Category Archives: 30 Day Challenge
This is my challenge to myself to start writing again. 30 posts, as close to one post per day as possible. Here I go.
A note to my readers and to myself.
It’s been many month since I’ve posted here. I’m realizing I need to free myself even further from any kind of constraints in this space. I started doing this “challenge” to get myself to share writing, but it’s acted as a trap in it’s own right! I’ve been searching for some kind of a theme or a framework to write within, and I think this is what has held me back. It’s made me feel that if I’m going to post something here it has to be really worthwhile. But that brings judgment into the picture, and that’s the last thing I’m looking to add to my daily life.
The reality is I just want a place to write and share that writing with others who are interested in reading. Instead I’ve stopped myself from writing what’s actually going on, what’s really present for me. In part that’s because there have been life changes that I wasn’t ready to share on the internet, in part because I was censoring myself unknowingly. So here’s what’s next, whatever comes!
And so the aforementioned life change… I’m pregnant. This journey has been the most profound, mind-alterning, perspective changing experience of my life. It’s been too hard to write and somehow not mention it, hence the months of silence.
No more “challenges” just words. The ones that come through me, the ones that seem worth taking the time to type after I’ve written them in a notebook. Thank you for reading.
Meditation takes us nowhere, it is not a step in a journey it is a settling back into life.
Not “my life.” Life.
“Meditation is the highest form of prayer, a naked act of love and effortless surrender into the abyss beyond all knowing.” ~Adyashanti
Practicing meditation makes thoughts obvious, it lets us see them all dressed up in their different outfits–There’s fear wearing a red boa and black heels isn’t she tempting to listen to? But wait a second, oh look, there’s worry in a pink tutu throwing a fit about the trip we’re taking in a few weeks. And there’s nonchalance, stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam, smoking a cigarette without a care in the world. And here am I, watching it all go by.
I meditate everyday for 20-30 minutes. The gift of giving myself this time helps create the space for a higher Self to emerge, or for being to emerge, or presence, or for God to emerge… Whatever the noun it’s a time for that slow quiet still voice, that doesn’t say much, to be heard, or not at all.
I had a teacher during my graduate school studies tell me once that, our souls are quiet, shy things. “You can’t just go out clomping through the bushes, whacking away at the underbrush looking for them. You’ll never find them that way. But if you’re very still and patient you might be lucky enough to glimpse them out of your periphery, peaking steadily through the trees like a wild animal.”
The bushes I’ve been clomping through aren’t out there somewhere, but in here.
When I first started meditating I couldn’t believe how hard it was to sit still. Instead of discouraging me, or writing off the activity as a waste of time, I was motivated to try again. It seemed so simple, sit still for 5, 10, 15, 30 minutes everyday, yet it was more difficult than hiking a mountain or writing a book. I began with 5 minutes everyday and added on from there. Now my meditation is my favorite part of every day.
Once we start to see all those thoughts clambering for our attention, all dressed up with nowhere to go during the quiet of mediation, we can begin to recognize them in our daily lives. And slowly we realize also that there is a choice about whether to listen to what they have to say, whether or not we want to bring that fear forward into the world with her red lipstick, feathery boa, and stiletto heels, or whether we’ll act from somewhere deeper and quieter, giving that wild animal the space to come forward into the light.
When we let go of what we thought was going to happen, space is create for what is happening to blossom. I find myself over and over remembering this, and each time, the relief of the release is gorgeous.
Every time I hold onto something, that didn’t work out the way I thought it was going to, I get a beautiful reminder that my thoughts are based in nothing more than just that, thoughts, which is to say not much at all.
The last few months have been full. So full I haven’t had a chance to write anything I’ve wanted to share here.
And last week I woke up–my first day as a 34 year old–and noticed the temptation to pick up all the worries. Everything from not enough money to live, to not having time to buy cat food before I leave town, went through my brain in a great wave. It sounds ridiculous when I write it on paper, and more so when I transfer it to this computer screen, yet this is the content of this mind. And the stress response in my body to thoughts about the future is the same, whether it’s fear of homelessness or remembering to buy more kibble.
Each time I reach one of these moments I am asked to recommit to the practice of watching thoughts and not identifying with them. Here’s what I’m tempted to do.
Thought: We’re not going to have enough money!”
Reaction: check bank balances, solicit more work, draw up new ideas about how to get more. Create a story in my mind that the work I’m doing is not worthy. That I may have to switch careers, give up on creative work etc.
And this is a perfectly “normal” response in our culture. We give thoughts weight in America, and it because of this it seems to make sense to create actions based on what they say.
But what if I investigate the thought in the first place? Not believing it outright but questioning it? When I do this I see the thought out in front of me, not a part of me, but a thing to be looked at. And I let the questions come from the stillest part of myself.
Thought: We’re not going to have enough money!
Question: For what?
A: The future.
Q: For what in the future?
A: For the things we’ll need.
Q: Do you know you’ll need these things? What are they?
A: I guess not. I don’t know exactly what they are.
Q: What do you need more for?
A: To live.
Q: Are you living now?
Q: What are you afraid of?
A: I don’t know.
Like a persistent and patient three-year-old full of innocent curiosity I ask myself the questions that come, without judgment, until I get to the bottom of the worry, which is almost always some kind of fear.
And suddenly, as if it never were at all, the worry, the fear, the hurry, is gone. I haven’t solved anything, or changed anything, because the basis of the problem was false in the first place. I have no control over the events of my life, only choices about how I respond to the things that happen and from where in my self I reach out.
The circumstances leading up to it are always different, a disagreement with a friend, a fight with a lover, a comment from a relative, or even just a thought inside my head. There I am feeling stuck. It’s a hot stuffy place inside my body and I want to get out of it. I name it disappointment, frustration, anxiety, anger, annoyance, and in that moment where there is a choice, I want. I want to get away from the hot prickly, stifling space of that too warm room.
I can see there is a way out! If I fling open the windows and let the cold air stream past the curtains the heat will subside. Or maybe I can run quickly out the door, so fast perhaps no one will see me leave. As the heat increases, coming up through my body, I want to move and jump, to shake off the anxiousness, to rip open the roof and let the sunlight pierce the dark. I want release, I want no more discomfort.
The way forward in these moments, seems absolutely clear. Do It! Open the windows, express my frustration, reveal my thoughts, place blame somewhere else, jump up and down, flail my arms in anger, never mind the consequences, right now I am upset.
In the past I would do this. One of these things, or many of them. In the past I would think nothing of this seeming release, it felt righteous. It felt important. Now, when I get to this moment, I know I have a choice. I know that, “Suffering is life telling you, you are misperceiving or resisting what is Real and True.” ~ Adyashanti.
I know that blame and judgment placed anywhere (inside or out) is poison. I know that any movement to remove or attempt to escape the discomfort will result in more suffering, not only my own but also for those around me. And yet… it’s so tempting, still after all these years, to just get it away. In that moment, when desire burns so hot and obvious it seems essentially impossible to make another choice.
But if I can wait. If I can watch the part of me that wants to scream, and flail, and push away, and blame, throw its daggers against the inside of my brain, instead of out into the world, which is already full of so much of this already, all urges will pass. It is a passing storm across a placid lake. The waves and lightning seem to shatter the peace, yet the content of the water is unchanged after the squall.
In this life there is no control. But there is a choice. There is a choice to respond or react, to listen or attack. There is a choice to live as love and oneness, or to live as a separate self with an agenda. Sometimes I face that choice a thousand times in a one day, sometimes I face it a thousand times in one minute. Many days I fail over and over again. The goal is not perfection.
Sometimes I experience the beauty of release,
of letting go of all stances and opinions,
right in the middle of a sentence,
that seconds ago I was completely and entirely identified with,
and the ground I was standing on so solidly, crumbles beneath my feet.
And everything I ever believed, is called into question
in the most delightful way.
Open your heart to a stranger
and know that stranger is your own self.
Watch the sunrise this winter
and remember nothing.
Notice all actions, tendencies, and desires,
which block the flow of love.
Let them dissolve in the fire of non-attention.
Live this life for what it is
and do not concern yourself with the future.
Follow the path which is not a path,
but which leads you in each moment.
Within each of [us] lies the existential mystery of being. Apart from one’s physical appearance, personality, gender, history, occupation, hopes and dreams, comings and goings, there lies an eerie silence, an abyss of stillness charged with an etheric presence. For all of our anxious business and obsession with triviality, we cannot completely deny this phantasmal essence at our core. And yet we do everything we can to avoid its stillness, its utter emptiness and radiant intimacy.” ~Adyashanti, The Way of Liberation
When I was a child, particularly after my family had moved a few times, and life had shown me that it was anything but constant, I became terrified of going to bed at night. Even then I can remember struggling to identify exactly what I was afraid of. I settled, finally on the answer that so many kids choose.
“What are you so afraid of?” My parents asked each time I cried about going to sleep.
“The Dark.” I responded.
“We’ll be you a night light, will that help?”
“A little I guess.”
And it did help, a little. I still got out of bed many times over to sit at the top of the stairs near the comforting sounds of the television, or to hear their voices in the living room. I knew not to go down, I would only get in trouble.
At some point I realized that there was no comfort to get. My parents were frustrated by what they perceived as my attempts to avoid bedtime and I lacked the language to explain that there was something else “out there,” or more accurately “in here” that was unsettling. I didn’t really think that anyone could explain it to me anyways.
When I settled into my bed at night and all the distractions of the day were gone, TVs off, video games silenced, toys put away, homework complete, and I was still and alone in my bed, I realized I wasn’t alone at all. There was something else going on, an energy inside my skin, a disturbance that wouldn’t let me sleep.
My child’s mind conjured up images of monsters in the closet, vampires under the bed, tornadoes outside the windows coming to sweep our house away, but what was scarier than all that was this darkness inside of me. It was weird and unwieldy and it seemed separate from my thoughts. I couldn’t describe it to anyone, and I realized if I tried they would probably think I was crazy.
During the days I went to school and didn’t think about the nights. I did my reading, and social studies, I reluctantly worked at my math. Like any schoolchild I learned my numbers. And one day, either in class or from a peer, I learned about a number that was beyond all numbers, a number that was bigger than a trillion, a number I couldn’t even picture, it was infinity.
We tossed it around the playground,
“You’ve got cooties!”
“Well you’ve got cooties, times 100!”
“Times a million!”
“Oh yeah, well I just tagged you back and you’re it, you’ve got cooties times infinity…”
It was kind of unfair to pull the infinity card because nothing could go beyond it, but once in a while, perhaps when we were sick of playing the game, someone said it.
I was fascinated by this word, which was part number, part concept. I tried to picture it as dollar bills or chocolate bars stretching out into outer-space further than anyone could actually see. Infinity. Forever. Never-ending, eternal, always and never. It was something my mind could not grasp.
“Mom, how much is a million dollars?” I asked.
“A lot of money.”
“Are you rich if you have a million dollars?”
“I’d say so,” she replied.
“What about a trillion, do you know anyone who has a trillion dollars?”
“I don’t think so. There aren’t many people who have a trillion dollars.” I pondered this for a while trying to picture a trillion of anything, twelve zeros behind a one.
“How much is infinity? What does infinity look like?”
“I don’t know Paige. It wouldn’t look like anything I don’t think.”
“No that’s not what I mean, I mean like… Is it a lot? Would it fill this whole room?”
“I don’t know, Paige.”
“Okay, how about a trillion then, do you think a trillion dollars would fill this whole room?”
“I really don’t know Paige, ask your father.”
A million, billion, trillion. A million toys, a trillion trees. A billion people. I mostly thought about these numbers as dollars, that was something I could picture. I thought about the bad guys in a movies who get ransoms for kidnapping. I wondered why none of them asked for infinity dollars, then they’d never run out of money or have to kidnap anyone for ransom again!
At night I lay in bed, sometimes with a small light on and tried to get to sleep. I actually counted sheep! Sometimes it worked, their big hairy white bellies flew past my eyes and sent me to slumber. But other nights it didn’t work. I tossed and turned and tried every falling asleep trick a ten-year-old can think of, in order to avoid what I knew was there. On those nights when sleep wouldn’t come I felt afraid, but I also felt compelled to experience it, this mysterious night time presence. And so I would press on my eyes with the backs of my hands until I saw stars behind my eyelids. When I opened them there was a moment when the room wasn’t there, everything was black, and The Dark wasn’t in the room, rather it was inside of me. I opened my eyes as wide as I could and I felt what I could never see. Infinity.
When I was ten my family moved to Belgium. The sound of ripping tape and the scent of corrugated cardboard filled our home for weeks as movers and my mom packed boxes full of our things. I marveled at the big men delicately packaging our dishes, my toys, wrapping couches and rolling rugs. Some of it would go with us to the town of Ohain, near Brussels where we were moving, some would stay in storage in Minnesota. To not be with our “stuff” for several months while it was shipped across the ocean was a baffling and wondrous concept to me. I kept imagining it sinking in the ocean along the way.
After months of anticipation and goodbyes to my friends, school, and neighborhood the five of us got on the plane, me, my brother, my sister, Mom and Dad. I felt more like a family unit than ever as we entered the unknown together.
When we arrived at the Brussels airport after connections, a sleepless night, and a massive time change to a foreign country where we would now live, my siblings and I were excited to see the signs we couldn’t read, the food we didn’t usually eat, and there, yes, in the airport a Pizza Hut we recognized. They have Pizza Hut here too!? We marveled amongst ourselves.
I can only imagine how tired my parents were after moving their entire lives and their 10, 8, and 4-year-old overseas. Even for a practiced adult traveler jet-lag is a disorienting experience, for us the strange mix of excitement, fear, and exhaustion was new. We must have eaten something, maybe Pizza Hut, and then checked into our hotel.
All five of us slept in the same room. This is adorable to think about now, it makes me love my young parents all over again like a child to think of us all in a small hotel room together. As soon is at was late enough to call it “bedtime” we drew the curtains closed and all fell asleep. Hours passed, or weeks, I wasn’t sure when I woke up alone on my cot in the pitch black room. I scanned the edges of the curtains for daylight. Nothing, it must still be night. My eyes landed on the digital clock on the bed stand in the middle of the hotel room.
“0:00” it read.
“0 o’clock?!” Where am I? I thought. Have I stepped outside of time? Entered another dimension? Will the sun rise now that it is 0? Will morning ever come? I wanted to cry out. I wanted my parents to comfort me, but the thought that they had disappeared in this new realm, on this new continent where time didn’t exist, stopped me from acting. That, and the fact that if my family was all still there somewhere in the dark, and I woke up my brother and sister, my parents wouldn’t be happy. I leaned into the darkness and listened. I heard their breathing, the four of them, in and out in the dark.
Even if time had ceased to exist they were there. We were there together.
I closed my eyes and sank back into the abyss.
“Suffering is how life tells you that you are resisting or misperceiving what is real and true.” ~Adyashanti, The Way of Liberation
Mo the turtle teaches me to slow down, to plant my feet in the earth and let life be. Out in the world we people move so quickly to the the next thing. Inside we flail against our shells, not realizing that the shell
is us. There is no way to get even an inch of space between the shell and self. The shell is carried like a burden rather than a blessing, lugged like a painful memory instead of revered for its lessons and protection over time.
Mo, our pet turtle, ambles along the edge of my bedroom while I write this. His shell, which is actually a part of his body, not separate from him, hits the sideboards, the potted plant, almost knocks over a glass of water, until I hear him underneath my chair. When I peak over the edge of my notebook he stretches his purpley-blue neck far out of his shell and looks up at me with a sideways facing eyeball. He blinks once. I reach for him and place him into the blanket on my lap. He closes his eyes and perches on my legs while I meditate.
Everyone who meets Mo is fascinated by him.His slow still presence and curiosity about the world around him, draw us in. When friends arrive at our house, from children to adults, the first question they ask is “Where’s Mo?” In fact, we’ve dubbed, “Where’s Mo?” the most often asked question in our house. We each take turns letting him wander the rooms, forgetting to watch him closely and then discovering him snuggling with the cat, sleeping quietly underneath a chair, or under a pile of pillows.
Mo is cold-blooded, he doesn’t generate his own heat, rather his blood adapts to the surrounding temperature. When Mo first arrived at our house this fall I marveled over and over at the fact that in a cold room, even when covered by blankets Mo will not get warmer. Cold blooded is hard for this mammal to understand. I’m still surprised how cold he feels when I first nestle him into the crook of my arm, or how warm he feels after he’s been cuddling under the covers next to my husband Jeff.
Mo is a little dinosaur, a living reminder of millions of years gone by and of extinctions we all carry somewhere in our collective consciousness. In graduate school I learned that every breath we take has at one time been a part of another living organism. “We are breathing dinosaurs!” I wrote excitedly in my journal at the time. That the whole of life is intricately interconnected is such a given for me now that I forget that I once saw life and people in separated boxes.
Mo’s delicate skin, protected by a shell,
has small scaled legs, and scratchy claws,
his slow blinking eyes, and tiny hiss of exhalation if he is threatened,
his simple meandering and his ease of being
speak to the this interconnectivity.
We are fascinated by him, not because he is alien to us, but because we see ourselves in his existence.
This 30-Day-Challenge will unfold over many more than 30 days. A good reminder to think of how we push our kids, and selves, and partners to work harder, be more timely, do better. Once, for a brief time, before pre-school perhaps, we didn’t have these ideas of what was supposed to happen and when and how.
When Jeff and I perform at birthday parties of kids under five we get to see this. Our whole facilitation of the birthday concert changes because kids this little haven’t been schooled in sitting quietly, listening, calmly, or even which way to face when a concert begins (towards the performers). It’s kids this age that want to talk to us the whole way through the show, “Did you say bobcat? My dad saw a bobcat once!” They comment on our comments, and they cry out with emotion as the events of our performance unfold.
It’s just the two of us, dressing up as different characters: mountain lions, trees, honeybees. The littlest kids delight in letting me know, when I return to the stage as “Paige” rather than “Bobcat,”
“Jeff stuck his head inside of a cave and met a bobcat!”
“Oh my goodness,” I reply, “That sounds dangerous, I hope he’s okay! Why was he doing that anyway?”
“He was looking for my birthday present.”
I can’t say this younger audience is always my favorite, as a performer. When we first began this career it was strange to be interrupted mid-dialogue. I was taken aback, unsure what to say, and I soon discovered that if I listened to one question or comment from the audience, I’d have twenty four-year-olds, trying to talk to me at once. Over time I learned some tricks of the trade, diversion works best,
“Thanks for telling me, I’d love to hear more later. Oh wow! What’s that?! Do you see it, over there? A beautiful blade of prairie grass!”
There is something delightful and wild about working with little humans who haven’t a clue about “right” behavior, who haven’t even a clue that there could be such a thing.
Last week I visited my ninety-eight-year-old Grandmother. Born in 1915, raised on a farm, and then working as a teacher, Grandma Guinther spent her whole life being schooled, or schooling others in what was “right.” Correct behavior, table manners, pronunciation, spelling. Now she has dementia and lives in a memory care facility with others who no longer have the capacity to care for themselves. When I visit her I often struggle with what to do while I am there. She’s wheel-chair bound and gets too confused if we go anywhere unusual. So the choices are to sit in her small bedroom surrounded by family photographs that she intermittently recognizes but mostly ignores, or to sit in the main room with other people who are also in various stages of letting go of their minds.
The search for something to do, while visiting, has little to do with Grandma and more to do with me, the visitor. She doesn’t seem to mind what’s happening regardless of the activity, or lack thereof. She doesn’t really recognize me anymore, though I like to think that I am a familiar face amidst the crowd of people she sees on a weekly basis–nurses, aides, visitors, other residents.
Last week when I stopped by, we sat in the main room and looked at her Cat Book. The Cat Book is a large coffee table book full of cat pictures, hundreds of them. I flipped through the photos and showed them to my grandma, sitting next to me, and then turned it out to show the photos to the other ladies in the room, like reading a story book. Some looked at the photos, others nodded off. One woman scowled at me each time I showed her a picture, but then looked hurt if I didn’t. At one point she called-out to me,
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it!”
“Oh, I’m not selling anything.” I replied, “I’m just visiting with my grandma.”
“She’s your grandma?”
“Yes she is.”
The woman grew quiet again, looking at me expectantly for each new cat photo.
Grandma Guinther ooed and ahhed over each picture. She’s loved cats for as long as I’ve known her. Now she has three of them. They are her stuffed animal companions. She’s usually holding one of them on her lap, stroking it and cooing to it, “You’re a good little puss, aren’t you?” Recently she also acquired a baby. Well, a baby who is also a kitty.
On another day last week, my sister, Katrhryn, my mom and I visited Grandma Guinther together. This time we hung out in her room. Grandma was having a “good” day, that is she wasn’t too anxious or too lost in the past, so Mom called her sister Margaret and put Grandma on the phone.
The strangest part about dementia is that you just don’t know what you are going to get, sometimes there are flashes of clarity and it’s like you’re having a conversation with the woman you used to know, and other times, sometimes only moments later, Grandma is talking to you about your dead grandfather, who you never met, or accusing you of moving her pocket book. On this day she was in the flow of the present enough to carry on a mostly sensical phone-conversation.
While Grandma talked to Aunt Margaret on the phone, Mom straightened photographs on the wall and wrote in the guest book. I sat on the bed listening and flipping through a prayer book that I found on the night stand, Kathryn played on her phone. And that’s when we noticed, Kitty Baby.
“Oh my God, what is that?”
“It’s Grandma’s new friend, haven’t you seen it before?” I said stifling a laugh.
“We think one of the aide’s gave it to her,” Mom chimed in.
My mom had earlier shared with me that when she visited grandma a few weeks earlier she found this strange doll in Grandma’s arms. Grandma was cooing to it like she did to her cats, but also bouncing it up and down, like a real baby. “It’s kind of sweet,” I said at the time. “Or creepy.” Mom responded.
Creepy, sweet, or neither, here it was, a baby dressed like a cat, looking up at us with its calm cerulean eyes and a striped tiger hood.
Kathryn picked it up and put it on her lap. She stroked its hooded head for a moment and then grabbed her phone.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked, noticing the commotion. Kathryn was positioning and then repositioning the doll in her lap.
“Ah! I can’t get the right angle. The light’s not right.”
“She’s trying to take Kitty Baby’s picture!” I chimed in. “Oooo, put it over here.” I grabbed the doll, now dubbed “Kitty Baby” from my sister and placed it in the corner. Grandma was still on the phone. There was a pause as we all heard her speaking to my aunt, “Well, we’ll be heading to Cleveland later this afternoon.” There was another longer pause in the action, Mom standing with her hand on a picture frame, me holding Kitty Baby, and Kathryn with a camera in her hands and Grandma in her wheelchair, in the middle of it all. And that’s when we started to laugh. It was a middle-of-church-service laugh, an algebra-test-in-progress guffaw, when stifling does anything but stop the hilarity and the giggles spills out of your body, using any path necessary, even leaking out in tears.
We formed a circle of laughter around my Grandma. None of us could control ourselves. Mom had to leave the room to catch her breath so she could take the phone back from Grandma. Grandma was oblivious to our behavior, although I like to think she felt the joy of the moment. Kathryn got the perfect shot of Kitty Baby. I marveled at the absurdity of it, the wildness of life, the delight when we can step outside and look in.
..Continued from previous entry…
She said…, oh that makes me…
I know but…
You are mean…
When I am imprisoned in a swirl of thoughts,
to take a deep breath, or ten, and unclench the fist of my mind, and heart, and gut.
The work of letting go has been to discover what life is like when I’m not spending it in offense or defense (protection or grasping).
These offensive and defensive moments often happen during interactions with others, of course, but the most profound offensive and defensive behavior was what I discovered inside of myself.
I woke up every morning and noticed that there was a part of me, that was already chattering away about the day ahead—what will I do, where will I go, what do I have to do, what do I want to do. Then there was the afterthought associated with the list of to do’s, perhaps resenting those “have tos,” perhaps excited about those “want tos,” but either way not here. Not here, in my body, waking up, making breakfast. Already there in the imagination of what’s to come, or what might not.
As I watched this chatter I began to notice that along with it there is a general feeling that comes. The feeling is of a low-level anxiety or unease—a pressing on the skin from the inside. In words, I’ve come to think of it as the general sentiment of “there is a problem.”
It was this very feeling that prompted me at a young age to develop an eating disorder. At first I was just a runner, cross-country practice prompting me into more and more miles, and then I started to like the feeling of exhaustion. I started to long for a body so tired it didn’t have to feel, a body so beaten it could fall into bed and sleep, anxiety out-run… until the next day when it would all begin again. At that time I wasn’t aware that I was attempting to escape anything, I was just a fifteen-year-old going through the motions. Though an eating disorder is long behind me, I discovered in adulthood that I was living with this low level anxiety, or “there is a problem” attitude driving me.
When I first consciously noticed this anxiety in myself it actually got worse. I think it was because I was paying attention to it, whereas before it was just the thing that made me jump out of bed in the morning. Now I noticed it every turn and I couldn’t do anything to make it go away because I could see that it was there. It was amazing to watch how this ego, or mind-chatter, was literally never satisfied.
I’d start a project I was excited about and there would be little more than a moment’s enjoyment before I was wishing it would end, or complaining about the details, or running into “issues.” I noticed it in conversations with friends, both in my words and in theirs:
“There’s always something…
“I’m so stressed all the time..
“It just never stops…
“Go go go, you know I’m busy.” Pause. Sigh. “Busy but happy.” Forced smile.
I began to be able to see in my own thoughts the constant, unceasing, never satisfied search for the perfect moment, perfect schedule, perfect balance of work and play and family that will finally, ultimately, perfectly be enough. Enough money, enough time, happiness, fulfillment, space, recognition…
But what if it doesn’t exist?
Except for here. Right now. Only ever and eternally, now.
I imagine that every single one of us has had the experience of thinking out or planning out a whole day or weekend, or even an hour. And then actually experiencing that day or hour and finding that it did not at all fit our plan, perhaps it was better than we imagined and we feel happy, perhaps it was worse and we feel disappointment.
What if we did away with all of this? Wouldn’t it be so much easier, to just experience life as it is? To walk into the day and let it happen… instead of making it mold to our will?
For a whole year, maybe more, every time I was able to notice this anxiety pressing inside of me for things to be different, faster, slower, better, not that way…this way, I would stop. As soon as I noticed that I was gripping or pushing, by holding my pen too tightly, or manipulating a conversation, or defending an idea I would just stop. No matter if I was late or tired, or lonely, or in the middle of a conversation. I would stop. Take three deep breaths. And just gently say to myself, “There is no problem.”
And as I did this practice, at first frequently—literally before I’d make it from my bed in the morning down to the kitchen to make coffee I might have stopped myself 20 times! Until I needed to say it less and less and I began to feel this deep, calm, relief and spaciousness where anxiety used to reside.
“Enlightenment is the deep understanding that there are no problems.”
Jennifer said those words to our women’s group and something deep inside of me listened, though my mind got very active trying to prove her wrong:
…Deforestation, global warming, Rape, Poverty, Murder…
A problem implies that it shouldn’t be happening. But if it is happening, if it is what is happening, then there is no way that it should not be happening because it is. That does not mean that we do not leap to stop the falling child or change actions in our lives to live in better harmony with our nature or our families and friends, or protest gun violence, or women’s rights. It simply means that no thing that is happening in our lives is a problem. It just is.
We simply are.
We are here
and we are here
and we are here.
Over and over again we are here.
And if we work with, and respond to our lives from unity rather than inner division, from acceptance and investigation rather than the mindset that there are wrongs and problems and we are victims, and they are victims and it is all so screwed up, so why even bother?
I wonder what kind of world we could create.