An Unexpected Moment of Peace

Part of the after-dinner routine is to take our doggie, Willow, out for a bathroom break and a bit of exercise. There's a park behind our development with an open, grassy field, which makes for a perfect site for off-leash fun. There weren't any soccer or softball practices tonight, and so Willow and I went to that empty field so she could run unfettered -- and run she did.

Willow was tired after several sprints after a good throwing stick, chasing it up and down the field; and so we came to a pause next to the stick after she found it. Willow lay down in the cool grass and commenced an easy, contented gnawing on the stick. I stood there for a moment looking at her and, after noticing a brief but intense flicker of distracted, hurried anxiety from within -- an automatic "we have to get going!" response -- I decided to sit right down in the grass next to her.

In an instant, and all of a sudden, my world changed.

I noticed -- no, I saw -- the trees that ring the field. I saw their branches waving gently in the breeze. I saw the clear, muted blue of the evening sky above us. I felt the soft, cool grass underneath, and noticed how comfortable I felt sitting there on it. I felt it in my hands, and gently tugged on a handful of it -- not so hard as to pull it out, but rather to feel its strength and vitality. I breathed. I blinked.

I noticed I was more or less facing one particular tree across the field. I took in its green deciduous leaves. I traced the space between it and myself. A metaphor occurred to me. An affirmation arose. The tree could be a destination. It is my intention to remain awake and alive for each step of my walk across the field to that tree. Once there, I will acknowledge my journey and my arrival. I will then choose another destination and proceed; or, absent that immediate transition, I will sit at the foot of my new station and wait for a destination to occur to me.

I laughed easily and quietly.

Willow lay there, absorbed in her gnawing conquest of the throwing stick. I gave her a few pats on the back, and gently combed out some loose fur with my hands. I watched it flutter away in the breeze.

For those moments, I was there. I was real, and the world was real.

We stood up. I gathered the stick, and clipped her leash back onto her collar. We started our walk back home across the field. I found another stick. Willow convinced me to throw it to her a few times. I stashed the sticks in a place where we could easily find them again. For next time. We came home.

Goodnight, and thank you for reading.

Link: "12 Tools for More Mindful Living"

This is a great article. Big recommendation!

Words, Words, Words

I have an app on my phone called, "Transform Your Life," which, aside from being simple, easy to use, and all-around awesome, is a really helpful daily practice touchstone -- for me, anyhoo. I have it set such that every day at a designated time, I am notified of a new reading and its accompanying assignment. Most of them are excellent, and sometimes the timing of their appearance is downright uncanny.

Today's reading and assignment were, for me, equal measures humorous, humbling, and ponderous. Here's a screenshot:

On one level, today's reading is a little tough for my ego, because I'm a "words guy." I pride myself on my ability to use language as a tool in service of meaningful precision and clarity. And yet, "words are the fog one has to see through." Hehe. It's always a little bit humorous, I think, when the ego bubble gets poked. 

And of course it's true. That's not to say I'm wrong, or that words and language have no place in fostering peace, understanding, recovery, growth, and enlightenment (of course they do); but it is a reminder that we, all of us, construct our realities through language. We have names for everything; we attach meaning to things; we call them good and bad...our thoughts and reflections are shaped and limited by our language. 

Thus, language is a double-edged sword. It has the power to free us, and it has the power to imprison us. And it does both at times, most assuredly. 

So what's with the assignment?

To me, it means that I am to sit down and let in some silence. To take even a single minute to get really simple: to sit down, breathe, and notice what's happening with me. 

In my experience, the literal and figurative words which emerge from these places of quiet and simplicity are the truest of the true; they are the ones that lead to the heart of things.

Loss and Grieving

Coping with the loss of someone or something important is one of the most difficult tasks a person can face. It is in our nature, after all, to get attached to things; and, to put it clinically, when the object of our attachment is gone, we suffer. Its absence leaves what feels like a gaping void in our hearts, and the grief can be overwhelming, all-encompassing.

We get attached to people, places, and things. We get attached to our routines, our opinions, our beliefs, our goals, our homes, our lifestyles, our expectations.

It's almost as if we're lined with an adhesive, we get so attached to things.

And that's okay.

Attachments really only become an evident issue for us when we experience suffering. Fortunately, the consideration of suffering is a road well-traveled by our forebears, and we can all lean on their wisdom and guidance for assistance. The Buddha, for example, addressed the matter of human suffering in great detail. Regardless of your religious or spiritual identity / orientation, and even regardless of whether you believe in a higher power, are agnostic, or are atheist, The Four Noble Truths are useful guides in view of suffering. I recommend taking a look at them.

I'm not here to promote Buddhism, though. I'm here to talk about what it feels like to lose something, to grieve, and to heal.

Loss can make one feel utterly empty. It can feel shocking, unreal, and overwhelming. Loss can incite feelings of incredible sadness and longing. It can feel as if one's entire world has ended, and has been swallowed up, furthermore, by some deep and terrible void. It can feel like it's never going to end, and that there's no hope. Chances are good, actually, that a major loss will incite any combination of those experiences in a person. 

Grieving -- something which follows and emerges from loss -- is a process. And as with any emotional process, it's a safe bet to expect some tumult; that is, a person who is grieving will probably experience a wide spectrum of feelings, and will very possibly be on the proverbial emotional roller coaster. What's more, each person's grieving process will "look" different, and will span any number of days, weeks, months, or years, even.

Are you familiar with the concept of the Five Stages of Grief (as articulated by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross)? They can be a useful guide for better-understanding the grieving process. One thing I learned, though, is that the stages do not necessarily occur in order. Oftentimes, a person who is grieving will, for example, experience several stages simultaneously, or will revisit stages as time goes on. That fluidity between the stages is important to keep in mind, because it can otherwise be very confusing and disappointing if one finds themselves "regressing."

Another important consideration is that different cultures have different perspectives on loss and grieving. ("Culture," in this case, can refer to groups big and small, from entire populations on down to families.) There is extraordinary diversity among attitudes toward death, for example. There are rules and guidelines among different cultures, both written and unwritten, which inform the processes of grieving and letting go.

At any rate, that brings us to the question, what does it mean to heal in the wake of a loss? The thing that keeps returning to my mind around this question is a metaphor I learned as an intern mental health counselor:

Imagine your heart (not the organ; rather, your center of feeling) is a glass. When you suffer a major loss, it's as if a large, foreign object is uncomfortably wedged into the glass. What many people hope for is that, over time, the foreign object -- the burden of the loss, the pain and suffering -- will shrink. While that may be so, there's a better way to think about it: imagine that the glass, your heart, expands over time, thereby more comfortably accommodating the sense of loss.

I love that metaphor, because it's true: Loss doesn't entirely go away, but our abilities to accommodate it and integrate it into our daily lives do expand.

We cannot help but be indelibly changed when we experience loss. But we aren't forever diminished by loss, either. No. Instead, we are transformed by loss. If we attend to our suffering in a compassionate manner, we are transformed into beings with greater capacities for love, peace, self-knowledge, understanding, forgiveness, acceptance, and compassion. We are transformed into more complete versions of ourselves -- as if a layer of steam has been wiped off a window.

Thanks for reading.

Touchstone: "A Christmas Carol"

"There are many things from which I might have derived good by which I have not profited, I dare say," returned the nephew, "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas-time, when it has come round-apart from... the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that-as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"'

--Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"

Whether it's Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, or another holiday you celebrate at this time of year, I hope it reminds you of the peace, love, and sense of brotherhood which dwells within us all, and unites us as a human family. For me, tonight, I am reminded that we are all connected by an unseen tapestry of love and beauty. I am honored to be part of this human family, and I am grateful to have the facility to say so. May you all have a blessed evening, and may you all enjoy this beautiful life with spirits renewed.

What do you love to do?

The title of this post pretty much sums it up. There's a lot of benefit to be derived from answering that question, or from even just giving yourself space and time to consider the question.

If "love" is too strong a word to start with, use "like" instead. And if "like" is too much for now, try "enjoy." Do not impose rules on how you answer! It can be a brainstorming process if you like, or you can sit and ponder it and write out a single sentence or phrase. Work with your preference of the moment.

I recently posted about the practice of noting daily the things you've done well, or are proud of, etc. Likewise, answering this question can be part of your daily practice. Or, it can simply be a reminder to yourself; or a springboard to finding your way back to the answers within.