Effort and Ease

"Warriorship is so tender,

without skin, without tissue,

naked and raw.  It is soft

and gentle.

You have renounced putting 

on a new suit of armor.  You

have renounced growing a thick

hard skin.

You are willing to expose naked 

flesh, bone, and marrow to

the world"

--Chuogyam Trungpa

The image of warriorship as soft and gentle is fascinating to me.   I fell in love, for a moment, last month.  I fell in love with rugged hockey-playing stature coupled with acute sensitivity and honesty.  I fell in love with passion expressed with such vulnerability that I could see through skin.  Warriors are rare.  

I fall in love with moments of truth, with shared emotion, with feeling-tones exuded, and I fall in love with stillness. I fall in love with foggy redwood groves and flowing waters where harbor seals play.  I fall in love with smiles in elevators.  I fall in love with easeful moments of connection. 

We weather emotional battles, whether alone or with others; practical battles in the flurry of a day; logistics and laundry, and, yes, sometimes simply remaining upright.

The over-effort of the past weeks led to tears that fell in yoga this evening when the teacher reminded us that sometimes it's just as necessary to allow ourselves opportunities to be easeful.  I wanted to curl into that statement, into the ease of fluid connections with the world around me.  And I am. 

Romanticism, Pop Music and Odysseys

I've just returned from my latest Odyssey, siren free, and I'm realizing what a huge role music plays as I move from one place to another.  There are the calming melancholy artists who I can listen to as background music as I doze on long plane rides; there are the tunes which span the 130-B.P.M. range, which have "natural party vibes" to them and that keep me moving from gate to gate or allow me to escape into a celebratory mindset amidst the grind of boarding a plane (I admit, I sometimes break into a dance while waiting for the first class passengers to board--I try not to sing out loud).  The beauty of these various playlists is that they allow me to be every age I've ever been and to appreciate how very real and true any and all of the perspectives on love, loss, and life are at any given moment.  And I'm grateful:  I'm grateful to the artists of my youth for allowing me some nostalgia, for singer songwriters who tug my heartstrings at this age, and for today's pop stars who remind me not to take my older self quite so seriously.

Three artists have inspired me in the last days.   Two of these are new additions to my playlists, recommended by Canadian colleagues this past week.

Serena Ryder, a fabulous Canadian singer-songwriter has been on repeat for me since I added her to my playlist last night.  Two teachers were telling me a story (excitedly) about having sat next to her while having a beer at a local folk festival in Winnipeg until they picked up on the fact that I didn't know who they were talking about.  I figured I'd better figure out.   Her song, "What I Wouldn't Do" begins, "If you should fall to pieces, you know I'll pick them up."  Regardless of my own stance on romantic love at this point in my life, I'm a sucker for the articulation of this sort of testament to an other.  "Whispering wind is blowing, telling me I'm not alone....Your love is like a river that I am floating down; I've never been a swimmer, but I know that I'll never drown."
[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppi1uDvc44w]

Josh Garrels' "Ulysses" was the song that allowed me to release some tears after an exhausting week.  One of the teachers I had been working with over the course of the week handed me a post-it at the end of the session yesterday with the recommendation that I check out this song (the recommendation was prompted by the reading of a section of The Odyssey in our work together).  "I'm holding on to hope that one day this could be my right...cuz I've been shipwrecked and left for dead and I've seen the darkest sights.  Everyone I've loved seems like a stranger in the night.  But oh my heart still burns, tells me to return, search the fading light."  These are lines that remind me that I have a broken-open heart.
[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_p143Nk4GU]

This power, this honesty, this hope that is illustrated in the songs that are written for public consumption never fails to inspire me, even if I'm not sailing home to anyone in particular, and even if I wouldn't follow someone to another country; sometimes it's enough for me to know that there are others who are and who would, and who hold each other in such regard, and with such tenderness even for a moment, that it makes it seem like the world is just a little softer, regardless if it's fleeting or not.

Lastly, I'm loving Lorde.  At this point, I think everyone has had a chance to hear "Royals":  "no postcode envy...we don't care; we're driving cadillacs in our dreams...we aren't caught up in your love affair."  And I love that.  I love the simple statement, that "we crave a different kind of buzz."  Lovely. And she's magically lovely.  I would have wanted to be her when I was a teenager, of this I'm certain.
[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlcIKh6sBtc]

And what's the point of these musings?  To say that there are so many beautiful ideas and words and beats and truths that flowed through my earbuds in the last days that have helped me both acknowledge and escape my reality.  There is so much emotion inherent in the music that we listen to.  I'm grateful, actually, that I'm willing to engage the emotion, to listen hard, to feel empathy, to feel connected, and to simply let it become a part of me.

P.S.
[On a final note?  One that all of my friends will be embarrassed to see in writing?  Miley Cyrus' acoustic version of "We Can't Stop" on SNL?  Bravo.  Don't be a hater; that was fabulous.]

Acting in Our Own Best Interest

 “Anger is our friend.  Not a nice friend.  Not a gentle friend.  But a very, very loyal friend. It will always tell us when we have been betrayed.  It will always tell us when we have betrayed ourselves.  It will always tell us when it is time to act in our own best interest.  Anger is not the action itself. It is the action’s invitation.”  --Julia Cameron

"Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned."  --Buddha

[Emphases in bold are mine.]

I pride myself on entering situations fully--with both freedom and fearlessness.  I also recognize that there are situations for which this might not be the best approach, in which case entering fully, but with wisdom and wakefulness is a more sensible way to go.  At this moment I am trying to restore, to recalibrate, and to settle into a space where I can act intentionally, deliberately, and naturally--this is what I can do when I'm feeling strong.  It's staying balanced enough so that we aren't bowled over that is essential.  

And, as much as I dislike anger (I've written about this before, I'm certain.), it is mostly the "holding onto anger" that I dislike.  I'm trying to recognize, as Julia Cameron offers in the quote above, that sometimes anger lets us know when we need to act in our own best interest.  Like everything else I think about, this is a balancing act.  How do we stay attuned, acknowledge the feeling when it arises, and acknowledge what it might be offering us, without holding onto it and burning ourselves?  I have no desire to act on my anger, to hold it tightly or to throw it at someone, but I have a strong desire to learn from the feelings that emerge and determine if there is a corresponding action that needs to be taken in order to remain present and proactive in any given situation.

One of my favorite quotes from therapy a couple of years back was, "What about that surprised you?"  These are the moments I'm trying to be attuned to--these moments when I'm caught off guard by behaviors that are not surprising at all, but I allow them to be.  I want to be able to hold to my center when these things come at me.

I was talking to a new acquaintance this past week, a man who works in a much more cutthroat field than mine, and he listened as I said, "Why would anyone be working for self-promotion instead of the greater good of a project?  And why would anyone assume this about others?"  And he said, "You're such an idealist."  He didn't say it in a belittling way, but as a matter of fact, and slight disbelief that I could operate from this stance.  Do I want to be anything but?  No.  Do I want to better navigate the world so that I won't be surprised when others aren't?  Yes.

There are so many people in my life who are willing to operate from this place.  We can share experiences and laugh and cry and laugh some more.  What I've noticed?  None of us are naive; most of us have had more varied life experiences than many of the people we are surprised by.  And none of us hold tightly to anger.   What we are all working toward, well, we're working toward this balance--letting go and also taking action.  Being proactive while also holding onto equanimity.  We're all fallible, none of us are "right," but all of us have a pretty solid compass for how we want to move about the world, and we are always refining and reconfiguring.  And I'm grateful.  Always grateful for the grace and wisdom of the people in my world.  

Feeding Two Wolves

One of my favorite stories was repeated during a day-long dharma talk I attended on Sunday: that of the two wolves in the heart--love and hate--and the response of the highly revered elder, who, when asked how she had found so much peace in her life,  answered that early on she had recognized that there were two wolves in her heart, and, "Everything depended on which one I fed each day."

I'm having a moment when I have so many ideas floating around my head that I'd love to be able to communicate, that I'm just going to have to give up the expectation that they come out in any particular organized way, and write them out.

One of my favorite quotes from Sunday was, "It's a joy to be hidden; a tragedy to remain so."  I think that this tension, this desire to be self-sufficient, to hide our vulnerabilities and our need for others is so prevalent in all of us, particularly in a culture that seems to communicate regularly that if we "need" someone else that we are "needy."  We can all discern between healthy and unhealthy approaches toward "needing" others, but the bottom line is that any feeling of separateness we may have is "an optical delusion of consciousness"  (aka, bullshit), and we all want to have people seek us out, to prize us, so why do we resist doing the same?

The interrelatedness of autonomy and intimacy is so essential for empathy.  We have to develop ways of understanding others, but we also have to develop ways of being able to stand in ourselves.  I don't think that standing in ourselves is in opposition to intimacy.  What I love is the idea that we can all support each other in tending to the causes--to notice what we're influenced by and what our actions influence, but also being discerning enough to know that we have no control of the results.  In this, I find agency.

I love the idea of settling the quarrels in my mind so that I can let go and love.   The hardest part, of course, is loving unilaterally.  What I appreciated in the talk I attended, was the idea that we, of course, have the freedom to walk away, to discern, to put down the quarrel without losing our ability to send loving kindness in all directions.  Does this mean that I want someone who has continually harmed me (or who cannot see me) in my life?  No.  But it does mean that I can continue to tend to me, and to not carry that person with me, to not cultivate hatred or ill-will.  This is freeing in itself.  It takes time.

I do believe that there are many of us who have such a secure base to operate from that we have a secure base to explore from and that we are able to "go forth into homelessness."  A friend commented, in response to this idea, that she was also awed by those who, even without a seemingly secure base, were willing to take huge risks--emotionally, spiritually, etc.  And I concur.  Our life circumstances, depending on how we react to them, allow for some pretty amazing freedoms--and I've been thinking a great deal about how important it is to be both quiet and malleable in order to enact these feats that require such amazing trust in the universe.

One last story that was shared was that of a monk who was violently attacked, bringing him to the edge of mortality.  When asked if he had feared for his life during the attack, he answered, "The only time I feared for my life was when I thought I was losing my loving kindness."

I had a heart tattooed on the inside of my left wrist last year to serve as a physical reminder regarding which wolf I want to feed, and even so, I still toss the other a morsel now and then.  Here's to tending to the causes, loving kindness, and leaving nothing out.  Easier said than done, but I'm having a difficult time thinking about anything more worth doing.

[Check out www.rickhanson.net for more information on the speaker I heard and the inspiration for these musings.]

Mighty in the Darkness

I was walking home from yoga last night when a friend sent a text message telling me she had just completed an amazing yoga class (in a city far from mine), and the theme for the practice was "mighty"--"as in" [her words] "the stronger we get, the more able we are to be vulnerable with ourselves."  I was feeling pretty "mighty," in the moment, and grateful for the timing of the word to describe the feeling.  After a week of "trying to right myself," of "trying to get through" what I had acknowledged to be a temporary rough spot, there emerged that lightness of being that is the strength we have to simply settle back into ourselves--in all of our beauty, all of our crazy, and all of our brilliance...and to be gentle with all of it.

Whenever I am feeling a bit detached, unmoored, unfettered, scared, etc., what I've noticed is that I'm becoming increasingly able to say, "Hey, I'm feeling detached, unmoored, unfettered, scared, etc., and I am pretty sure I am going to emerge shortly, but for now, this is what I'm feeling."  I have, for some time, acknowledged that these are the moments when I'm in the "wilderness" [metaphorically...and, I have to note that I most often find myself in the "wilderness" in my life when I'm furthest from it].  And I'm getting [a little] better at not judging myself for not always feeling like I'm riding high (because that would be ridiculous and an artificial expectation, yes?).

"When everything is lost, and all seems darkness, then comes the new life and all that is needed."--Joseph Campbell

The cycle of light and dark seems to be just this:  There is darkness, new realizations emerge, and we learn again and again to trust what's around us all of the time.  It's sometimes obscured, this support we can bask in, at least momentarily.  And, as much as I'd love to be someone who never loses my awareness of the support and interconnectedness that tethers me to the rest of the world, I do.  And I begin again, with a little less "woe is me" and a little more "woohoo," because that's where I know the truth is.

"The less there is of you, the more you experience the sublime. " --Joseph Campbell

The truth is in the woohoo.  It is.  And it's in the love I feel for you, and you, and you....

Fragility and Vulnerability

This has been a week of slowly putting myself back together (feeling very humpty dumpty, yes I am).  A yin yoga class tonight asked me to enter a pose that that the instructor described as "a pose to experience fragility and vulnerability for a very short time."  I thought to myself, "if this is what fragility feels like, then what is the rest of my day?  life?  Hm."

I've been reading more Cheryl Strayed.  This time I've embarked on a journey with Dear Sugar.  In response to a reader's question of "What the Fuck?" as applied to daily life, she answered:  "Ask better questions.  The fuck is your life.  Answer it."  This answer, which in its entirety also articulated a cruelty she'd experienced in her own life, for which there could be no answer, made it infinitely clear to me that there are times when we ask this question in a light hearted way, and there are a few when we ask and the answer is a head shake, the knowledge that bad things happen, and there's no real answer beyond the acknowledgment and increased compassion.  The fuck just is.  Takes a long while to figure that out.  As the introduction to the book reads:  "Inexplicable sorrows await all of us.  That was her essential point." And I return to my belief that those "inexplicable sorrows" are what have the potential to create catalysts for our growth of humanity, if we don't shut ourselves down.

And, in the spirit of compassion and asking better questions, I don't truly wonder at the fragility and vulnerability in my own life any more.  I don't relish it, necessarily, but I don't have much choice for how I exist in the world at this point--you can't very well put blinders back on once they've been removed.

I read an article tonight in the East Bay Express about a man who has created a documentary of the lives of homeless recyclers in the bay area.  These hidden people are the ones who wake me before dawn on Tuesdays as they rummage through the recycling bins that line my street, and whose clinking shopping carts I can hear for what seems like miles in my pre-dawn-wish-I-was-still asleep haze as I toss and turn on my pottery-barn-down-comforter-high-thread-count-clad bed.  Fragility?  Vulnerability?  Sometimes I simply have to laugh at my self.

Destinations

The past weeks have been filled with a series of destinations:  arrivals and departures, moving walkways nearing their end, and almost constant interaction with other humans.  I enjoy this immensely.  And it depletes me (introverts unite!).   On my flight home on Sunday,  I was no longer fit for conversation, and, frankly, smiling and making eye contact even became a stretch.   I had hit my own point of no return--I can sustain the social state (and love it) for as long as it takes to do good work, but when it's done? when I've pushed on just a little too far?  I'm hard-pressed to even carry on a casual conversation for a while.

In yoga this evening, as we were perched in half-moon pose, the instructor's words, "balance is not a destination" lifted me beyond some of my self-judgment about feeling so out of whack. Balance is not a fixed point we reach and then are able to sustain; it's a wavering wobbly state, with moments of perfect alignment.  And as I looked up, and felt my left leg shake and sway (and my arm follow suit), I was grateful for this perspective.  Off the mat, it makes even more sense to me, particularly when I'm feeling as off-balance as I am right now.  My skin is a bit tight, my nerve endings are closer to the surface than they usually are, and I can feel every bit of me retreating, needing to re-store, re-gain, and re-configure my self before I can enter back into the fray.

A colleague last week said to me, "I bet you're ready to be home."  And, caught off-guard, I thought, "I have no concept of what that might mean right now."  And then realized he meant Oakland, my apartment, etc.  This is home in the sense that my car is parked here, more of my stuff is here than anywhere else, and my mail arrives at an address in this city.  (And, when I woke up a couple of weeks ago from a rare night in my own bed, I thought, "wow, this hotel has much better bedding that the last place I stayed.")  But, the biggest gift I've been offered in the past year is being able to settle into the acknowledgement that the destination where I've arrived, wherever it may be, is home, for as long as it is.  And that it will shake and wobble at times, but there will be balance no matter where it is.  This understanding that I am home wherever I am?  To develop an interest in the destination?  To not cling so tightly to any one?  Priceless.

"Develop an interest in life as you see it; the people, things, literature, music--the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people.  Forget yourself."
 --Henry Miller

And when it's time to retreat and provide some time for self-care and regrouping?  To acknowledge that I need some space to recover before I can once again take in all of the riches?  Priceless.