A little perspective, please.

My friend Ginna is a spitfire. Shy of five feet tall, she has white-blond hair, wears black eyeliner, and speaks her mind. She’s from Lebanon, Tennessee (pronounced Leb-non) and speaks with a Tennessee twang. She is kind, has a heart for serving others, and is a warm, companionable friend. But when she is angry or indignant at an injustice, watch out. She is going to tell it to your face, just exactly as she sees it.

Ginna has, to my mind, been going through a rough patch. She’s just been through a difficult break up, struggled with a drawn-out sinus infection, and yesterday faced an emergency root canal. “Worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life,” she drawled last night as she rested in a cloud of antibiotics and Lortab. What did she do after the root canal? Went back to work. I would have been home on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on my face.

As I talked to her I said, “Wow, you’ve really had a rough time lately with the break up, needing to move, being sick, and now this.” This was Ginna’s reply: You know, I have had a little bit of a tough time but I have this friend who is going through treatment for breast cancer. I bet she’d take a sinus infection and a root canal any day. I have and will have a roof over my head. I have the means to pay for this root canal. And doctors who can help me get better. I’ve got nothing but gratitude.”

That, my friends, is a spiritual life. It really is about perspective, living in the moment, and gratitude. And I thank Ginna, in her energetic way, for reminding me. I’d still be home, horizontal, with the frozen peas on my face if I’d had that root canal. But I hope I’d follow Ginna’s example into gratitude for the peas, for the doctor, and that my tooth could be saved. And the couch I’d by lying upon, and the roof over my head, and the loving little dog by my side. Gratitude. And perspective.

Wintertime blues

As I watched the blizzard Nemo roll over the Northeast and bury it, I was grateful, once again, to live in the south. The winter in Tennessee is about as much as I can handle. We’ve had only one snow this winter, which accumulated about an eighth of an inch and melted away by 2pm; enough to enjoy the prettiness, not enough to cause the community to struggle.

Winter is a sluggish time for me. I do not enjoy the cold. A sun lover, I feel oppressed by the many dreary, overcast days, the shortened daylight hours, and the chill damp. For years I resisted my low energy during these months and criticized myself for my lowered productivity, creativity, and dulled spirits. The refrain in my head went like this: “what is wrong with me?”; “where is my motivation?”; “I am so lazy!” As a substitute for productivity, I spent time in self-flagellation.

A few weeks ago my friend Frank said to me, “you are just a very seasonal person.” And I thought, “He’s right!” So instead of resisting my winter doldrums, I’ve decided to roll with them. I’d like to borrow the wisdom of the trees, the animals, the earth itself, which quiets in winter. It doesn’t mean that nothing is happening. It is just a quieter, softer activity the earth enjoys in winter, rejuvenation for the natural order of things. And I found myself in that peaceful place of acceptance of what is.

My natural cycle is to slow in winter. Spring brings new energy and creativity. By summer I am trying new activities or launching a new project. Autumn naturally brings a time to clean out. You’ll find me rummaging in closets and giving things away. And then I’m shutting down again.

Winter months are for reading and knitting. I find it very important, on sunny winter days here in Nashville, to get out for a walk, to feel the sun on my face, and to take in the fresh air. My lower energy, this year, is meeting acceptance from me as the natural order of things. And already, just barely into February, I’m feeling some stirrings of creativity and movement. Last week I saw the sun a little more. And was greeted one morning by little purple crocuses waving to me from my friend Kathy’s khaki colored front lawn. My heart stirred with joy. Spring can’t be far off now.

For those of you who wrestle with the winter aversion blues, you might try embracing them instead of pushing them away. Take naps. Cozy on the sofa with a blanket and book. Spring is around the corner and energy will return. Choose with me a kinder, gentler winter.

Breathe in fear, breathe out compassion

Many of us struggle with self-judgment. I sometimes say that I am meaner to myself than I would ever dream of being to anyone else. The things I sometimes think about myself, the negative self-talk, can be terrible and rude, words I would never think about another human being. Yet, if I want to cultivate a compassionate heart toward others, the practice of compassion must begin with me.

A few days ago I was talking with my friend Ginna. She was mentioning her struggles with the behavior of someone we both know, a “difficult” person, and speaking of how judgmental she felt. “What is wrong with me?” she asked. “Um, nothing is wrong with you. It sounds to me like you are human,” was my reply. Ginna had been, in that moment, quick to judge herself. This is oh-so-familiar territory for me.

Like Ginna, I long to be free from the judgmental mind. I despise that icky feeling I get when I am in judgment of others. Yet, the truth is that a heart of compassion must begin with me, with compassion for myself.

Because human experience is so universal we find that when we make friends with ourself, we make friends with the world. When we cultivate compassion for our own weaknesses, we find compassion for others in their weakness. This doesn’t mean we excuse our weaknesses lightly. We still pursue freedom from our foibles. But we do so with kindness, which I think makes our efforts more productive.

Unfortunately, it is our natural reflex to want to push our weaknesses away. When I am lonely, I just want the loneliness to go away. When I am afraid, I want to magically be fearless. When judging another, I simply want my negative thoughts (and also the annoying person) to vaporize. You can see I have a lot to work with! And as counter-intuitive as it sounds, the way to diffuse the power of my loneliness, fear, or judgment is to embrace them. As Pema Chodron writes, “the things that really drive us nuts have enormous energy in them. That is why we fear them.” We are drained when we try to push our fears, our anger, and our jealousies away. We are energized for compassion when we find the courage to embrace them.

So, what is it you want to push away today? For me, I want am wrestling with a fear of failure. I have certain strengths, certain gifts. What if they aren’t all I think they are? What if my gifts themselves let me down? What if I undermine my talents with my own self-doubt? Rather than pretending I do not have these fears, how can I embrace them, look beneath them to what drives the fears themselves? Can I find a place of compassion for myself? Can I then have compassion on the fears of others?

I pause. I breathe in my fears. I breathe out compassion. This is why it is called “practice.”

New year, new list

At the turn of each year I like to pause and take stock. I’ve developed some habits over the years and thought I’d share them here. I would love to have you comment on your own turn of the year practices.

On New Year’s Day I do a journal review. As I page through my journal from the year just passed, I review highlights, make note of progress, and savor accomplishments. This can also be painful and trying as I relive losses and face stumbling blocks. Overall, I find this practice productive and satisfying.

The next thing I do is write down some goals and dreams for the year ahead. These are items as pragmatic as “get a new storm door” or as dreamy as “travel more.” As I write, I allow my dreams to run wild. Yes, I’d like to do a month long retreat at Spirit Rock retreat center. The chances that I’ll have the time or funds to do this isn't likely but that doesn’t matter here. I’m dreaming about my life, not laying plans. This is my big-and-little dream list for the year, so Spirit Rock is on the list.

I write about my hopes and dreams for my work life, my children, my relationships, my home, my spiritual life, my leisure time. Pretty much everything I hope for or dream of goes on this draft.

Once I complete this first list I take out a nice piece of stationery and I mold my dreams into an offering. I take the time here to whittle down the list to what feels true. Now the list becomes something I will look over almost daily as it becomes a kind of personal litany for my life over the course of the year. At year’s end I pause to re-evaluate it. What has come to pass from my list? How have I changed which, in turn, has changed the meaning of what is included on the list?

I find this practice instructive, guiding, and inspiring.

And there is one item that remains year by year: “may I be of service to others.”

I embrace this particular item once again for 2013.

What’s on your list?

Ten thousand joys, ten thousand sorrows

I spent the New Year holiday on retreat. Gordon Peerman and Kathy Woods, my teachers from Insight Nashville, hosted their annual New Year’s mindfulness retreat in the mountains near Sewanee. This is the second year I have welcomed a new year in that beautiful, rural setting. This year’s focus was upon the practice of compassion.

Buddhists refer to the ten thousand joys and the ten thousand sorrows of this life. Well, for me, from the first moments of the retreat-that first evening-well into the following morning, it was as if all ten thousand of my life’s sorrows came and just sat on me. I could barely contain the sorrow to sit in the meditation hall. And I really have no idea what that was about.

My sorrow did not ease until late Monday morning when Gordon, during the morning talk and in great vulnerability, shared his own pain and sorrow at what his younger brother is experiencing. The details of that aren’t important. What is important is that Gordon’s vulnerability helped my own heart break open with compassion. In some way, in that moment, I found joy again.

It wasn’t that I felt, “oh good, I’m not the only one.” Not at all. It was almost as if I felt Gordon’s love for his brother, felt Gordon’s own powerlessness at that situation and found it resonating with my own powerlessness. It was then that I could let divine love flow through my own heart.

There is a truly beautiful irony here: in Gordon’s vulnerability I was empowered to surrender to love and compassion. This has been on my mind since that moment last week. I so often hesitate to write about my most vulnerable moments. But I understand in a new way that my own vulnerability may help someone who reads this blog. And that is the whole point of the blog: to offer what I have in service to others. Maybe even my ten thousand sorrows. Don’t worry, though, I won’t write about all ten thousand at one time!

The good news is that, while we may experience ten thousand sorrows in this life, we also find ten thousand joys. I felt the heaviness of sorrow while on retreat but I also enjoy the fullness of joy. Gordon reassures me that all of this is perfectly normal, that on retreat our griefs often surface to sit with us for a while. Then they pass away and something new, like joy, arises. On retreat and in life, experiencing the joys and the sorrows adds to my awareness and renew my ability to be vulnerable with others. This is what I have to offer-my experiences-and the gifts of grace that come with the ten thousand sorrows and the ten thousand joys.

And we grieve

I awakened this morning, haunted by the 20 innocents slaughtered yesterday. My heartache at this is palpable; yet I am aware that our nation grieves with me.

This haunting extends beyond those 20 children. My mind cannot begin to grasp what the parents of those children are dealing with this morning. Or the traumatized children whose school was so violated. Or the faculty and staff who have the images of horrified, frightened small faces seared into their imaginations. Or the parents of children who survived, burdened now with the “thank God not mine,” all while understanding the torment of the parents of the children who did not.

And that small community itself, stripped now of its innocence and the pretense that horrors did not happen there.

There is no sense to be made of this. I find the question, “how could this happen?” to be completely useless. The sad truth is that we live in a culture whose mental healthcare system is so neglected that something like this can happen. We live in a culture that so values the right to own any kind of gun that a person can obtain multiple weapons easier than they can get a driver’s license.

And the scale of those who pay for this cultural insanity is inordinately tipped toward our children.

And so we wake, as a nation, grief-stricken and keenly aware of our own powerlessness. We are powerless to protect our children.

As I write this morning, my house is full of sleeping 20-something boys. They were out together into the wee hours. As they left last night, happy to be together, they were arguing about who was to be the designated driver, with me echoing a nagging refrain in the background, my maternal heart newly reminded of the dangers. They would have a designated driver, but what about the other cars on the road when these boys return here at 3AM? There it is: the powerlessness.

And yet, our children must wander out into the world where all manner of horrors live. Mentally ill young men with easy access to guns. Drunk drivers. A misjudgment of height and ability, resulting in a tragic fall. A sudden, virulent disease.

Our impulse, in the face of this, is to DO something. Investigate. Blame. Make casseroles.

We busy ourselves and take what comfort we can in that activity.

But I really think the greatest question for all of us is how can I BE today? How can I be love today to the people I encounter? How to my children, my parents, my neighbors? How can I be mindfully loving to the person who checks my groceries at Kroger?

Last night, I watched the community of Newtown gather for vigils as they began the long journey of grieving all they had lost. I imagined a community drawing in to surround the families who lost their children and to help the traumatized survivors. There seemed to me an intention to love wherever they can.

What if we all choose to do that? Wherever we are. How can I be love today, in Nashville, or Boston, or Berlin? Wherever you are reading this—how can you be love to those you encounter today?

My heart tells me that if I begin where I am, love can make a difference. It’s the only thing that does.

Effervescent Queen

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of my dear friend Cynthia’s death. Cynthia was a busy, bubbly person, spreading love wherever she went. I called her “my effervescent queen” because of the buoyant quality about her. Even in the last hours of her life she was seeing the magic in the moment. It is horrible to witness the wasting death of cancer in a dearly loved one. Yet the essential Cynthia shone through.

Despite her effervescent nature, Cynthia’s life wasn’t all happiness. She had challenges and pain. Like all of us, she had childhood pain, which she grappled with as an adult. She wrestled with the grief that comes with infertility and other challenges as well. Her cancer brought physical pain and added layers to the grief and loss she carried.

Some of us are incapable of facing our cruel demons, yet Cynthia tackled it all, the emotional, physical, and spiritual pain of it. Through it she had this buoyancy of spirit which spread love and light to the people in her life. She radiated this internal liveliness, it was infectious, and helped all of us who were fortunate enough to journey along with her.

I write this because I miss her terribly, but also because I deeply believe this is possible for each one of us. We all have challenges, deep pain, and loss. It comes with the territory. Welcome to the human race, as I like to tell myself. And we have joy and grace available, in equal measure, at each moment. Yes, there is pain. Yes, there is joy.

It isn’t a one or the other proposition. We have all of it, at any given moment. The question isn’t one of either pain or of joy. The question is: will you say yes to whatever is? We have the opportunity to experience the fullness of it all. The joy, the sorrow, the loneliness, the quiet contentment, the regret, the sense of grace, the profound grief, the deep connections. They are all there. Now.

This is the image of Cynthia and her gift to me: she is saying yes to all of it. I’ve written about her before, and probably will again. Because she has this enduring quality about her. The gift of yes. Yes to life in all its pain and wonder.