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| 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
This is amazing. I love this.
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