I have been feeling pretty good about the choices I've made in my life. Feeling like I'm doing my part to take care of the planet. Riding my bike to work. Living communally. Teaching the youth to read and write. Buying local strawberries, when possible. And yeah, sure, those are all do-gooder choices that make my existence on this planet slightly less damaging. I like to argue that in making those choices publicly, we are not just making our impact solo, but gently supporting and encouraging others around us to remember their reusable bags and tupperware. And I still think that's true. And I still am proud of those choices.
But this past weekend, a harbinger of what has been my mounting unrest accompanied me on a trip to West Virginia, in the form of a large scruffy trucker-hat wearing gentle bear of a man. James needled me all weekend, some over my choice of abstract painting (which he finds uninspiring as an art form), some about novel reading and long form journalism, but mostly through his life story.
It was not his intention to rattle me, that I know of, but only to share his life experiences, a litany of protests of what he knew to be injustices in this world. Making his voice heard. He told me about times when people who would handcuff themselves together under the ground to prevent oil trucks from getting through, or people building nests that would topple the sitters to their death, should they be disassembled. He, and these people, believed so strongly in what they were protesting that they risked discomfort, jailing, and even bodily harm.
He asked me about my protest history. I said, somewhat self-consciously, that I had none. There are things I am certainly alarmed about in this world. Climate change. Persistent and growing inequities. Forest degradation. Food deserts. Overuse of natural resources. Rising sea levels. Violence. Hatred. War. But it has never occurred to me to join a march or protest. Occasionally I'll sign a petition, but I wouldn't say I've been very active in speaking these concerns. I hadn't wondered about that choice in awhile, since college when I used to read the New York Times in the dining hall and wring my hands, but now I was forced into wondering again.
When I came home (unsurprisingly, as the universe seems to like to push its issues sometimes), I found an article in Yes Magazine, detailing the arrest and further activism of Tim DeChristopher, who interceded in a auction of oil and gas leases on federal lands, and landed himself in prison for 21 months and a fine of $10,000. In this article, he said damningly, "Certainly a lot of the blame falls on fossil fuel executives and politicians, but a lot of it falls on comfortable liberals who changed their light bulbs, bought organic, and sat back and patted themselves on the back." He was directing this comment at the baby boomer generation, but is that not what I am doing? And then, the call to action, "This is why I think activism right now is so critical. The only thing inevitable about our future is that the status quo cannot continue."
To be clear, I am not running out to chain myself to anything. To get myself thrown in jail. I think activism can look many different ways. But I do wonder if I am too comfortable resting on my easy liberal lifestyle choices. I do wonder what my voice sounds and looks like, amplified.
An easy place to explore this question seems to be where I have influence: in the classroom. In fact, a crucial part of the Two Rivers mission reads, "To nurture a diverse group of students...to become responsible and compassionate members of society." Responsible and compassionate. How can I instill that in this next generation? They need opportunities to be responsible and compassionate. They need to read the stories of those who have come before them, know the issues that lay ahead, and know how to amplify their voice. So that is now my challenge to explore. It is not that I have done nothing, and not that I plan on any particular forms of flagellation, but this weekend galvanized me into Q&A with myself about how else I can participate more fully in this world, in a way that is positive and nurturing.
So where does the mindfulness piece fit in? There is an element of Buddhism that can be misinterpreted, so that people believe they should sit back and calmly watch the world fall to shit, from a place of non attachment. To not judge and not get angry and not care. But that's off the mark. On the contrary, I think one must dive in and engage with the world from a place of compassion and openness. Must act from a place of loving kindness. But most importantly, must act.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Why won't you little stinkers get peaceful?
Monday at 3:40pm, 30 minutes before our extended day dismissal, I taught my fourth mindfulness lesson to my students. For one minute we sat with our eyes closed doing mindful breathing, and I asked them to notice their thoughts. The room was quiet, and the students actually closed their eyes. Until....zzZZZZZzzzzz...sghghgh...zzZZZZzz from the right side of the room.
It's really distracting to find your breathing when one of your students is snarfling his way through the exercise. Why wouldn't they do it right, dang it??? I'm trying to give them these amazing tools and they aren't taking is seriously! Don't they SEE???? I WANT THEM TO BE PEACEFUL! I needed them to peaceful. I expected them to be peaceful. And when that wasn't the reality, I grew immediately uneasy in the face of their silliness. Of course, that immediately wound its way into an inquisition over my own lack of skill as a mindfulness teacher, and all hope was lost. I would never make it in my future profession, and I might as well quit now.
OR.
I could remove my expectations. Before all teachers in the audience immediately switch off their computers in fear that they might be monitored by their admin, who would surely report them for reading such blasphemous material, hear me out.
In education, "high expectations" is a buzz term that gets thrown around a lot. In fact, if you ever suggested you had anything other than the highest expectations of your students, you would probably be immediately fired and sent from the school with a note pinned to your chest that no one was ever to hire you again.
This is an uncomfortable bedfellow to the mindfulness tenet in which it is believed that any expectations are, in fact, the root of our suffering. Suffering is wanting, or worse, expecting life to be different than it is. It is our thoughts, not our reality, that create our misery. So I either have to compartmentalize these two belief systems, both of which I ardently ascribe to, or find other some way to remove the cognitive dissonance that is reeking havoc on my mental well-being. Is there a way to hold expectations without loading them with so much emotional energy? To set the bar, and strive for it, without it becoming the sole focus of our experience?
I hope so. I want my students to know where the bar is so they know what to work towards. I want my students to believe I don't think it's okay if they sit through an hour long class period without doing any work or if they snap back at me at a simple request. I think it's my responsibility to teach them those things and to hold that bar high. But I need to do that without emotionally attaching myself to the outcomes. Here's the bar, kiddos, go for it and I'll tell you when you haven't made it BUT I'm not going to get mad about it when you don't. And I'm holding the bar there because I truly believe it's in your best interest. Hold the bar, but don't get too attached to whether or not they make it.
It's so dang hard.
Back in the classroom, I tried to let go of my need to "perfect" mindful behavior. I chose to ignore the snoring. Miraculously, so did the other five highly wound adolescents in the room with me. When we opened our eyes to talk about our experiences, I turned to Amari. "All I ask is that you try this out, for real. If you don't want to do that seriously, you are welcome to wait in the hallway while the rest of us try." But he stayed seated. And we talked about how it made us feel- calm, focused, relaxed. The way I strive to be in any given moment, but I'm not going to chastise myself, or them, when we haven't hit our mark.
It's really distracting to find your breathing when one of your students is snarfling his way through the exercise. Why wouldn't they do it right, dang it??? I'm trying to give them these amazing tools and they aren't taking is seriously! Don't they SEE???? I WANT THEM TO BE PEACEFUL! I needed them to peaceful. I expected them to be peaceful. And when that wasn't the reality, I grew immediately uneasy in the face of their silliness. Of course, that immediately wound its way into an inquisition over my own lack of skill as a mindfulness teacher, and all hope was lost. I would never make it in my future profession, and I might as well quit now.
OR.
I could remove my expectations. Before all teachers in the audience immediately switch off their computers in fear that they might be monitored by their admin, who would surely report them for reading such blasphemous material, hear me out.
In education, "high expectations" is a buzz term that gets thrown around a lot. In fact, if you ever suggested you had anything other than the highest expectations of your students, you would probably be immediately fired and sent from the school with a note pinned to your chest that no one was ever to hire you again.
This is an uncomfortable bedfellow to the mindfulness tenet in which it is believed that any expectations are, in fact, the root of our suffering. Suffering is wanting, or worse, expecting life to be different than it is. It is our thoughts, not our reality, that create our misery. So I either have to compartmentalize these two belief systems, both of which I ardently ascribe to, or find other some way to remove the cognitive dissonance that is reeking havoc on my mental well-being. Is there a way to hold expectations without loading them with so much emotional energy? To set the bar, and strive for it, without it becoming the sole focus of our experience?
I hope so. I want my students to know where the bar is so they know what to work towards. I want my students to believe I don't think it's okay if they sit through an hour long class period without doing any work or if they snap back at me at a simple request. I think it's my responsibility to teach them those things and to hold that bar high. But I need to do that without emotionally attaching myself to the outcomes. Here's the bar, kiddos, go for it and I'll tell you when you haven't made it BUT I'm not going to get mad about it when you don't. And I'm holding the bar there because I truly believe it's in your best interest. Hold the bar, but don't get too attached to whether or not they make it.
It's so dang hard.
Back in the classroom, I tried to let go of my need to "perfect" mindful behavior. I chose to ignore the snoring. Miraculously, so did the other five highly wound adolescents in the room with me. When we opened our eyes to talk about our experiences, I turned to Amari. "All I ask is that you try this out, for real. If you don't want to do that seriously, you are welcome to wait in the hallway while the rest of us try." But he stayed seated. And we talked about how it made us feel- calm, focused, relaxed. The way I strive to be in any given moment, but I'm not going to chastise myself, or them, when we haven't hit our mark.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
"Inner peace and spirituality can suck it."
"Inner peace and spirituality can suck it." This is the introduction to a New York Magazine video exploring Competitive Yoga. The images are of people contorting themselves into all sorts of asanas for an expectant crowd and panel of judges. Falter, you lose points. One of the judges even admits, "We aren't judging the yoga..." Umm....I would like to donate to you this new term, as this is clearly American Power Stretching at its finest. Give us "Yoga" back, please. That's the space where I try to work with my tendencies, not fuel them, and I certainly don't need your help exacerbating my competitive nature.
Coming from a background in gymnastics, this instinct is one that I incessantly confront while practicing yoga. I have to combat the will to sink lower into postures, clench tighter through shaking muscles, and hold my Om longer than my neighbors (I wish I was kidding about the last one). I feel embarrassed when I fall out of Half Moon or can't quite reach my binds. When teachers ask us to set intentions at the beginning of class, I often silently plead with myself to be gentle.
Even when I sit down to meditate there is a sense that I need to be "good" at it, and that I am "bad" when I have many thoughts, or get lost for ten minutes perseverating over the perfect comeback for an earlier verbal exchange. Conversely, when I notice myself creating that space between my thoughts, other thoughts are quick to affirm my meditative prowess. I suddenly am winning meditation! I'm enlightened! I'm....thinking.
But these are the places where we are supposed to practice coming back to our breath, and our presence. Where it's great to fall out of that posture, or this meditative state, so we can figure out what to do next. How to right ourselves. Where it's perfection to see our competitive spirit play out. Let us enjoy in the fall and the rise, without keeping score.
I want to be able to come to yoga without the pressure of contorting into a pretzel. I want to be able to come to meditation without the expectation that I sit cross-legged and clear my mind of every thought. I want to remember it's a place to practice the way I want to be off the mat and cushion. And really its not the competitive yoga that's the problem, nor is it my need to compete. They are all opportunities to redefine my practice for myself. To notice myself and the world. And to laugh. Because how can you not when people are describing a yoga event with this eloquently spoken line, "Inner peace and spirituality can suck it."
Coming from a background in gymnastics, this instinct is one that I incessantly confront while practicing yoga. I have to combat the will to sink lower into postures, clench tighter through shaking muscles, and hold my Om longer than my neighbors (I wish I was kidding about the last one). I feel embarrassed when I fall out of Half Moon or can't quite reach my binds. When teachers ask us to set intentions at the beginning of class, I often silently plead with myself to be gentle.
Even when I sit down to meditate there is a sense that I need to be "good" at it, and that I am "bad" when I have many thoughts, or get lost for ten minutes perseverating over the perfect comeback for an earlier verbal exchange. Conversely, when I notice myself creating that space between my thoughts, other thoughts are quick to affirm my meditative prowess. I suddenly am winning meditation! I'm enlightened! I'm....thinking.
But these are the places where we are supposed to practice coming back to our breath, and our presence. Where it's great to fall out of that posture, or this meditative state, so we can figure out what to do next. How to right ourselves. Where it's perfection to see our competitive spirit play out. Let us enjoy in the fall and the rise, without keeping score.
I want to be able to come to yoga without the pressure of contorting into a pretzel. I want to be able to come to meditation without the expectation that I sit cross-legged and clear my mind of every thought. I want to remember it's a place to practice the way I want to be off the mat and cushion. And really its not the competitive yoga that's the problem, nor is it my need to compete. They are all opportunities to redefine my practice for myself. To notice myself and the world. And to laugh. Because how can you not when people are describing a yoga event with this eloquently spoken line, "Inner peace and spirituality can suck it."
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
American Power Stretching v. Yoga: Who is to say?
I get really judgey about yoga. The things that people call yoga often make my hackles stand up on end. "That's American Power Stretching," I say indignantly, "that's not yoga."
By American Power Stretching, I mean the yoga done in gyms to intense beats and sweat streaming off the body. The Lululemon yoga with cute outfits but without Oms or any understanding of the origins of the practice or the meaning of the word yoga. The yoga with few alignment cues and lots of back strains and knee tweaks, because instructors are undertrained and overzealous. "They shouldn't call it yoga. They should call it something else," I say from my high horse.
Yoga means union with the divine, or according to Pantanjali, "the stilling of the changing states of the mind." Not cute butts in cute butt shorts.
In the spirit of reflection, I am trying to challenge my own self-righteousness. Particularly as yoga has taken so many twists and turns along the way, it's hard to say who gets to own that word. The asana series, or physical practice, that many of us call yoga was derived from a 19th century Scandinavian gymnastics training program craze that swept Europe by storm. Reread that sentence. GYMNASTICS TRAINING PROGRAM= YOGA OF TODAY. That's a little different than early aesthetics in the forest throwing down warrior ones and downward facing dogs to achieve enlightenment. In fact, the earliest practices of yoga, we're talking second century BCE Pantanjali old, were focused on stillness and seat. Only later were there a few postures introduced, which still looked nothing like our physical practice today. It wasn't until those crazy Scandinavians stepped in that a new model was created and the asana series was modernized. And quite frankly, I dig that yoga. I like the physical challenges, and mental clarity, half moon pose, or crow, requires of me. Not surprising, given my former life in gymnastics, but am I really holier than thou?
Furthermore, it's true that there's a lot that may be a part of a purer, or at least more ancient, yoga that I'm not really into. My Kripalu teacher training book tells me about some pretty intense purification techniques that are not super appealing to me (Rags running through my sinus system? No, thank you). There's the fasting and aestheticism- never have quite gotten down with those. So if I'm not doing all of the parts, am I not doing yoga?
And if I'm telling the truth, when I teach yoga, there are no Oms. And I rarely mention anything having to do with the Divine. Maybe my yoga's not real Yoga either. Does it really matter?
For me, the physical practice of yoga, and meditation for that matter, is about practicing for life. I'm trying to find a calm present space inside myself so that I'm less of a jerk face when confronted with 24 screaming middle school students, or a dirty dishwasher. Because when I'm really present and grounded, it doesn't matter that there's a dust bunny under the sofa the size of a pitbull, or that I have to tell one of my students for the millionth time that it's not okay to get up and sharpen a pencil while I'm in the middle of giving directions (for the love of god, why don't they understand that yet?). So I step on my mat and breath deeply because practicing here is fortifying me for the next day. And I wake up at 5:45 to sit in the morning because I want to see my students for who they are in any given moment, not how they fall into an annoying disruptive pattern of behavior that, in truth, will never end, so I better find some peace with it.
So what I really hope that other people find that in their yoga, or American Power Stretching, or whatever it is that serves them, is this: the new definition of Yoga- a practice for life that helps us be a little less of a selfish jerk and a little more compassionate with ourselves and others. And in that spirit, I can accept a tight bum as a nice side benefit.
By American Power Stretching, I mean the yoga done in gyms to intense beats and sweat streaming off the body. The Lululemon yoga with cute outfits but without Oms or any understanding of the origins of the practice or the meaning of the word yoga. The yoga with few alignment cues and lots of back strains and knee tweaks, because instructors are undertrained and overzealous. "They shouldn't call it yoga. They should call it something else," I say from my high horse.
Yoga means union with the divine, or according to Pantanjali, "the stilling of the changing states of the mind." Not cute butts in cute butt shorts.
In the spirit of reflection, I am trying to challenge my own self-righteousness. Particularly as yoga has taken so many twists and turns along the way, it's hard to say who gets to own that word. The asana series, or physical practice, that many of us call yoga was derived from a 19th century Scandinavian gymnastics training program craze that swept Europe by storm. Reread that sentence. GYMNASTICS TRAINING PROGRAM= YOGA OF TODAY. That's a little different than early aesthetics in the forest throwing down warrior ones and downward facing dogs to achieve enlightenment. In fact, the earliest practices of yoga, we're talking second century BCE Pantanjali old, were focused on stillness and seat. Only later were there a few postures introduced, which still looked nothing like our physical practice today. It wasn't until those crazy Scandinavians stepped in that a new model was created and the asana series was modernized. And quite frankly, I dig that yoga. I like the physical challenges, and mental clarity, half moon pose, or crow, requires of me. Not surprising, given my former life in gymnastics, but am I really holier than thou?
Furthermore, it's true that there's a lot that may be a part of a purer, or at least more ancient, yoga that I'm not really into. My Kripalu teacher training book tells me about some pretty intense purification techniques that are not super appealing to me (Rags running through my sinus system? No, thank you). There's the fasting and aestheticism- never have quite gotten down with those. So if I'm not doing all of the parts, am I not doing yoga?
And if I'm telling the truth, when I teach yoga, there are no Oms. And I rarely mention anything having to do with the Divine. Maybe my yoga's not real Yoga either. Does it really matter?
For me, the physical practice of yoga, and meditation for that matter, is about practicing for life. I'm trying to find a calm present space inside myself so that I'm less of a jerk face when confronted with 24 screaming middle school students, or a dirty dishwasher. Because when I'm really present and grounded, it doesn't matter that there's a dust bunny under the sofa the size of a pitbull, or that I have to tell one of my students for the millionth time that it's not okay to get up and sharpen a pencil while I'm in the middle of giving directions (for the love of god, why don't they understand that yet?). So I step on my mat and breath deeply because practicing here is fortifying me for the next day. And I wake up at 5:45 to sit in the morning because I want to see my students for who they are in any given moment, not how they fall into an annoying disruptive pattern of behavior that, in truth, will never end, so I better find some peace with it.
So what I really hope that other people find that in their yoga, or American Power Stretching, or whatever it is that serves them, is this: the new definition of Yoga- a practice for life that helps us be a little less of a selfish jerk and a little more compassionate with ourselves and others. And in that spirit, I can accept a tight bum as a nice side benefit.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Gut-punches from the World
There was a moment last month when I realized my life was hanging in a most delicate balance. I had nothing to complain about. My work life, personal life, creative life, all felt so satisfying and comfortable. I was practicing regularly, so when I got off the mat, I found myself more equipped to deal with life's little challenges, and there were, for a fleeting instant, no bigger challenges. How sweet. How terrifying.
It did not take long for life to unbalance itself, as it is wont to do, and I found myself again in a position where circumstances that were outside of my control asked for a response. It is almost amusing, the emotional gut punch we can get from situations that, in hindsight, feel fairly innocuous.
For example, an early morning under-caffeinated unkind exchange with a friend that left me in a snotty mess in the staff bathroom at school. Followed by the thoughts that extend and build a new kind of endurance pain grown from the stories I told myself about my initial event. Why did she respond to me that way? I was just trying to do the right thing and she was so mad at me. I always do that, I'm too brusque with people but I just wanted to get back upstairs. Gah, she's always so kind and I pissed her off. It must have been really bad if she was mad at me. But she shouldn't have responded that way. It wasn't really a big deal and she actually escalated it. She won't even look at me. What if our friendship never recovers? We're doomed. And on, and on, arguing back and forth in my head, first defending, then chastising myself ad nauseam until my throat completely clenched, my eyes brimmed over, and I had to run to the bathroom at 8:15 in the morning so my students didn't see me bawling. Like a middle school girl. Except I'm supposed to be an adult.
But what I have loved about having a practice, what I have been so fascinated by, is that I have begun to watch the whole play unfold, without squinting or turning away. I have let myself feel the initial punch land, really hold that pain, and watch myself construct a story around that moment. I can more clearly see that I tell and retell the same story that builds the emotion, which sometimes takes the reigns and pulls me into a whiny impossible to escape dervish. And then... I watch myself escape.
My friend and I made up, because unlike middle school girls, we have the skills to come back to one another and admit wrong, to be at once apologetic and forgiving.
And just this afternoon, I found myself again in that sweet spot- feet up on the railing after a run, drinking down a cool glass of water, the temperatures extra sweet after finally climbing out the arctic mess we were frozen in for far too long. And I really noticed that sweetness.
I am no Mindfulness Ninja. I say things I regret and get upset about them and blame others. I forget to notice the beauty we are surrounded by. But at least now, every now and then, I'm noticing. And maybe on that hundred and first time I watch myself make the same mistake, I'll be able to pause and choose the response that is most Ninja-like.
For example, an early morning under-caffeinated unkind exchange with a friend that left me in a snotty mess in the staff bathroom at school. Followed by the thoughts that extend and build a new kind of endurance pain grown from the stories I told myself about my initial event. Why did she respond to me that way? I was just trying to do the right thing and she was so mad at me. I always do that, I'm too brusque with people but I just wanted to get back upstairs. Gah, she's always so kind and I pissed her off. It must have been really bad if she was mad at me. But she shouldn't have responded that way. It wasn't really a big deal and she actually escalated it. She won't even look at me. What if our friendship never recovers? We're doomed. And on, and on, arguing back and forth in my head, first defending, then chastising myself ad nauseam until my throat completely clenched, my eyes brimmed over, and I had to run to the bathroom at 8:15 in the morning so my students didn't see me bawling. Like a middle school girl. Except I'm supposed to be an adult.
But what I have loved about having a practice, what I have been so fascinated by, is that I have begun to watch the whole play unfold, without squinting or turning away. I have let myself feel the initial punch land, really hold that pain, and watch myself construct a story around that moment. I can more clearly see that I tell and retell the same story that builds the emotion, which sometimes takes the reigns and pulls me into a whiny impossible to escape dervish. And then... I watch myself escape.
My friend and I made up, because unlike middle school girls, we have the skills to come back to one another and admit wrong, to be at once apologetic and forgiving.
And just this afternoon, I found myself again in that sweet spot- feet up on the railing after a run, drinking down a cool glass of water, the temperatures extra sweet after finally climbing out the arctic mess we were frozen in for far too long. And I really noticed that sweetness.
I am no Mindfulness Ninja. I say things I regret and get upset about them and blame others. I forget to notice the beauty we are surrounded by. But at least now, every now and then, I'm noticing. And maybe on that hundred and first time I watch myself make the same mistake, I'll be able to pause and choose the response that is most Ninja-like.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Spring Break means break...from everything.
It is a rainy Tuesday afternoon and I am sitting in my friend's living room in Eastern Vermont. We are surrounded on all sides by scraggly pines and rain dripping down the roof. A cat is curled up next to me. Since my flight north for my week of spring break, I have been optimizing relaxation time, alternating between walks in the woods, reading, marathon friend chat sessions, postcard making, and eating delicious food. It is so quiet up here. No busses. No drunk angry men weaving down the middle of the street at 2am.
It's also socially quiet. In DC, every weekend has three birthday parties and a friend's band's CD release party to choose between. Every weekend night I have to apologize to someone about not being able to be there and support them. I acknowledge this is an incredibly delightful issue to have, am ever grateful to be surrounded by amazing talented loving people, and see it is a bit obnoxious to even suggest this is problematic. But going away means I am obliged to no one. I can't be there because I'm simply not there. I love it. My days are all mine to waste away. There is endless time for guilt free inactivity.
In response to the break from my external life, I have also taken a break from my meditation practice. After all, it's like a week-long sit. At least I've told myself that. And it is true that I've found it easy to move throughout my day with presence and calm when the biggest stressor is whether to nap before or after I read my book.
However, I've mentally made some compelling arguments I'm having with myself about why I "should" sit.
Consistency: Like anything in this world, from running to teeth-brushing, it is the kind of thing that's easier to keep doing it if I keep doing it.
Time: I've got it. Oodles of it. So there's no reason not to, really.
Depth: With time often comes depth. Sitting for 1/2 hour of 45 minutes is a different experience than the 15-20 I manage to eek out on a weekday. Furthermore, without the stressors of school, I can likely more easily find my internal checkpoint.
Putting cash in the bank: I do think that practicing now is not just for my benefit as I am sitting around drinking my fifth latte of the day, but also for the (alarmingly not so distant) future when life gets challenging again. I know I'll be less of a jerkface in the future if I practice not being a jerk now.
Seems convincing, doesn't it?
But there is also something really lovely about relaxing for a minute. From everything. Even sitting. To just let life carry me through the week without having to force any structure around it. To choose for days in a row to not sit, to not run, to eat half a chocolate bar, or a whole one.
In a highly structured and scheduled world, I am finding that I even need a break from those things that support me. And I think, despite my intellectual arguments otherwise, that it's okay to take a break from everything every once and awhile.
It's also socially quiet. In DC, every weekend has three birthday parties and a friend's band's CD release party to choose between. Every weekend night I have to apologize to someone about not being able to be there and support them. I acknowledge this is an incredibly delightful issue to have, am ever grateful to be surrounded by amazing talented loving people, and see it is a bit obnoxious to even suggest this is problematic. But going away means I am obliged to no one. I can't be there because I'm simply not there. I love it. My days are all mine to waste away. There is endless time for guilt free inactivity.
In response to the break from my external life, I have also taken a break from my meditation practice. After all, it's like a week-long sit. At least I've told myself that. And it is true that I've found it easy to move throughout my day with presence and calm when the biggest stressor is whether to nap before or after I read my book.
However, I've mentally made some compelling arguments I'm having with myself about why I "should" sit.
Consistency: Like anything in this world, from running to teeth-brushing, it is the kind of thing that's easier to keep doing it if I keep doing it.
Time: I've got it. Oodles of it. So there's no reason not to, really.
Depth: With time often comes depth. Sitting for 1/2 hour of 45 minutes is a different experience than the 15-20 I manage to eek out on a weekday. Furthermore, without the stressors of school, I can likely more easily find my internal checkpoint.
Putting cash in the bank: I do think that practicing now is not just for my benefit as I am sitting around drinking my fifth latte of the day, but also for the (alarmingly not so distant) future when life gets challenging again. I know I'll be less of a jerkface in the future if I practice not being a jerk now.
Seems convincing, doesn't it?
But there is also something really lovely about relaxing for a minute. From everything. Even sitting. To just let life carry me through the week without having to force any structure around it. To choose for days in a row to not sit, to not run, to eat half a chocolate bar, or a whole one.
In a highly structured and scheduled world, I am finding that I even need a break from those things that support me. And I think, despite my intellectual arguments otherwise, that it's okay to take a break from everything every once and awhile.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Mindfulness is HOTT.
Mindfulness is HOTT right now. A few months ago, the cover of Time Magazine read, "The Mindfulness Revolution." It's being talked about as training now offered to stakeholders as varied as google employees, military personell, and inmates. So, what the heck is this mindfulness business anyway? And maybe more importantly, what isn't it?
I started my Curriculum Training with Mindful Schools this past week, and have been steeped in thinking about how I will explain mindfulness to interested parties (Or uninterested parties, as the case may be with my students. At first. Until they realize how rad it is, of course.) Furthermore, I have been tasked with explaining it to someone as one of my exercises. And while I must do it verbally, I also want to practice a long-hand version on the interweb.
Jon Kabat Zinn, father of the secular mindfulness movement, defined it as, "...paying attention in a particular way: on purpose, in the moment, non-judgementally." That's a pretty good, if wordy, place to start from.
I think of mindfulness simply as noticing....noticing your experiences, your senses, your thoughts, your feelings. Noticing your bodily responses to your experiences, senses, and thoughts. Noticing. So simple in statement, but yet so difficult to do. Our thoughts often dominate our experiences so the world is filtered through our ever-present narrative about what we're experiencing. So omnipresent is it that we don't even realize it's there.
Many people think mindfulness is about the cessation of thoughts. About being completely clear of mind. They think it's about calmness. About absence of anger. These are not goals of mindfulness, but often byproducts. Thinking is not bad. Anger is not bad. They are part of the human experience. Otherwise we'd all be squirrels. Or cockroaches. Or something.
As stated by Megan Cowan, Mindfulness Ninja of Mindful Schools: "The ultimate goal of mindfulness is introducing us to our entire spectrum of experience, and learning how to recognize that, and be with it."
And if you like the prettied-up version, as I do, check out this Mindfulness Ninja, Rumi:
The Guest House
I started my Curriculum Training with Mindful Schools this past week, and have been steeped in thinking about how I will explain mindfulness to interested parties (Or uninterested parties, as the case may be with my students. At first. Until they realize how rad it is, of course.) Furthermore, I have been tasked with explaining it to someone as one of my exercises. And while I must do it verbally, I also want to practice a long-hand version on the interweb.
Jon Kabat Zinn, father of the secular mindfulness movement, defined it as, "...paying attention in a particular way: on purpose, in the moment, non-judgementally." That's a pretty good, if wordy, place to start from.
I think of mindfulness simply as noticing....noticing your experiences, your senses, your thoughts, your feelings. Noticing your bodily responses to your experiences, senses, and thoughts. Noticing. So simple in statement, but yet so difficult to do. Our thoughts often dominate our experiences so the world is filtered through our ever-present narrative about what we're experiencing. So omnipresent is it that we don't even realize it's there.
Many people think mindfulness is about the cessation of thoughts. About being completely clear of mind. They think it's about calmness. About absence of anger. These are not goals of mindfulness, but often byproducts. Thinking is not bad. Anger is not bad. They are part of the human experience. Otherwise we'd all be squirrels. Or cockroaches. Or something.
As stated by Megan Cowan, Mindfulness Ninja of Mindful Schools: "The ultimate goal of mindfulness is introducing us to our entire spectrum of experience, and learning how to recognize that, and be with it."
And if you like the prettied-up version, as I do, check out this Mindfulness Ninja, Rumi:
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
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