice that involves contemplating slogans to train the mind and wake up the heart. One of the slogans is “Don’t Malign Others.” This means what it sounds like it means: not to speak degradingly about others.

I can’t imagine someone proposing the opposite—that we speak to degrade others—yet sometimes we do speak in a way that degrades. Gossiping certainly does this. So does nitpicking about, or making fun of, the way someone eats, walks, speaks, thinks, lives their life, and so on. This sort of talk usually comes from a desire to highlight ourselves—how clever we are, how right we are, how virtuous we are. 

Even if what we say sounds like helpful advice, words spoken to show off something about ourselves can short-circuit another person's opportunity to come to an even fuller understanding than our words might point them toward. If we're talking in a way that would bring pain to the heart of even one person, we can benefit from examining our speech. 

One practice that might help is called the Four Gates of Speech. It works like this: Before speaking to others, or even to ourselves, we pass through the following 4 “gates” in the order that they are listed below.  

Are the words that I’m about to speak...
1) True?
2) Necessary? 
3) Spoken at the right time? 
4) Spoken in kindness?

If we come upon a NO answer at any of the gates, may we stop there and find peace in silence. If we come upon an I’M NOT CERTAIN answer, may we return to the first gate later on and start over. If the answer is YES at each gate, may we speak with the confidence and clarity of one who is brave enough to love.

Simon guards the gate at Rancho De La Osa, Sasabe, AZ

Ode 314, Rumi

Those who don't feel this Love

pulling them like a river,

those who don't drink dawn

like a cup of spring water

or take in sunset like supper,

those who don't want to change,

let them sleep.

This Love is beyond the study of theology,

that old trickery and hypocrisy.

If you want to improve your mind that way

sleep on.

I've given up on my brain.

I've torn the cloth to shreds

and thrown it away.

If you're not completely naked,

wrap your beautiful robe of words

around you,

and sleep.

Honoring our everyday best

There is a still point of completeness within each of us. It has qualities of full heart; sharp, clear intellect; and kindness without agenda. Sometimes we get a glimpse of this still point without trying. A slant of light hits the floor and wakes us up. Time seems to stop. A cicada sings and the sound swells within us. We are suddenly present and aware in these moments, and would likely offer up much to remain this beautifully alive. 
     

Stillness and completeness also emerge during times we’d least expect them. We receive word that somebody we love has been in an accident, but instead of shutting down, we stay open and move about with surprising calmness, knowing exactly what to say and do. This is because we all are fundamentally equipped for living and appreciating our life regardless of our life situation. We have the capacity to experience satisfaction from sunlight, from the taste of a juicy orange, even from dealing with the ups and downs of who we are. Simply being alive can be satisfying.

When we haven’t developed the quality of quieting ourselves so that we can feel satisfied by merely being alive, we don’t tap into this still point often and therefore may consider these moments as flukes. We can doubt our fundamental completeness and keep trying to muscle our way toward a good life by working harder, being nicer, thinking more, and so on. This is what we know to do; it’s the best we can do at the time. Considering the knowledge, self-awareness, amount of sleep, headache, stubbed toe, and whatever else may be occurring at the point of our every action, we are always doing our best. 

All of you are perfect just as you are and you could use a little improvement. 

                                                                                    -Shunryu Suzuki-roshi

I thought that the wig (me, lower right) made me look like a rock star.

Of course we can always look back and wish that we had acted differently. Self-reflection, even it comes with a pang of regret, is perfectly fine and can set us on a path of making change. What doesn’t help us change is allowing regret to fester as guilt and beating ourselves up because we think we could have acted better and we didn’t. Remember, living as our highest self is a fluid process. At the point of our regret, we’re looking back as a different self. 

In years ahead may we all look back from the perspective of our future best self and smile, or maybe even grimace, at everything that we are right now.

Call Me by My True Names, by Thich Nhat Hanh

Do not say that I will depart tomorrow—

even today I am still arriving.

Look deeply: every second I am arriving

to be a bud on a Spring branch,

to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,

learning to sing in my new nest,

to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,

to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,

to fear and to hope.

The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death

of all that is alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing

on the surface of the river.

And I am the bird

that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily

in the clear water of a pond.

And I am the grass-snake

that silently feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,

my legs as thin as bamboo sticks.

And I am the arms merchant,

selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl,

refugee on a small boat,

who throws herself into the ocean

after being raped by a sea pirate.

And I am the pirate,

my heart not yet capable

of seeing and loving.

I am a member of the politburo,

with plenty of power in my hands.

And I am the man who has to pay

his "debt of blood" to my people

dying slowly in a forced-labor camp.

Please call me by my true names, 

so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once, 

so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names, 

so I can wake up, 

and so the door of my heart can be left open, 

the door of compassion.

Two kinds of peace: Cured and Inner

Thank you, Ani Pema, for teaching about peace.

I had a thought last week while lying on a massage table: I don’t care whether the therapist comes back in to do the massage or not; it feels so lovely just to lie here. The type of peace I was experiencing is what my teacher calls “cured peace.” It comes about due to something occurring, usually something extremely simple—seeing a sunset, listening to ocean waves, putting on warm socks and snuggling under thick blankets on a cold night. This type of peace feels like a temporary cure to our usually complex, sometimes painful existence.

Sunset: Tamarack State Beach, Carlsbad, CA

Cured peace is great. May all beings experience much, much cured peace. But we also experience another type of peace: inner peace. Inner peace exists regardless of what is occurring. It was probably as a child at church that I first heard a description of inner peace that sounded honest—a peace that Saint Paul says passeth understanding. 

Different traditions describe inner peace in different ways, and give different reasons for it, but I agree with Paul for sure on one point: this peace doesn’t make any sense at all. We're taught to move away from our pain to experience peace, not that great inner peace exists within pain. I read somewhere that most every adult lives through at least 1 tremendously painful event that changes them forever. Maybe this comes in the form of a broken heart or a tragic accident or a long ago act of abuse that lives on in our nightmares. And maybe the sense of peace we experience in the midst of such deep hurt comes only in glimpses—a momentary gap of sanity in the middle of the unthinkable.

I know that I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. But we get confused. We get desperate. In moments when we’re hurting or shut down, we may look outside of ourselves, searching for something—anything—to move us away from the pain. We look for cured peace, when what may make more sense is to simply be still and give inner peace an opportunity to shine through.

The spacious mind has room for everything. It is like the space in a room, 

which is never harmed by what goes in and out of it. -Ajahn Sumedho

Of course it’s wise to work on opening to pain in your own timing and in your own way. A mindfulness practice called tonglen helps me to open. The word tonglen means “giving and taking,” which is what happens during this practice. We sit still and intentionally take in our own pain or the pain of someone else with each inbreath. We feel the heaviness of the pain, the sadness, and so on, and let it live in our body and heart for a while. And of course we breathe out again, and the exhalation offers space. 

Breathe in pain, breathe out space. Childbirth: Patti and Baby Kara (mosaic composed of baby photos)

In this way, we are reminded of how pain and peace can occupy the same space, even the same breath. We may even give up on labeling it as "my" pain, "your" pain, or "their" pain, and just breathe in and out the spaciousness that lives inside of all pain. May we all experience stillness and peace in the midst of what hurts us most.

I Go Among Trees and Sit Still, by Wendell Berry

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes

and lives a while in my sight.

What it fears in me leaves me,

and the fear of me leaves it.

It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.

I live for a while in its sight.

What I fear in it leaves it,

and the fear of it leaves me.

It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,

mute in my consternations,

I hear my song at last,

and I sing it. As we sing, 

the day turns, the trees move.

Giving up: A practice in surrender

I’m sitting in the Philly Airport. It’s loud here, and it smells funny—a mix of food, fuel, and industrial-strength air freshener. My eyes are burning. A few birds have made their way inside and are flying back and forth between the rafters and the floor to peck at discarded food. Soon I will be on another plane, going somewhere else.

Airport birds

I just spent 7 weeks watching my mind. There is a giving up required in this practice. We give up the desire to see anything in particular, to feel anything in particular, and, instead, we just see and feel. This giving up is in no way an act of weakness. It is an intelligent surrender that can wake us up to the natural flow of things; it can help us stop striving to have things our way. 

Have you ever been trying to open a jar, all the while twisting the lid in the wrong direction? Tightness is what happens when we grip things in our life in an effort to get them to go our way. Once we give up on that, and just sit still and take a look at this tightness, there is often a natural release. At the point of release, we can change course and move in a direction that opens.

This isn’t easy. Sometimes when we stop gripping and twisting, what we see is terribly painful, and in these moments, it may be necessary and intelligent to fly to a high rafter of safety and stay put. But little by little, in our own timing and in our own way, we may decide to come back down and examine the very scraps of our lives. We may find that even within our pain we can find nourishment.

Don't turn your head. Keep looking at the bandaged place.

That's where the Light enters you.

  -Rumi

Cheerful Shambhala Day always involves eating!

Take it from the top, with love: The practice of starting over

Each time that we take our seat in mindfulness practice, it is to start over. Our intent is to be present with each new breath. Sometimes we try to make more of the practice, hoping for keen insight or longing for spiritual growth. But hoping and longing actually move us away from being present. You see, during practice, all the energy that we normally put toward desiring that things be different from how they actually are can be diverted to awareness of our breath. We sit; we breathe; we get lost in thought, get angry, feel calm, think another thought, stop feeling calm, and so on. Then we start over.

This starting over is good news. Each time that we practice in this way, we open ourselves to freshness. Every breath holds an opportunity to be with what is actually going on within our minds, our bodies, and our lives, without being confrontational with those things. When we learn to be with ourselves in this way, we can truly be there for others, as well.

No breath is more precious than the one you breathe in the current moment.

A monk from the US spoke about being among monastics from another country. The Westerners suggested to the non-Westerners that they could use some work on prajna (wisdom, intellectual acuity). The non-Westerners replied, "And you could stand to work on loving one another." Let's face it, in this country when we are told to sit still, it is usually as punishment, not to foster a gentle attending to our breath, body, and the moment just as it is.

A rock I came upon (heart added with the touch of a finger).

There is a line from a chant that we recite each day here at Gampo Abbey: May I be cheerful in the morning, kind in the afternoon, and inspired in the evening. That's a tall order! But something happens when we commit to starting over with our very next breath: we get glimpses of how precious each breath is, and how fleeting each moment is.

We all know these things in a heady way, but until we cultivate a meaningful experience of impermanence—in practice this involves being with the birth of each breath, its lifespan, and its passing away—impermanence doesn't point us to preciousness; it points us to fear, grasping, and so on. 

Do you remember the movie Groundhog Day? Bill Murray's character does the same thing over and over, and along the way something happens without effort on his part: he becomes cheerful, kind, and inspired. That's the magic of starting over moment to moment, breath to breath. We can stop trying to manufacture peace and, instead, allow it to arise from the spaciousness of simply being still and breathing.

We sit not to become enlightened. We sit to remind ourselves that we already are.

Forget about enlightenment. 

Sit down wherever you are and listen to the wind that is singing 

in your veins. 

Feel the love, the longing and the fear in your bones. 

Open your heart to who you are, right now, not who you would like to be. 

Not the saint you’re striving to become, but the being right here before you, 

inside you, around you - All of you is holy. 

You’re already more and less than whatever you can know. 

Breathe out, look in, let go.
-John Welwood 

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

Creating boundaries: The loving practice of NO

I am on retreat. There are about 20 monastics and a handful of “regular” mindfulness practitioners living in a shared space—shared bedrooms, bathrooms, dining room, kitchen, and practice spaces. We’re very close—physically. It isn’t always fun. Creating boundaries is not only necessary here; it conveys a deep caring and respect for ourselves, each other, and the practice of mindfulness. 

Not sure how to operate the camera: brain freeze

My retreat job is to prep food for the next day’s meal. I place a piece of masking tape and write NO on the top of each container of food that I prepare. NO stands for Not Offered. In an environment where offerings are key, generosity is encouraged, and sharing is a must if everyone is to make it through each day, being extremely clear about what is NOT offered is efficient and wise. If even a few of us help ourselves to the food that isn't offered, we will not have enough to feed everyone the next day.

NO apple ginger salad with toasted pumpkin seeds for you! (until tomorrow)

Creating Not Offered boundaries is also efficient and wise in everyday life. Can you imagine how less frustrated, angry, resentful, and taken for granted we would feel could we simply place a NO label on whatever is not up for grabs in our life? What would be on your Not Offered list—the 1.5 hours you need to make it to the gym? the fresh berries you bought to pack in your lunch? your willingness to listen, when somebody calls you to gripe and complain?

Being exact about what we will not give away can actually align us more with heartful giving. In fact, when we do not give away those objects, efforts, time, and so on, that are necessary for our own health and happiness, we can use them to become healthy and happy. And a healthy, happy person gives—for no reason other than their unencumbered heart and mind truly want to make offering.

Platform from which scraps are tossed to birds that fly above the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Nova Scotia

Love After Love, by Derek Walcott

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.