All In

I guess that push has come to this, so I guess this must be shove. - Ani DiFranco

Part of me knew it had to happen eventually. During these ever-changing, ever-narrowing days, I’ve felt present. I’ve felt grounded. I’ve felt content and I’ve had many moments of joy and peace and pleasure. I’ve had feelings of detachment and bemusement. I’ve experienced tendrils of fear and pangs of anxiety and grief as well, but today was different. Today I really lost my shit. I had not realized how much grief and resistance I’d been storing in my body.

It started last night. In anticipation of the nearly full moon, I harnessed and leashed up the dogs around 7:00, and James and I headed to our favorite place on earth for a walk: Salisbury Beach Reservation. This is our happy place. We were married in a covered shelter at the end of one of its rustic boardwalks. We go to this beach to celebrate our anniversary, we take a walk at this beach every Christmas Eve and Easter, and we honor the changing seasons every equinox and solstice on its sands. When Uncle James died, we let this beach help hold our grief. When James got laid off and when ice dams threatened to destroy our home, we found solace at this beach. We love it best in the off-season, when there are few to no people and the dogs can run and frolic freely.  I love it during a blizzard and during high winds when nature shows us who’s boss. But the dogs didn’t frolic on its sands last night. Salisbury Beach Reservation is closed.

When I saw the signs as we approached the turn-off, my head understood the message, but my heart went into immediate denial. Maybe my heart started singing show tunes? Or doing calisthenics? Maybe it went into a dance routine replete with jazz hands? I’m not sure - I only know that it took a trip away from me and the distance felt easier than the pain of this new loss. After a somber trip up the coast in which every Closed sign in every parking lot fell with a dull thud on my chest, we headed home. There’d been no moonlit beach walk. It was dark and I was numb.

It wasn’t until this morning that my heart showed up at last so I could feel the sadness. It worked through me slowly as I began to acknowledge the many losses we have all been enduring. I’d been spending so much energy holding on to what felt positive about our changing world and contemplating the possibilities of staying present in the middle of continuous change, that I forgot to feel how much has been lost. I can’t speak for the losses of any one else, although I know they are great and certainly the loss of my favorite walking spot does not compare; weddings postponed, graduations cancelled, employment and financial health precarious or worse, not to mention the loss of health and life and the feeling of safety for so many. But for me, the loss of my beloved Salisbury Beach Reservation resonated with the loss of so many things I have learned to do to take care of myself, of the things that feed me and make me feel whole: my church, my social groups, connections with friends and family and even with strangers. I love strangers! And I miss it all so much.

I tried to stay focused on my work this morning - preparing the back yard for our upcoming vegetable garden - but I was impatient and short-tempered with James and with myself, and my terrible unexpressed grief was threatening to hurl both of us down an abyss. Finally, I broke down into a sobbing helpless heap and let the waves of grief work through me. It was hard and it was painful and it was necessary. I sobbed for nearly a half hour. When I tried to get back to the business of my day, my small projects and my even smaller adventures, I found I had to surrender to the exhaustion and sadness. A simple trip in the car brought on a panic attack, the thought of making dinner felt like an insurmountable task. I will have an early night and wake tomorrow to start a new day.

I’m shaking my head now, though, embarrassed about the detached and nearly blithe way I’ve been viewing others’ grief and fear. My protective wall has come down, and I am grateful. This new openness is a blessing; I know it will find me more compassionate and vulnerable and will hold me grounded to this world in a more authentic and open-hearted way.

Cirilo Sanchez, April 5, 1933 - February 2, 2002

Dad’s been gone 18 years now. He died young and suddenly and he was very much beloved. He lived a life of presence and joy and humor; he taught me how to enjoy my moments! I never know when I will be inspired to joy or sorrow, mirth or heartache, by his legacy. This short piece bubbled up in me about a month ago. I’m sharing it today, on his birthday.

There were some things I thought had died with my father but I was wrong.

I thought he had taken all the joy with him, sucked it up to the heavens, leaving just that shell of a body on the table in the morgue. I stared, gape-mouthed at him there; I could make no sense of how this empty husk ever housed so much vibrant and ecstatic life.

I wandered for months after he died, barely touching life. Dressing. Eating. Sleeping. I watched the snow pile up on the sidewalks and wondered listlessly if it would stay or go. When tiny hard buds appeared on the frigid branches, they seemed a curious artifact of a life I’d once heard tell of.

But by the time the buds unwrapped their green promise and the morning began with yellow warmth instead of gray chill, my body began to remember the rhythm, half buried still, that beat out, day and night, week and month, holy and sacred and merciful, a rhythm that refused to lay low.

Navigating New Worlds

How are you navigating our new and ever-changing world? If you’re like me, you may be balancing moments of great clarity and ease with moments of great fear and anxiety. You might find that the waves of clenching tightness caused by fear are offset by waves of tremendous openness, spaciousness and possibility. You may realize, often and with a start, that you feel content.

I generally feel grounded, yet tendrils of fear and worry creep and gather nearby at times. I do my best to discern what is a valid concern vs. what I am manufacturing out of fear of the unknown. I do my best to stay away from the narrative and stay in the feeling of the moment; to walk on the razor's edge of now. It is a beautiful and worthy practice. And, during these particular days, it feels alternately dizzyingly freeing and dizziyngly terrifying - sometimes both at the same time. I think often of Eckhart Tolle's question: "What problem do you have right now?" 

For the first few days of The Hush, my husband James and I found ourselves gently circling each other and gathering often in our living room, finding things to do together, often sitting in companionable silence. As the days go on, we are expanding our worlds and creating our own special places. James is embracing his love of puzzles and movies and podcasts. I am creating places to nest and be deeply quiet, to write and to dream. I love these days for the possibility and energy and movement they offer, for the conception and completion of projects, and for the sunshine. I love the evenings best, though. I spend them watching the sun set and feeling the darkness slowly blanket our world. I’m enjoying deep quiet and am surprised to find I need less companionship than I thought I did. I am learning how little of anything I need, in general.

In this new world, I'm still my usual 'kindly narcissist' self. I continue to share my Presence with the individuals and groups I love, now via Zoom and walks outdoors. I miss my church family and I miss attending my UU church. Aside from this loss and the occasional burst of fear and anxiety, I love the new soft-blanket pace. I love being released from the constant call to get things done, that has had its way with me for decades - long after I thought I’d let it go. I love the feeling of what I had believed to be solid ground shifting beneath me, creating a new reality. I love watching myself scramble to adjust to that new reality and then laughing at my hubris, because once I've adjusted, it has shifted again! It would be very easy to Bring Busy Back by over-scheduling Zoom meetings and creating too many projects, but the air is sweet and time is moving at its own glorious pace, so we move with it. 

I am taking such good care of myself. I am eating well and getting plenty of rest and I remain disengaged from the trumpet call of the media. When I am met with clenching fear in myself or in the folks I meet, I offer a reminder of what is Real, what is happening right now and what of beauty might be found even in our limited line of vision. My daily meditation practice and chi gong practice sustain me and keep me grounded. I am following my own common sense and reason about safety and precaution. It is unsafe and unhealthy for me, emotionally and physically, to stay inside. The dogs and I are out for walks everyday where we can say hello and smile at passersby from a distance. I try to walk with a willing friend daily; although there is physical distance between us, being in the company of my beloveds feeds my soul. At the end of these days, following a more natural, comfortable pace, I feel deeply satisfied and deeply tired.

What are your moments like? How are you managing? What skills and strategies and practices are serving you today?

And Now for Something Completely Different

Here’s one of the ways I’m getting away from the computer and into a peaceful space in these unusual days. How are you spending your moments?

What You Need Will be There When You Need It - and Not Before: A Toilet Paper Parable

What you need will be there when you need it is a beautiful Truth. And it can be challenging to hold onto this Truth at times. Especially when we are in the grip of fear. Sometimes I think I really embody this Truth:  I trust the universe to provide for me and I am able to stay in the now, where lack cannot exist. Even in the most challenging circumstances, I can often stay grounded and know that, while I may not understand how I will be provided for, I will certainly be provided for.  Sometimes, though, this beautiful Truth eludes me. It feels impossibly far away, a dream that I cannot touch or realize. During these times, I watch my behavior that includes taking and using more than I need, stockpiling, overeating, over-planning, and acting in other ways that demonstrate one thing: I don’t trust the universe to have my back.

It may be difficult to embrace this Truth, because inherent to it is an uncommon level of trust: what we need will be here when we need it. And not before. The not before is the tricky bit. To obsess today about what we could need tomorrow removes us from the flow of now, and robs us of the unlimited potential to which we have access. It limits tomorrow’s success to something we envisioned yesterday, whereas tomorrow has a potential we can know nothing about yet.

To truly embrace this truth involves a great letting go of the planning, organizing and managing of ourselves, others and the world around us in order to get our potential future needs met. It involves releasing our anxiety-driven grip on the illusion of control and relaxing into the comfort of knowing you will be taken care of. It involves not telling ourselves stories about future deprivations and instead telling ourselves truths about the breadth and depth of our infinite universe. I think it’s what Jesus was showing us when he turned a few fish and a few loaves of bread into a feast for many.

This is heady stuff! So, to let me take this out of the metaphysical and down into the very physical. When I went to buy toilet paper last Thursday, I was baffled to see empty shelves. It didn’t take long for me to learn about the toilet paper hoarding that was going on. I had to laugh, because my husband and I have a habit of buying the huge 24 pack of rolls and then not thinking about it again for weeks and weeks. We missed our opportunity by one day.

I have cruised Amazon and ventured into the aisles of CVS a couple of times. I experience a shot of panic every time I realize I can’t get more toilet paper. The panic fades, though. I have enough for today. And what an opportunity for me to practice this beautiful truth. What I need will be here when I need it. And not before. I look in my bathroom drawer, and there are these rolls. Here when I need them.

One Thought

James, my beloved introvert, is so content in these days of quiet. He not only gets to stay home, he is encouraged to do so. It makes me think about the usual hectic pace of our lives and how that must feel for an introvert in particular. It’s easy to see how much of the adjustment to pace has been on his side.

My name is Linda and I am an Extrovert. I miss my people

Creative Visioning

It’s a gross understatement to say that the last week has been difficult for all of us; whether you are suddenly having to manage restless school-aged children at home, struggling to access necessary goods or services, if you’re feeling isolated, or feeling terrified about the potential collapse of your small business, the economy, or society as a whole - or any of the other complicated and difficult issues we find ourselves in the middle of - none of this was scheduled. Our resilience and resourcefulness is truly unbounded, and that doesn’t mean that we don’t find ourselves at the breaking point more often than ever. Social isolation exacerbates all of this and involuntary social isolation adds an additional layer - helplessness.

I’ve been swimming upstream all week. I have held – and still do! – that we must be in community. That, with proper precautions and good sense, maintaining face-to-face community is essential. And that distancing from the people and groups who sustain is, is the last thing we need right now. I’ve encouraged visits to my house as well as gatherings of four or five friends. I have even – gasp! – gone to restaurants.  As the days go on, and the aperture of social life continues to narrow, my behavior has felt increasingly subversive. I have had to realize, startling minute by startling minute, that the course of this shared viral experience has been set and must flow as it will. I know it is more complicated than this, but if feels like fear is having its way with us.

I am tired and it is tempting for me to cease my upstream swim and rest on the shore. I still have a few willing compatriots who will join me for a walk in nature or an in-person chat, but, like most of you, the majority of my individual in-person connections and all of my life-affirming small groups have been suspended. The blog post I wrote just last week extolling the virtues of hugging, reads like a time capsule from a far-away age of innocence. When I wrote it, I felt shock and anger and frustration at how quickly and tightly we had let fear grip us and how little questioning was being done about the outlines we were asked to follow. How quickly we let the media teach us a new language (‘social distancing’, ‘flatten the curve’, ‘out of an abundance of caution’) and how quickly we acquired its characteristics. I still feel angry and frustrated but I think I am finally coming out of shock. Thank goodness, because there is good work to be done.

Please take a few moments and vision with me. Break the flow of fear. (You can get right back to it if you choose, I promise!) Set a five minute timer and vision the world at its best, as beautiful and full as you can see it. In your vision, fill this world with whatever you know of love, of kindness, of compassion, of prosperity and possibility. See us at our best. Hold this vision in your mind’s eye and let it comfort you. Write down a few words that come to you or perhaps draw something on paper. Please consider sharing this vision with others in whatever way works for you. And consider sharing your vision in the comments below for others to enjoy.

This visioning is not an escapist tactic to avoid reality – this is an Act of Creation.

Let love have its way with you.

Let Love Have its Way With You

It seems that very often when I pick up my pen or my keyboard to write, my message is about fear; how it guides us, teaches us, controls us, manipulates us. And I’m doing it again today because I can feel how many of us are clenched around fear. Two concerts I was looking forward to have been cancelled. An international trade show I plan to attend in Las Vegas with more than 300,000 attendees is teetering on being cancelled. And, over the last few days, in the wake of unfettered bombastic newscasting, several people whom I love have offered me an elbow bump in favor of our usual embrace. Another friend suggested I put off a visit to a lonely beloved living in an assisted living facility, citing risk and protocol.  Is this the new normal? My friends, it is not spiritually sound to stop hugging people you care about, especially during times of great fear. This is when we need to hold each other closest.

It occurred to me that an epidemic like the one that is currently being co-created with us by the media, might feel like the perfect antidote or, perhaps, placeholder, for what most ails us; that is, the undercurrent of unnamed fear and anxiety that many of us walk around with. Is it possible that we experience a certain relief in finding a clear wide swath of shared concern to connect around, rather than simmering in our own murky discomfort? I wonder if this mutual attachment to specific fears then becomes a substitute for the intimacy we all crave. Of course true intimacy can never blossom through fear, only through love. And that murky discomfort we all try to avoid? That’s where our salvation lies. I know I am treading on dangerous grounds here. We hold our fears and worries sacrosanct and those fears and worries that are sanctioned by the government, the media, by our schools and churches and concert halls must be all the more valid, right?

Where is our perspective in all this, I wonder? And our discernment? In this 21st century life, having instant access to worldwide incidents, large and small, has not been going well for us in general. We don’t use the information wisely and it keeps us forever spinning in a loop of data that was never meant for us, and has little or no useful meaning for our lives. I think it keeps us from finding and holding our center.  What many of us call “staying informed,” becomes an impossible task, and the constant hunt for what is true takes us away from the only place where what is true actually lives: inside of us - in our churning, beautiful, disturbing, anxious, joyful inner lives.

I have a feeling this post is coming across as super preachy. It’s not my intention. I am in earnest about getting and staying conscious and I am so saddened by everything that we let get in the way. I know we can make better choices!

Please stop a moment. Take a breath. Remember your perspective, the big picture. Remember what you love. And remember to take great pleasure in what you love. Try to release the clench of fear. Let love have its way with you.

Super Tuesday

Take up the heart you came to heal; put down your dagger and your shield. – Roseanne Cash

I feel heartsick today. My body wants to push it away, my mind wants to push it away, but my heart knows enough to cherish it since it is part of me, it’s real and it’s here. I feel sad that we are entering into another presidential election season, with an electoral system that is so deeply flawed and inhumane and contrary to the compassion, kindness and creativity that I treasure about our species. Our electoral system seems intent on setting us on an insane hamster wheel: spinning and spinning with nowhere to go. I hope it’s not treason to question to my very bones an electoral system that requires us to join teams pitted against one another. This election year’s hypocrisies feel even more potent because of the deep partisanship that has become woven into the fabric of our communication, our relationships and our communities through the last decade; as we retreat into the tinny safety, cowardice and banality of cyberspace and stop showing up as multi-dimensional beings, capable of understanding and compassion, creativity and evolution. There is no creativity in a one-dimensional space.  While trying to send heart-centered emails to my beloveds this morning, the sidebar on my Yahoo email page was continually spitting anti-him and anti-her hate slogans – soundbites calculated to contract its consumers with fear and suspicion – against people who may actually become our leaders! We are better than this, my friends. It’s time to take up our hearts and put down our swords.  

It may not be simple to tell the difference between our hearts and our swords. When we are deeply passionate, the discernment process can be complicated and tricky. I’ve been watching a group of friends who are strongly backing a candidate and it looks like they are digging their heels in, bracing themselves and preparing for battle. They insist they have not taken up their sword, that they have embraced their candidate of choice because of the good they see in this candidate not because they are against anyone else. Still…I see a narrowing in their eyes and a set to their jaw that looks like righteousness to me. And a stance prepared for fighting. I don’t know what space is left for our heart to show up when we are contracted and clenched with the need to win.

Perhaps what most disturbs me about this upcoming election season is the loss many of us will experience: loss of joy, loss of vitality, loss of now. It is in our grim pursuit to gain something, to arrive somewhere, to attain a goal, that many of us will lose our now moments. It’s already difficult enough for many of us to slow down and savor our lives. I fear that during this election season, when we need to be most present and most available, we will become separated, more so than usual, from what is, in our pursuit of what we hope will be. And because we have set ourselves into camps (blue and red) what likelihood is there that we will be more willing to find compassion, commonality and possibility in the views of another? Worse, if what I’ve seen in folks’ behavior over the last three and a half years is any indication and with the stakes feeling so high in this presidential election, I fear that, for many, the necessary and life-affirming action of taking time to simply pause and breathe, enjoy and relax, may feel like a sin against their cause. When will we learn that our very resistance continually creates and revitalizes that which we are resisting?

I don’t have any answers. I don’t have a solution. I don’t know of a better way to choose a leader. I do have a vision, wavering and unclear, for what might be. It’s a waking up from the dream of separation from our brothers and sisters – a great yawning stretch and then a remembering that we are all in this together. This can’t happen in the middle of the Great Taking Sides, this Win or Lose that defines our electoral system. No matter who wins in November, where there are teams and sides, then a large percentage of our nation will have lost. They will not feel validated, they may even feel abandoned. And desperate. There has got to be a better way to invite a leader to take charge of our nation. Just because it is the way we’ve been doing it for so long doesn’t make it the only way and certainly doesn’t make it the best way.  

I will stop here. I am a citizen of this flawed, beautiful society and I need to go cast my vote. Then I will return to my work, bringing as much joy and compassion to my moments as I can find.

What Else is Possible?

Have you ever seen the 2004 movie, What the Bleep Do We Know!? I’ve watched it a few times. It’s a hypnotic and startling probe into the nature of reality. It demonstrates, through real life examples, the limits we have learned to live with and the possibilities that may lie outside of those limits. One scene has stayed with me in particular and I think of it often. In this scene, the narrator uses the arrival of Christopher Columbus’ ships to the New World, to illustrate the nature of our limitations. The narrator suggests that it would have been impossible for the average native person of that time to actually see the ships as they arrived, that the sight of something they had never witnessed nor heard tell of, would have been too far outside of their reality – of what IS – to be seen. The narrator suggests it would have likely been the shaman or seer who would have first noticed the ships and through his or her guidance would have helped the other members of the community to see the ships arriving. Of course, we can never know what that experience was like. Still this idea - we see only what we expect to see - resonates for me. To take this idea further - that which is outside of our understanding just doesn’t exist for us - may feel limiting and disappointing. If turned on its head, though, it can be incredibly liberating.  What if expanding our capacity to see, to be open to what is, is indeed unlimited? What if it’s simply a matter of opening our eyes and our minds and our hearts a little wider?

This scene from What the Bleep Do We Know!? came to be again yesterday as I was making guacamole and looking for my avocado smasher.I knew it would be in one of two drawers. I looked in the first drawer and didn’t see it. Then I went to the second drawer and it wasn’t there either. Hmmmm….? When I returned to the first drawer, of course, there it was, right in plain sight. How did I miss it the first time? After giving it a little thought, I became aware that although I started my search in the first drawer, I was convinced my husband would have put it in the second drawer. (I will spare you the gory details of our convoluted kitchen organization.)  The point is that my expectation of it being in the second drawer actually BLINDED me and prevented me from seeing it in the first drawer initially. I had to rewrite my expectations in order to find my avocado smasher.

The implications here are just as wide and far-reaching in this example as they are in the example of Columbus’ ships. It may leave me with more questions than it does answers, but the questions are spectacular!

• If we see what we think we will see, what happens when we open up to what else is out there?

• How do we even do this?

• Do we all have the capacity to be shamans or seers?

• Can we rewrite our expectations?

• What if there are no limits on our capacity to see?

PS In case you’re wondering, the guacamole turned out great!

Visits from the Queen

Do you ever find yourself in the middle of Righteous High Drama? When your words are lofty and justified and you feel so sure that you are speaking the Very Truths of the Universe and everyone around you had better listen up? And take notes?  I do. It’s rare; it happens just enough to make me wonder if I should audition for community theater.  This part of me most often comes out to play when I feel misunderstood or frustrated with limits. Sometimes I feel a little embarrassed afterward, but for the most part, I enjoy the sense of swinging into a larger version of myself and visiting there for a short while. I wouldn’t want to live there but I enjoy the view during my short visits.

Even back in 1986 I was channeling my inner royalty.

I had a visit from my inner Righteous High Drama Queen just the other day. She came out after an acquaintance called me out for being too happy. That’s right – too happy. (I can feel my Righteous High Drama Queen kicking in a little just thinking about it.) This acquaintance had been recounting the story of a personal struggle and stopped herself to say, “Oh, Linda, can you even understand? Everything is always so easy for you. You’re always happy.” I was stunned. I felt dismissed and misunderstood. I felt two-dimensional.  It felt like my willingness to experience and lead with ease had led her to believe I never experienced suffering and that my road has always been smooth. Worse, I felt that this woman was disappointed that I wasn’t coming along for the ride in the misery car of humanity. (I know, more drama.)

I know she is having a really tough year and I was mindful about letting her know that I understood how hard she was having it. And I also let her know that while I try to lead from a place of ease, I was able to understand her sorrow. I don’t think she was able to hear me; you know how contracted and deaf we can get when we are in pain. I left this conversation feeling compassion for my friend but also feeling misunderstood.

My Righteous High Drama Queen made her appearance afterward, when I called my old friend Laura and recounted my  experience – minus names and details, of course; I focused on the feeling behind the exchange. Laura and I have known each other since our wild, heady 20’s and she knows so much of what makes me me. It felt important to talk to someone who knew more about my dimensionality, about the joys and sorrows that had helped formed me, the true and terrifying paths I’d dared to carve when the pre-scripted paths held no meaning for me or didn’t have space for the likes of me. Once I had Laura’s attention, my Righteous High Drama Queen came out in full force. I found myself saying something like this: “I’ve been creating my own path, bushwhacking for decades, to create a path of my own, a path of integrity where I could reach for and experience freedom and happiness.” My voice now rose to thunderous levels, replete with a quiver, as I said: “If anyone thinks carving out my own path has been easy, they should feel the heft of my machete in their hands!”

(Bushwhacking for decades? The heft of my machete? You gotta love the Righteous High Drama Queen.)

Laura and I chuckled a bit about my dramatic choice of words and dug down a little into the message they contained: creating a path of one’s own can sometimes feel lonely and isolating.  Part of creating your own path means moving forward at your own pace; and knowing that not everyone can come along for the ride.

I choose not to lead with pain, but that doesn’t mean that pain has not helped to shape me and teach me. Or that I don’t understand the pain of others. When my struggling new friend has found some space and peace in her life again, I will try to reopen this dialogue with her. It may not be important for her to know the struggles I’ve faced, but I do want her to understand, if possible, the beauty of reaching for happiness.

Assembling All the Ingredients

I live with a tendency toward impulsivity and a wide rebellious streak. I experience an instant visceral ‘hell no!’ every time I need to follow a recipe (Or follow orders. Or take direction. Or read instructions. Ok, it’s not pretty.) This means I am infinitely better at throwing together a meal than following a recipe, and baking, with its inherent precision, is pretty much out of the question for me.  My husband, James, is the opposite and seems to thrive within the structure of the recipe. He is an equally good cook and baker. James and I do things very differently in the kitchen, but we both need the right ingredients to put together a meal.

This morning, James was singing a Tears for Fears song under his breath. I chuckled and he told me it was a song he loved when he was 15 years old. I’m a couple of years older than James (two years are much more significant when you’re fifteen than when you’re in your 50’s as we are now) and those two years, plus growing up in different parts of the country, meant we had very different musical awakenings. I was never a Tears for Fears fan; I preferred the audacious and somewhat mindless cacophony of the Sex Pistols and the Dead Kennedys. When I asked him to tell me what he loved about this particular song, he realized it contained a kernel of something that would have meaning for him later in life, although he didn’t understand it at the time. Now, a grown up, and a pretty conscious one, he can see that the song held a resonance for him that attracted him but didn’t quite match with who he was at the time.  We talked together about the artifacts of our youth and adulthood, the music and food and people to whom we were drawn without knowing why and the ways in which they have continued to feed us throughout the decades. James made us both smile by saying, “We were assembling all of the ingredients of who we would become.”  

I know this is an ongoing process, the assembling of the ingredients that make us who we are must continue to change so that we can change too. James and I try to be conscious consumers of our world, choosing ingredients with as much care and presence as we can muster. We are making a gourmet meal together, after all.

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Coming Unglued: Parenthood (from a non-parent)

I don’t know how anyone survives parenthood intact. I don’t have human children though I love my dogs with a passion and ferocity that startles me sometimes. Living with these furbabies has changed me dramatically. That’s where the staying intact versus coming unglued question comes in. In what ways do we deconstruct ourselves and reassemble when we allow these beloved creatures (human or otherwise) into our lives?

I have two dogs and this morning I planned to walk just one of my dogs on his own. It was sunny for the first time in a few days and I wanted to be outdoors for a while in the brisk daylight. Linus loves taking a nice long walk on his leash and will go anywhere with me at any time. His sister, Seven, is less amenable. She prefers off-leash romps at the beach, often takes offense at being leashed, and only likes to go a certain distance before she digs her heels into the sidewalk and refuses to budge. Still, she expects to come along every time. This morning was no different. She waited expectantly while I put Linus into his harness with her head bowed slightly in order for me to slip her harness on as well. She eyed me suspiciously when I didn’t reach for her harness, and then she rounded her eyes in disbelief as I headed for the door without her. Her tail beat out an enthusiastic stanza or two. I picked her up and gently placed her in her favorite blanket on her favorite couch and explained, “Linus and Mommy are going for a nice long walk. Now, I know you don’t enjoy leashed walks. When we get back we’ll throw the ball in the yard.” She looked at me in a way I was sure meant, “Cool. Have a great walk. I’ll be here napping.” That’s not what it meant. As soon as I headed toward the door, she was out of her blanket and off of her couch and wagging her tail excitedly at the door. I tried again. I placed her in her spot, kissed her on the head and explained the situation. Again, she seemed to nod in agreement but then bounded toward the door with Linus and me.

Now here’s where the coming unglued part lies for me. I could have ignored her big round pleading eyes, full of betrayal and disbelief. I could have stayed focused on the memory that leashed walks don’t go well with Seven and that the likelihood of a long or even pleasant leashed walk with her was pretty slim. In short, I could have been strong and held my ground. I didn’t. I came unglued. Even though I hold a memory of our past experiences, I let her look of betrayal sway me. I harnessed her and leashed her and the three of us set out for a walk around the neighborhood.

As we started walking, my spirits were as buoyed as Seven’s curly tail. I had made a very good decision! Of course this will go well! Seven will find a way to love this leashed walk! I was right, she did love the walk. But after about five minutes, Seven’s tail started to sag and with it my spirits. She slowed down, as did my buoyant thoughts. By the time she had dug her heels into the sidewalk, I was shaking my head ruefully and turning toward home.

I missed taking a long walk on this sunny day, yet I kind of love that Seven found a way to get her needs met: a nice short walk ‘n sniff in the neighborhood. And though there may be a lot to be said about setting limits and sticking to goals, I kind of love the way I let a softened heart dismantle my goals and reassemble them into something that worked for the three of us.  My furbaby reminded me of the art of compromise inherent to parenting of any kind. She reminded me of the value of leaning into something other than my own goals. Staying intact, through parenting or any other challenge or gift we have, can’t be our goal, can it? Coming unglued and reassembling differently is where the potential for our personal evolution lies.

It’s an Inside Job

What a privilege this morning, to sit with a friend over coffee and talk about our world. Yes, our world. Our troubled, imperfect, often-unconscious world. I always look forward to time with this particular friend; she stays informed about the goings-on in our nation, yet manages to stays grounded in a bigger picture. She may feel anxiety about what she sees in the news and some of the ideas that her children bring home from school, but if she does, she certainly doesn’t lead with that anxiety and she doesn’t let it run her life. I think she believes in the inherent goodness of people; she sees our species’ potential even when our actual behavior is contracted by fear, blinded by greed or just downright embarrassing. I haven’t even gotten to the best part: she finds a way to use everything that comes to her as a way to serve others.

This morning she told me of an incident in which she’d been verbally accosted by a driver as she peacefully walked down the street. His comments were based on the way he saw her: Foreign. Other. Potentially Dangerous. As she told me this story, I saw the hurt and shock on her face as a mirror of what I felt in my heart. This drivers’ unconscious behavior could have embittered my friend, she could have spent the rest of our time together talking about her grief and anger. Instead, she talked about a start-up program she was developing for school age children that would honor diversity. The beauty of my friend’s resilience was heart-opening for me. I am more impressed with the noble nature of my friend than I am with any ideas for programs.

It was hard for me to tell her this, but I am not sure programs work. They may look good on paper and they may help us to feel like we are doing something to help others, heck! they may even do some good, yet this work – bringing the light of consciousness to unconscious behavior - is an inside job. It’s done from within and is driven from within. I don’t mean to say that the outside world can’t influence change and that programs like the kind my friend is starting can’t help raise awareness of the need for change. It’s just that the real change – the change that helps us evolve from a species cowering in fear to a species bathed in light - involves the kind of individualized work that programs may not have the capacity to address.

This view may be unpopular (To speak truth, it’s pretty unpopular with me as well. I’ve got my fair share of programs under my belt and am currently planning another) and this view may not even be true. It’s appealing to think we can fix a problem from the outside. We build out-of-context structures within which people can have access to more diversity, to education and new experiences, and we encourage behavior that is more conscious and more compassionate. I’m not sure this translates to real life. Real change involves minuscule shifts within each person, microscopic movements of our internal gear system, to which no one else has access. We have no idea what others’ alternatives look like. I doubt the driver who shouted at my friend is a ‘bad’ person; my guess is he driven by fear of an ever-changing world and a feeling of loss of control.

Can we ever hope to convince others of our views? Can we demonstrate to people that diversity offers a richness to our lives? Can we teach people to be more accepting of others? To be less fearful? To be open to what is new and different? Should we even be trying to do this? There are no answers here. Just questions. My friend is not sure if programs work either, but she holds what she calls “a hope too big to lose.”

I think it is only through touching the inner landscape of one another – real-life experience, vulnerability and openness to intimacy – that we may be able to help guide each other. A perfect example is my friend who, this morning, inspired me, enlivened me and showered me with her inner light.

Very Specific Expectations

I came home the other night fired up with righteous indignation. A friend had let me down; she had disappointed me by not following through with a promise she’d made. I told my husband the story – impassioned and outraged. And I waited for his response. And waited. And breathed. And waited. And began to feel a little bit of space for what else I might be able to harvest from my friend’s behavior and my reaction to it. This opening offered by James’ listening heart and his willingness to follow his own pace is one of the greatest blessings of my life.

James listens to me with patience and attention and takes his time to respond. When he does respond, he gives me a perspective I wouldn’t have accessed without his help. I didn’t always appreciate this about him. For years the pace of his response time set my teeth on edge. I wondered if he was listening or if he had even heard me. I often felt ignored and wondered if what I was saying wasn’t important to him. I often wanted to shout: Say. Something. Now, into the silence. (I’m pretty sure I did shout this more than once!) These days, I often revel in the quiet between my words and his. I generally think carefully before I speak, but the pause he offers gives me time to reflect on what I’ve said, to feel its weight and sift through for anything superfluous or untrue or exaggerated.

The other night, hot with righteous rage at my friend’s behavior, it was difficult for me to slow down. My buttons had been pushed; she had touched on a ghost of pain from my past.

Still, I waited. And when James responded, he said simply this: You have very specific expectations. I nearly gasped with the audacious truth of his statement. It resonated instantly and deeply with me. Now it was my turn to pause and reflect. James’ comment fed an inner calling I’ve been feeling toward mercy. I was flooded with a feeling somewhere between relief and chagrin. How often had I let my Very Specific Expectations nurture minor emotional scratches until they festered into open wounds? How often had my Very Specific Expectations led me to rigidly contract around pain instead of opening around grace? How often had I grimly set a course for myself without allowing for detours and speed bumps?  How often had my need for things to play out in a certain way disallowed the richness and diversity of possibility?

James’ inherent suggestion that I soften my expectations was surprisingly easy for me to take in. I was ready to hear this. A balm of mercy for my friend combined with giving myself space to feel the wide and difficult swath of emotions that her behavior brought up for me, moved this episode along with grace.  

Acknowledging my tendency toward Very Specific Expectations is helping me be a better co-creator of the world around me and to be more open to the world’s diversity of experience. When I feel the bitterness of disappointment in myself or others I check in to see if I can soften my expectations and make space for what is. When I feel the push of perfectionism ramming me forward in my work or holding me back from creativity, I check in to see if I can soften my expectations and allow a gentler flow.

I know there is much more I could say about this – AND I am going to end this blog post right here. It’s my way of giving my Very Specific Expectations a rest.

Do Beliefs Have Expiration Dates?

I remember the delight I felt many years ago in hearing my now departed beloved friend, Joanne Westlund, say, “I don’t believe a word I think.” I could feel the buzz of Truth in there, though I didn’t know to fully access it.

Some beliefs – those flimsy cardboard substitutes for Truth - remain hard to let go of no matter how often they are disproved. One of my most sticky beliefs is more money = more happiness. Though this belief has been proven to be false countless times, I still see how the ghost of its resonance works in my life. I wonder if these sticky beliefs have been instilled in us as children, come to us as we travel through the birth canal, are woven into our DNA or are passed down into our consciousness from our ancestors. Or perhaps it is some combination or none of these at all?  It might be that it doesn’t matter how they are formed; what does matter is whether or not they continue to serve. It is my practice to look closely at my beliefs and to let the ones that no longer serve dissolve. It is becoming my practice to release my attachment to all of my beliefs. This may sound radical; believe me, in practice it is much more radical than it sounds.

I can identify a distinct evolution of my relationship with beliefs. For much of my life, I thought my beliefs were as integral to me and as solid as my heart and lungs; that they were unmovable and True. When I discovered that my beliefs were manufactured and nurtured by my thoughts and behaviors and by the people I spent time with, I also noticed that many of them were negative and even hurtful. I began a journey then to get to the root of these beliefs in order to dispel them. In this process I learned that it is possible to get so involved with finding the root of a belief that you can lose your way and actually immerse yourself further in that belief. A great letting go and a great Trust served me as I moved through this with discernment.

In the next stage of evolution I began to replace negative beliefs with ones I liked better. I remember the waterfall of beliefs that showed up when I started to pay attention. They washed over me, threatening to drown me. I began creating “better” beliefs to counter the old beliefs and I began to use them as lifeboats to keep me afloat in what felt like a sea of chaos. Rewriting beliefs helped me create a sense of control as I released much of what had been guiding me for so long. I thought that if I could change my beliefs to better, more positive, beliefs, I could change the quality of my life. I was right. This was a noble and important practice. It taught me about the flexibility and openness inherent in our thoughts, and in our universe and the powerful role we hold in creation.  

As I worked with shifting my beliefs, I began to notice how often they had been formed from a place of fear and a desperate need to be in consensus with others. I saw that the beliefs I held had been put in place to create safety and uniformity and a certain automation that simplified the world for me but left little room for the infinite diversity of life around me.

This evolution brings me to today: my current practice is to gently release beliefs as they come to my awareness in order to make space for what is Real. I am vigilant and often catch myself acting and thinking from places informed by beliefs that are based in fear. I give these beliefs space to exist – I try not to banish them – I look at them with affection and compassion. I smile at them whenever possible. Once they are looked at, they tend to diminish and fade away, leaving me to be more Present and connected with what is Real.

I don’t know how this process will evolve but I know it will evolve. It feels exiting and scary, which makes me think I might be on the right track.

Emptiness Comes to Me as a Friend

I know it can hold a negative connotation, but emptiness – what I call the space between and before my thoughts and actions - is my good friend. We haven’t always been friends; I avoided emptiness for decades because I feared what it might contain. I covered it up with every manner of distraction, from food to busyness to incessant worry to a rich fantasy life. I have felt my blood run cold with dread at the thought of a day without plans. I didn’t take the time to look closely at this dread because I was already running on to the next distraction from it.

I am not using emptiness as synonymous with a quiet mind. I have a daily meditation practice, both solo and in groups, and this practice of structured quiet has nurtured me and grounded me for nearly 30 years. The emptiness I’m referring to is the kind that occurs during the 23 hours of the day when I am not sitting on purpose in silence; the kind that comes up while working, talking with others, driving, etc. It’s an ability to be still in the middle of noise and activity – especially the noise of my own mind. Paradoxically, the emptiness I am talking about has a feeling of activity to it; it’s a stillness that requires an inner vigilance.

Getting in touch with emptiness has been a beautiful and poignant challenge for me. Under the busyness and the ice cream and the scurrying worries of the day, I found a depth of emotions I didn’t know I'd been avoiding. I found terror and anger and panic and shame and greed. (The greed surprised; I always thought of it as an action word rather than an emotion.)  It’s not like I never felt these things before. It’s just that I had always tried my best to skim past them and avoid making eye contact. I nodded curtly or made stilted conversation with them and held my breath a bit until they passed through. I never gave them the space they deserved. I didn’t dare! What if they took over?  But all of these emotions, all of them, are part of me and they were begging for space! BEGGING me for just a little space to be seen. They were asking me for mercy. When I gave them space - safely, mindfully, over time - it felt threatening and it felt vulnerable but offered no actual threat.

For me this is neither fast nor easy nor simple. There is no road map. It requires Presence and willingness, patience and compassion, vigilance and humor, to make space for what has been set aside for so long.

Emptiness comes to me now as a friend. It sometimes brings with it challenging emotions that ask me for space. And when I am able to give them space, that emptiness often brings me peace.

A Kindly Narcissist

I often include an epitaph at the end of my emails: Linda Sanchez, At Ease or Linda Sanchez, Willing to be Empty, etc., depending on what is true for me that day. One of my favorites is Linda Sanchez, A Kindly Narcissist. I love to look at myself in the mirror, I am endlessly fascinated by my own thoughts and behaviors and I generally think very, very highly of myself. A friend who knows me well recently gifted me with the plaque pictured above which lives on my windowsill. This may not qualify me for a classic Narcissist diagnosis, but it does resonate with an attention to self that can seem at odds with the compassion and empathy for others at the root of my spiritual practice.  I am aware of my self-centeredness and how it plays out in my relationships and I am equally aware of my intention to be kind and expansive and compassionate. These things are at play within me at all times. And they are not at cross-purposes; they feed and nurture each other and help make me the Love Delivery System I was meant to be in this world. I may poke fun at my inner narcissist but I also respect and love her. Showing up in love with myself makes room to show up and love others.

I have a practice of writing down the things I love about myself in a journal – one gigantic bulleted love letter to me.  Some of the things I write aren’t particularly or easily loveable and that makes me feel even more driven to acknowledge them and love them. Why should I just love the things that are easy to love? I find that my capacity to love the craggy, sticky, cringey things about myself, has helped make space to love the craggy, sticky, cringey things about others and about the world we share.  

When I hear a critical voice within me, trying to find fault with something I have said or done or thought or believe, it is time to pull out my love letter and give that quality some love. Entries like, “I love the way you manufacture shame again and again and again,” and “I love how motivated you are by the praise of others,” and “I love how you avoid being creative for fear you will be found out as mediocre,” and “I love your spiritual arrogance,” no longer make me blush. They help me make space for what is and to offer resistance to nothing. Naming these parts of myself and embracing them instead of ignoring them gives them their space in the sun to grow and evolve. Every part of us needs this brand of sunshine. Making space for the cringey parts of me helps me fully embrace “I love your capacity to be present,” and “I love the way you respect your own pace and the pace of others,” and “I love the easy affection you feel for strangers.”  As I move through this practice with kindness, the lines between my “good” and “bad” qualities have become blurred; they are all simply a part of what makes me who I am.

Please consider writing a love letter to yourself in whatever form speaks to you. Every bit of love we can offer to ourselves instantly becomes available to share with others.  

What Comes First? Trust or Trustworthiness?

My dog, Seven, lives in a constant state of trust.

I gave someone a compliment this morning from my heart. He’s a leader in his community and he leads with a combination of openness and confidence. He lets others step in to help and, even more impressively, he makes space for others’ leadership styles. I told him I admired his brand of leadership and that because of it, the people around him had space to create and grow what they love. I was glad when he mostly took this compliment in, although he demurred a bit by saying he was surrounded by people he can trust. I was struck instantly with a question. So, what came first? His willingness to trust these people? Or their inherent trustworthiness?

I have an active practice to Trust What Is, and I have found, as I allow this to work through me, that trusting the world has created around me a trustworthy world. Or perhaps this trustworthy world has simply been revealed through the action of my trusting? Perhaps it is a cocreational relationship. I’m less interested in the theory and more interested in the practice. I stopped locking my car doors when I was no longer able to understand why I was doing it. When I looked without fear at the ragged man walking toward me on a dark icy street this winter, I found out that he had noticed my tentative steps on the ice and had come to offer me his arm. Trusting What Is, has shown me the inherent trustworthiness of What Is.  

Some things are easier to trust than others, though I find a certain mindfulness is essential to make space for trusting anything that carries even a slight negative connotation. This morning I was stopped for speeding while on the way to my group meditation practice. A parade of emotions marched right through me as I pulled over and retrieved my license and registration: fear, defensiveness, resignation, embarrassment, and more. I reminded myself to trust this experience, and that meant the officer found an open curious relaxed driver when he looked in my window. He told me I was doing 47mph in a 30mph zone. I gasped, chagrined, at my lack of mindfulness, especially considering where I was heading; speeding on the way to sit for silent meditation is sort of like binging on a half gallon of icecream before starting a juice fast. We ended up talking about the empty winding road we were on and how often he found himself way over the speed limit as well. We talked about how easy it is to get distracted while driving. He seemed to care about me and the other drivers on this road. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a police officer in that light before. He gave me a warning, for which I was grateful and I think if he had given me a ticket, I would have found a way to harvest gratitude there too.

When I am willing and able to trust the people and experiences in my path, I am gifted with a clear reflection of that trust. And the leader who gracefully received my compliment this morning? I know his capacity to trust has helped create a team of trustworthy leaders around him.

What is Here Belongs Here

When a Truth comes to me so clearly and fully as this one - what is here belongs here - I have the practice of writing it in dry-erase marker on my bathroom mirror. I think it’s my attempt to make it more solid, to introduce it to the three-dimensional world. I want to see it looking back at me boldly. The mirror I write on is in my guest bathroom, so I know others might see it. Depending on who’s coming to visit, this can create some mild anxiety around sharing a certain depth of vulnerability. I usually make space for this anxiety, shrug my shoulders and move on. By the time the guests arrive, I usually have forgotten that I’ve written the message.

But the thought of others reading this particular message, What is Here Belongs Here, stayed with me. I wondered that if my guests read it they might think I was talking about the actual objects in the room, a warning of sorts to keep their hands off my soap and tissues! An anti-theft variation on “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat. “

Only very seldom do folks remark on what I’ve written. I wonder if some may not be able to see it. That they are literally blind to the message? My friend Jean once told me that she didn’t look at the messages because she thought it would be an invasion of my privacy. This made me glow with the remembered awareness that we have no idea what others’ inner lives are like. It also made me snort with laughter! Me, who looks and touches and comments on everything in my path!

This Truth, though, is not about the objects in my bathroom. It’s about our world, both inner and outer. No matter how devastatingly beautiful or heart-openingly ugly it appears, if it is here, it belongs here. And our salvation lies in making space for it all and resisting nothing. That means making space for the sorrows and the joys. That crescent moon hanging in a midday sky of a blue you can’t believe exists? That belongs here. That shame? Of a past act committed by someone you wish was not you? That belongs here. That activity in our nation’s capitol? That makes you gasp with horror and fear? That belongs here. That pain in your shoulder, that reminds you that mortality really is a thing? That belongs here. That kindness you witnessed yourself offering to another? That makes you blush with pride? That belongs here. All of it is asking for space to be acknowledged and seen.

What if there was nothing to get past? Nothing to change? And the only activity needed is to allow and give space for what is here? In my world, this space-giving takes precedence over every other thing. It clears my blindness, softens my inner workings and helps me see the world as a place of creativity and possibility. It leaves me free to act, when acting is necessary, from a place of peace and to make choices based on what I love rather than on what I fear.

Try it. Maybe. See what you think. This Truth is for all of us. (Unlike my bathroom toiletries - those are mine!)