Trust, Suspicion and True Freedom

Rotterdam, Netherlands, June 2012

I have had a few conversations lately that all seem to be coming from the same core place.

The three "topics" have been:
1. Why do we not meditate when things are going "well"?
2. Why do we not question/ask for what we need when things are going "well"?
3. What's the difference between trusting and blithely hoping (shutting out real concerns) when things are going "well"?

These three separate conversations, at their core, also meet in when things are "not going well:"

When things are not going well, why do we insist on some absolute answer/decision/knowing that they will be ok in the future? This could come in the form of any fix: a verbal/mental guarantee, guilt/taking responsibility for it having "gone wrong" (even if it wasn't your fault) or buying some kind of material good to "fix" a problem that isn't the actual core issue.

Last week, I had quite a panic going on. I was convinced that my wife "has" to do a lot of work in a particular area (we both acknowledge that she does, but the urgency of the "has to" is what really nailed me down). I asked a friend to tell me that she was "confident that my wife will do the work she needs - I need her - to do." As soon as I asked for that request, an awareness that that temporary fix, that temporary consolation/false hope, would not actually help. I wanted a guarantee where there is no guarantee.

So, I said, as soon as I said that out loud, I think what I need to ask is if I believe it is possible for her to do the work. Is it? I asked myself. Yes, I said. I believe it is possible. That does not mean she will do it. And yet, somehow I felt more relaxed with this more realistic understanding. I know that as long as I think it is possible, I will be more trusting and more honest, and paying attention to my own knowing, instead of suspicious and angry when I worry that she isn't doing it.

My wife has also realized, at an ever-continuing level, that when her music-making is going well (which is most of the time), she lacks for nothing. When she is inspired and making great tunes, her equipment is just right. However, when she feels uninspired or is down in some other way, she looks for new gear, new toys to somehow pick up her game, improve her work flow or pull her out of a rut. This is such a common, human thing that it almost feels ridiculous to point out, but when she mentioned that comparison this morning, we both laughed:

If there's nothing missing when it is going right, 
then there is nothing missing when it is going wrong.

Finally, my best friend and I discussed this morning how much we so deeply want to trust situations when they are going well - all the plans are lining up, connecting with a loved one feels good - that we stop asking for what we need. This is good enough, we think, very good - so good that we hope/wish/believe it will never "be bad" again, and we stop asking for what might seem "above and beyond" in the situation. We trust the situation will provide without us having to do any work, which simply isn't true, and becomes a set up for a fall.  What's the fall? The fall is that when things begin to fall apart, we blame ourselves for not trusting it enough, or not doing enough - the latter of which may (or may not) be true, but also is impossible to prevent if we have a core belief that a situation is good enough and we shouldn't rock the boat by doing more.

We can ask questions and still trust.
We can ask questions and not be suspicious.
We can agitate for "even better" when things are "already good."
And, most importantly, we need to continue practicing: being clear, being honest, and watching our own minds, when things are smoother and easier, because they will, without doubt, become uneasy and unsmooth again, likely, quicker than we'd like.

Often people comment to me when they get beginning meditation instruction, especially at follow-up meetings, that they find they stop meditating when things are going well. I've come to believe we do this out of some kind of reverse cause-and-effect understanding. If we take the practice that helps when things aren't going well, and do it when things are going well, then things will somehow  go wrong. This is reverse magical-thinking, and it is plain wrong.

We can ask for help, support ourselves, pay attention to what is going on when things are going well. We can feel ease in our bodies, we can notice when we are in not-pain. We can watch our patterns and know, trust, that things will get rough again, so as not to blame ourselves unduly when the shit hits the fan.

Meditation is always* helpful.
The best part about meditation is that it helps keep things simple and plain and clear:
Watching your mind, knowing your mind is the best preventative for over-consumption, for self-deception, for wishful thinking that keeps us locked in non-reality. 

These are always the core issues. 
If these don't resonant with you language-wise, find your own way. 
Don't get distracted by the stories - see what is always going on underneath:
Knowing what we need.
Knowing what we can do for ourselves.
Knowing what we can do for others.
Knowing when to ask for help.

This is true freedom: 
Knowing underneath, no matter what happens, we are fundamentally good.

*Every once and awhile, we need a walk instead. Some fresh air. A good cry. But in comparison to shutting down, any practice of awareness, of being-with rather than hoping-for, is beneficial without fault. Try it. And if you find you agree, trust it. That's a great thing to trust.

Stop Drop Roll

Addison, TX 2010

One of the first safety lessons I recall learning as a child was “Stop Drop and Roll” – 

or, how to respond if you are caught on fire.

Last month, on a trip to Toronto where I had no wi-fi connection in the house I was staying in, or available data plan on my iPhone, I found myself struggling with free time. 

I wanted to meditate.

I wanted to do yoga. 

I went for a run every other morning. 

I read a lot of dharma.

I edited a lot of writing – it’s not like I was “doing nothing.” 

Grief and Letting Go

Grief is a tough one for me.

Or is it?

Having lost my parents when I was pretty young, I am prone to moments - on the treadmill, in bed in the morning or late evening, petting the cats, watching a movie - of missing them.

Or am I?

It's spring. My mother died on January 24. My father on March 15. My mom's birthday would be April 10, and my father's March 25. The spring is annually pockmarked with their absences.

For a long time I identified with my grief. Every time I was sad, it was about my parents. A therapist I had in my late twenties, concerned about my repeated, cyclical depression and anxiety, had me map my emotional responses. Sure enough, at the same time each month, I missed my parents. Missed them because they were dead, missed them because they were often absent even when alive. Missed the idea of having parents. Got angry at them for what they did. Wished they'd done otherwise. Regretted disliking my mother so much when she was alive. Rinse. Repeat.

The therapist said:
While I believe you were traumatized as a child and young adult, I think this cycle is chemical.
I was diagnosed with PMDD - pre menstrual dysphoric disorder. It fit the bill perfectly - a very severe emotional response to the normal hormonal fluctuations of PMS.

Ok. Good. I evened out more. Because I understood the chemical component of my sadness/anxiety, I could also see that perhaps I was holding on to something - my parents'/the idea of my parents/my sadness. I got that a bit. I became more able to let it go, meaning: it was already gone, and I could see it was gone. Came, went. Came again, went again.

However, only recently have I noticed that the acute pain of loss, of hurt and grief, 
returns as well.
Yes, it goes. Yes, it comes again.

On one of numerous road trips for a dharma program that I have recently been on, a sangha friend replied that, when I told her that my parents and grandparents were gone by the time I was 22,
You were all alone.
I balked, though I've been known to say things like this, honestly.
I said, No, I still had, still have, my two older brothers.
But you didn't have any - don't have any - aunts or uncles or anything?
That's true.

I felt the acute sadness behind this story - this story I have told so many times, felt sad about so many times. Yes, I am all alone, I have felt so often. Yes, I was abandoned. And yet, what I was feeling then, it feels like now, were the words. I was feeling the stor(ies)y, not the feelings.

Now, now I am feeling the feelings more. Thanks to meds, meditation and more and more practice recently than in a couple of years, I am sensitized, close to the surface, and aware. Aware when the feelings come, and aware enough to really feel them. Then, to really watch them go.

This is what I talked about in a more abstract way in my recent post on elephant journal.
This is what letting go is - letting them go. Permitting, nay, noticing, accepting that what is gone is already gone.

Each time I acknowledge my feelings and let them go away, see that they are already gone, I am actually letting go of my parents. This is something I haven't been doing in the past. Maybe it was extended denial, or shock. It seemed like acceptance, but as I get closer to some feeling of real acceptance, I can see how far off it was.

There's no problem with that. I am not angry at myself, or shocked, hurt that this is 
"still going on."
No, instead I am grateful, most of the time, that I can keep learning to let go, the only way how:
Now.
Now.
And now again. Experiential. Real. Non-conceptual. In the moment. 

That's the only way to let go.

Opening Up Overwhelm

Space Scrutiny, Chicago February 2013

This morning, I woke after a long sleep. I felt clear, rested, happy. My wife was off to her first day of training for a new job, and I had the whole day ahead of me.  

Yes, I thought. I have lots to do and time alone to do it in. Awesome. I've been waiting for this.

Then I got up, took a shower. During the shower I started to consider what comes first: yoga, certainly. But one hour? I don't have time for that. Maybe 20 minutes. I am hungry, so I should eat first. You know, speaking of body care I said to Dylan just yesterday that I wanted to get to the gym but we were both really wiped out and it didn't happen. I could go there today, too. Wait. When can I fit that in? I've got to clean for class tonight, and I have all that editing to do. Not to mention preparation for Toronto. I leave on Thursday. Ack.

Does this line of thinking sound familiar to you? I began to panic. By the time Dylan left for work, and I was dry and clean, I began to get a tinnitus sound in my left ear where I can hear my heart pumping overtime. I got into a frenzy of over-decision-making, knowing I can't do it all. 

Knowing I will likely choose work over taking care of myself. 

And yet, and yet, panicking wasn't helping me pick good self-care either. 

Ooo. Boy. I sat down and committed to meditating first. Yes. 

This is on my wipe-off board in our bedroom, a place where we write reminders and ways to cut through panicking beliefs that feed themselves. 

"Sit first, especially when in doubt."

And immediately what arose was this:
I am panicking because part of me believes that if I don't panic I won't get anything done.

This got further reiterated by martyring myself on "all the things that Dylan didn't do when I was out of town this weekend" - eg - see what happens when someone does not panic and prioritize?

Ha. Joke is on me:

What I can't seem to do when I panic, the one thing I become incapable of doing, is prioritizing.

Especially, I drop my self care all together, in favor of the belief that if I "just get done what needs doing, I'll be fine/worthy/good enough/won't need self care/will have time for self care/fill in the blank."

The meditation, brief though it was, undid the panic loop. 

Do I still have a lot to do and not enough time to do it in?

Yes.

Will some things have to fall by the way side, regardless of how hard I work?

Yes.

So I can still prioritize much-needed self-care and get a decent amount of work done?

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

I'll probably come back to this post a lot today, and tomorrow, as I try and balance work and self-care over the next forty-eight hours before I board a flight for Toronto and disappear from the US for a fortnight. Even when I am there, may I look back here again and remember. Or, remember to sit. Just sit. Quietly, in the face of overwhelm and all the hidden, not-so-hidden beliefs and agendas it carries, and remind that part of myself, remind overwhelm itself: I am a human being.

I am not perfect.

Some things will not get done.

But what does need to be done is caring for me.

Otherwise any thing else I do will be tainted and speedy.

Any care I give to others or work I do will be biased

in favor of rushing and against all I am trying to do in my work

in the first place.

After I came to this, of course, I found this email in my inbox. I love it when email, something that cranks me up a lot to begin with (somuchtogetdonesolittletimetodoitiniambehindugh), drops these messages for me:

March 12, 2013

EXPRESSING OUR EMOTIONS

We have to make a relationship with our emotional energy. Usually, when we speak of expressing our energies, we are more concerned with the expression than with the energy itself, which seems to be rushing too fast. We are afraid the energy will overwhelm us, so we try to get rid of it through action. However, once you develop a harmonious relationship with your energy, then you can actually express it, and the style of expression becomes very sane, right to the point. 

-From The Sanity We Are Born With by Chogyam Trungpa

-Posted on the Ocean of Dharma, maintained by Carolyn Gimian

Stories of Suffering/Stories of Joy

"Open" Chicago February 2013

A student stated something to me this week that shouldn't have been such a shock. But it was.

This student is writing a memoir. She's been having trouble getting memories out of her mom. Her mom is older, worn out, has had a stroke, and doesn't want to talk about the past. She has threatened to disown my student, in fact, for asking questions about deaths in the family, secrets, potentially shameful or painful things that my student wants so much to understand and get clear in writing her memoir. The process has been heart-breaking.

"All of a sudden I realized the other night that I never ask her about happy memories," my student told me. Wow. Why is that such a shock? It is. "And so I asked her about some happy memories from my childhood. I couldn't get her to STOP talking."

In an interview with a friend of her mom's, my student had heard that her mom was a good mom. A happy mom who really loved her kids. My student was touched by that, really affected and this information likely lead to her asking for more details about good times. Times my student didn't remember, but as soon as her mom began depicting, she recalled clearly.

Memories that were otherwise lost, that didn't fit into her story of suffering.

It is true that we recall suffering more than happiness, that even being present seems easier when we are in pain that in pleasure, or, as is most often the case for a large number of people, when nothing at all is happening. Whenever I do a body prompt - usually a couple of times of year - and ask people to see what their body is saying to them, almost always pain grabs the day.

Somehow there is so much shame around happiness, fear of bragging around it, that we often don't discuss it. The danger is, of course, if we decide that we know who we are (a victim, or someone who has overcome great adversity, or someone who has genuinely suffered - pick your potential poison) then we dismiss everything else that doesn't fit into that story.

The danger of a single story is just as risky in our own personal interactions with ourselves as it is on a socio-cultural level. In other words, it scales down. Though this isn't an "attitude of gratitude" love-and-light call for what you enjoy, remember in good light, it is an important, again, surprisingly, challenge for all writers and humans to take into account. Remember that before you write a single word, you have already told yourself many stories. Maybe this is why fiction sometimes seems closer to the truth than non-fiction - the truth is most of our lives are fiction. So tune in and make sure to get all the details you can, not just those that fit who you think you already are.

If you end an essay, a book, a paragraph even, thinking "Yes, this confirms who I think I am," then you should question that. Hell, not even about writing: if you end a DAY thinking "Yes, that day confirms who I am for me 100%," that should be a signal of danger - danger of solidifying, forgetting, not really paying attention.

Life is full of contradiction, paradox and mixed messages: suffering and joy alongside one another. 
Let all of it in.

PS A lovely post on elephant journal this week related to working with this.