The Trees Don't Care

Chewonki

The Trees

The trees do not care about
   your voice quaking when you speak in public
   that flap of skin that dangles from your upper arm
   the unanswered emails piling up in your inbox.

They sigh only in response to
   the wind.

Nor do they care about
   the countless hours you've sat in meditation
   the rugged mountains you've summited
   the "A" you received on your Spanish midterm sophomore year.

They applaud only in response to
    the wind.


One of my biggest fears is to become a Spiritual Egoist. You know the type. They may have an abundance of culturally appropriated items— bindis, mala beads, henna ink — adorning their body. They may speak to you in Sanskrit, have a spiritual name, and end every exchange with "Namaste."  Every yoga class is an opportunity to show off their press handstand, and every conversation becomes a time to share stories of how much gratitude they experienced after spending time in India, with those who have so little. They are conspicuous because they lack authenticity. They are "so far long along their spiritual journey" that they see no way to learn from the voices and experiences of people around them.

Most of us in this community have some of these elements in our lives. After all, cliches only become trite after overuse, but are first rich nuggets of truth. The elements alone are not what make us inauthentic. For some, they are deeply meaningful displays of who we are. A close friend of mine was given a new name after a powerful ceremony, and to her that embodies who she is. I see nothing wrong with that. Another friend lives in India half the time because it is there that she feels most fulfilled. I, myself, have a set of mala beads that I wore around my wrist from my yoga teacher training, imbued with the love of all the yogis in my class. It is when we use these things to pump ourselves up, to shore up our identities as spiritual people, that we've gone astray.

I had to catch myself in these moments of egoism this past week when I spent four days with thirty amazing educators at a Teachings In Mindful Education (TIME) retreat at Chewonki, an environmental education organization an hour outside of Portland. There, we were invited to explore self care and mindfulness in a community of teachers from up and down the East Coast. Having spent the last year and half studying mindfulness in education, and implementing programming in my school, I had to hold back from jumping in on lectures and answering questions. I knew the answers! I wanted to tell everyone what I knew!  In truth, I also wanted everyone else to know I knew.

When I noticed myself seeking this, I recoiled in disgust. I was being that person. I was unavailable to hear from other participants because I was so eager to share with everyone what I thought.  I wanted affirmation. And I wanted it, I came to realize, because of insecurity. I am about to embark on a new adventure, providing mindfulness education to young people and teachers around New England. In those moments, I needed assurance from others that I was qualified. That I was someone they would trust to bring mindfulness to their school. 

But spending my energy showing off left me unavailable to take in what was being offered right then. In order to really soak in that experience, I had to be present for it. And in fact, in order to really offer anything to others, I needed to move my ego back and heart forward. Indeed, the moment when I felt most useful to anyone involved saying very little. It was a deep listening exercise when I was tasked with hearing someone's dilemma, without fixing, critiquing, or judging, but just listening deeply.  It was being present in that moment for this brave soul that I felt most skillful. In not trying to prove myself, I had proved myself. The more I let go of trying to be something specific, and was receptive to what was there, the more I was to able to offer and soak in. 

It is not possible to get rid of ego (Unless you are enlightened, I hear. And then, well, congrats). The more I berate myself for this part of me, the part that puffs up in front because of the insecurity it hides, the smaller I feel. But if I can look gently at that part of myself. If I can acknowledge and hold space for, rather than judge, the insecurity and the bravado that springs forth, then I can offer that to others.

The most valuable advice I got this past week from one of my teachers (who got it from one of his), was, "Get on the cushion and love the sh** out of yourself." He meant this for all parts of ourselves, and particularly those that we have not made peace with, the scared parts and conceited parts. I like to imagine those parts as muppets (a la Inside Out) who have their own agenda and don't need to be taken too seriously nor held too harshly. They just need a little space and some love.

I started with a fairly critical view of those trying to inflate themselves in the spiritual community. In fact, we have seen the heavy consequences of this with guru-types who have built themselves up for a big fall when their fallibility becomes obvious (John Friend took out my favorite style of yoga, Anusara, on his way down. Now it's hard to find people who teach it because no one is willing to affiliate with it anymore). However, it does me no good to begrudge them for their overinflated sense of importance, nor their fears that they are likely hiding underneath that. The more work I do to reconcile those parts of me in myself, the more I can hold others with that kindness. Likely the disgust I feel for them has much to do with the disgust I feel for that part of myself, and toning it all down may help open me up.

So can I be like the trees? Can I hold all the parts of myself, and all the parts of others, without acclamation or condemnation? With compassion? Even this Spiritual Egoist? I sure hope to learn.

Keeping life in three dimensions

As a teacher, I relied heavily on my computer. I used my computer as a tool to collaborate with other teachers that were in the same room with me, or supplemental to late night phone calls. I had it connected to the smartboard, and used it to organize class periods and share information with my students. I communicated with families and other staff throughout the school in great volume through this amazing tool. 

But I also spent the majority of my time interfacing with my colleagues and students face-to-face.  I hugged their bodies, ranging from pint-sized to ginormous, as they entered my door each morning. I absorbed their joys, sorrows, and frustrations as they grappled with the challenging task of learning. I smelled the sweet middle-school funk each day as they crowded into my room after gym. Everything was loud and vibrant and tangible. 

Since starting my new career, I have found myself staring at my screen for hours at a time. I understand this is not radical for many people. I understand this is "normal." But my recent conversion to this role of Computer Worker has given me insight into what it means to be facing a computer for hours at a time. 

I am staring at a glowing screen and communicating through my fingers pressing plastic keys. Conversations are silent. Emails never quite capture sentiment, emoticons and all. I can't feel the people to whom I'm "talking," nor smell them (for better or worse). Everything it, literally, flat.  It is amazing how much time one can spend in two dimensions. 

And on top of the work elements, there is so much socialization that happens through my computer and phone. Text messages, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter (I just signed onto that and it's completely overwhelming). What a beautiful curse to be able to share everything in our lives with others. What a strange compulsion to want to. I read once that we get a dopamine hit from our pleasure center every time we get a like, an email response, or a comment on our wall. I definitely notice a little rush from these electronic affirmations. 

The crux of this is that, however good it may feel, it is nothing compared to the hit we get in the three dimensional world. And when we limit ourselves to our screens, we limit our ability to absorb the energies of others, to smell the salty breeze that flows in through our windows, to taste the sweet and tart juices of the apple as we take a bite (I am embarrassed to admit the number of times I've eaten while futzing around on the computer). I don't again want to miss one minute of the awe-inspiring sunset as we cruise across the gentle waters out to Peaks Island because I had to send one final email. 

There's nothing evil about the electronic world, and many of us have to learn to work with it. In this strange new world, I know that I need to be intentional about time away, about leaving my phone in my purse or (gasp) at home. I need to stand up from my computer and chat with the person next to me at the coffee shop every so often. I need to be intentional about when I engage, and when I put it away. 

Because this world is too rich to spend all my time in two dimensions.

Off the mat, into the world.

It is embarrassing to admit how many years it took me to realize that contemplative practice is not just for that time on the mat or cushion. I loved the stretching and movement of yoga and the centering of sitting. I loved the momentary respite from doing and worrying that (sometimes) came during that time. I loved the fleeting peace.

When I first found yoga, it was because I had been a gymnast for twelve years and wanted to continue challenging my body. Under Haverford College gym's buzzing lights, yoga was for playing with postures that came easily to my limber teenage body. It was purely physical, though I found myself enjoying the lying down part that came at the end. Even after I grew curious and started exploring the other limbs of yoga, I still was limited to those moments and the delicious afterglow.

The problem, I learned, was the afterglow only lasted so long. As I began teaching years later, that would be only through my first period of class of wily middle schoolers (if I was lucky).  By lunch time, I was already grasping for the equanimity that seemed so available on my bike ride to work, when I soaked in the sunrise and noted the birds twittering happily along the roadside. If I did nothing else, by 4:15 I found myself flat on my back across the desks wondering where I had gone wrong. I thought I needed to go to more yoga classes, to sit longer, to dig deeper into the literature. How many yoga classes or meditation sessions would it take to keep my sanity? Twice a day?? Four hours at a time??? I couldn't possibly do it.

Luckily, somewhere along the way I learned that I don't have to. It is the short moments of awareness throughout the day- a deep breath as I glance up from my computer, feeling my feet as I walk to the grocery store, listening to the children play in the splash pool- that reconnect me to my center. As Chris McKenna, program director of Mindful Schools, helpfully reminded me again and again this past year, "Short moments of awareness, repeated many times, become autonomic and continuous." Though my last year was a challenging one in the classroom, it was activating these mini refuges for myself- closing my eyes for a breath when the hallway felt particularly chaotic, waiting a moment to talk to the student who had just detonated before my eyes- that allowed me to respond as I wanted. I found an iphone app that would periodically remind me to breathe. I glanced out at the sky to gain perspective on the tiny classroom world.

The more formal and lengthy practices are critical, to be sure. I personally need an half hour of sitting a day to maintain my ballast that rights me when I get knocked down by the world. I do yoga to invite openness, work out stress, and build strength in my body. These more concentrated practices give me something to reconnect with in those shorter moments. They provide depth and stamina. They provide wisdom. But I can't just stay there, and I can't just rely on basking in the afterglow. Remembering to connect to my anchor throughout the day is what makes the day more livable.

So as I step off my mat and into the world, I actively seek moments
to listen
to see
to smell
to taste
to breath
to anchor.