On a video I watched this week the host was telling a story. It was about a man who had undergone the trauma of having his home destroyed in a fire. Three months had passed and he was in a new place. But it didn’t feel like home. And he kept remembering things he had lost. Lately, he had been misplacing things and getting distracted, forgetting what he intended to do. Time seemed strange. Sometimes whole hours were gone in a blink. Sometimes ten minutes lasted forever. He was moody, wavering between a tedious depression and itchy annoyance. It bothered him so much that he finally went to see a counselor.
“Well, Dave,” she said to him gently, “You have been living in a state of shock for three months. It takes time to get your bearings when your whole world has changed. You’re okay.”
The host said when he heard that story, it occurred to him that all of us have been living in a state of shock this year. The place doesn’t quite feel like home. And from time to time, we start thinking about all we have lost. Not only material things. Relationships. Beliefs. Whole ways of life.
You can get lost yourself, thinking about it. You can fall into a well of grief. And that’s okay. Loss hurts. It’s healing to grieve. It shows you how much you valued what you had, even if you never thought much about it. But don’t dwell in grief. You are still alive, for better or worse, and more experiences await you. And isn’t that what you’re doing here? Experiencing life in all of its textures and layers?
Somewhere this week I read this: “I always succeed. Either I win or I learn.” It’s a worthwhile attitude. Sure, sometimes the learning is painful. Sometimes the path is rough. But every moment of it is yours and enlarges you.
Another interesting item I ran across this week was the statement that your chances of being born were one in four trillion. I have no idea how that number was determined. But suppose it’s true, considering all the factors involved. Your being here is phenomenal!
And if you’re wandering around feeling distracted by the drastic changes in our world, it’s okay. These moments are yours, too. A whole lot of us, worldwide, are feeling the turbulence of the times. Life has become a seemingly unending series of shocks. Just take a breath, and realize there is vast beauty here, too, and kindness, and moments of laughter and joy. And above all, keep believing in happy endings, in the faith that, truly, the best is yet to come.
A few years ago, my friend and I were busily working on a project together. We had been silent for several minutes, each of us concentrating on the work at hand, when she said, “Just think, in a little while this will all be a dream.”
That’s what Right Now does. It slides away into the dream world of memory.
I haven’t seen my friend in a while; she lives a couple states away. But I’m on my way to visit her, happily looking forward to seeing her garden and the chickens she got last spring when they were just fuzzy little peeps. Images of her face float through my mind, and the sound of her laughter—a delicious,musical giggle—plays like a soundtrack as I anticipate the visit.
Right Now holds dreams of tomorrows, too.
But there’s one thing Right Now has on our dreams of the future and of the past. It’s the only place where we can make choices and where we can act. Neale Donald Walsh has this to say about Right Now: “You are, always and forever, in the moment of pure creation. So create who and what you are, and then experience that.”
We can live in the stories about ourselves that we built in the past, or we can choose to frame who we are differently. We can be stronger, and wiser, and kinder, and funnier. Even if we don’t know how; we can pretend and act “as if.” We can decide to adopt an attitude of hope, or of forgiveness, or lightheartedness, or compassion. We can speak or be silent, watch reruns on TV or to go for a walk and see what the sky is doing. We can ask for help, or offer it, call a friend or make a new one. We can nap or we can play or do the work at hand with all the clarity we can muster. Right Now, we can be any way that we want to be. Because Walsh is right. This Now is a moment of creation.
Sometimes, if you just stop for a bit and look around you, you can let wonder flow in, the kind that you felt when you were a small child and everything was fresh and new. You can say, “Wow. Here I am, being human!” And then decide what sort of human you’d like to be Right Now. Awake? Dreamy? Energized? Amused? Brave? Patient? Grateful? Friendly? Hungry? We can imagine that we have the answers and choose to move in the direction that our truest inner self directs.
How do I want to be Right Now? That’s the central question. You always and forever have the choice. And then you get to experience the result, to try it on and see how it feels in the very next Right Now—which is always and forever happening. You can choose to do more of what you did or to try something new.
Some choices take work, and some take a bit of luck. Personally, I have a loose sort of rule to try anything at least twice. I figure if something didn’t work out the first time, maybe it deserves another try. Factors may have been at work that I’m not aware of. If I’m sad, for instance, and decide I’d like to be happier, I’ll put on a smile. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try it again. Sometimes I’ll even go for three times because I’ve heard that “the third time is a charm.” You can make up your own rules. That’s part of choosing.
The key is to remember that you always have a choice. Right Now truly is your moment of creation. It comes with being human. It’s part of the gift.
Right Now, I choose to send you love. Right Now, I choose to stand in joy. Join me?
The other day I realized that one of the things that has helped me keep my commitment to being a joy-warrior is my daily practice of meditation. I’d like to share a little bit about my journey with it today.
Off and on, I’ve been practicing it now for, oh, about 50 years. I had to experiment with many different styles of meditation before I discovered what works best for me. Along the way, I found a common thread. Now I think that meditation is sort of like going to the movies.
You settle into your seat and relax, ready to let go of everything for a while. You take a nice, slow breath and let yourself focus on a blank screen in your mind as the world around you fades away. Depending on the style of meditation you’ve chosen, you project your attention to one single thing. Maybe a colored geometric shape of some kind appears on the screen. Maybe you listen to a word or phrase or prayer repeating in different rhythms and volumes. Maybe you simply feel the movement of your breath, or if you’re doing a moving meditation, the way your body feels. You hold your attention on it. And after awhile, everything, even the object of your attention, gently dissolves.
The next thing you know, you find yourself all wrapped up in the scene of some inner movie, absorbed by its drama, your emotions engaged, your mind eager to see the next turn of the plot.
Then you remember. Part of you wants to keep watching the movie, to see where it goes. But a deeper part feels the call of your intention, and you take a slow, deep breath and let the movie fade as you focus once again on your chosen object of attention.
Sometimes a whole stream of little movies will play, especially if you’re stressed. But you keep remembering and beginning again. When you’re new at this, it’s easy to misjudge sessions like this, to label them as unsuccessful in some way.
They’re not. The movies are just mind-knots untangling, smoothing out the pathways in your neural networks so that peace can flow through. They play less frequently over time and get shorter before the remembering happens. It’s a matter of training. That’s why it’s called a practice.
If you’re an active person who likes always to be doing, meditation can seem like a waste of time. But the knot-untangling it does will allow you to do whatever else you do with greater clarity, effectiveness, and ease. Meditation allows you to experience a kind of inner spaciousness, and when you reconnect with your normal outer world, you engage with it more fully, with a more centered and authentic view.
If you’re a sedentary type, meditation will provide you with new insights about yourself and give you greater freedom to think more deeply. It will awaken you to the beauty of the ordinary, and provide you with new and more creative choices about how to spend your time.
If you’re already a meditator, keep on! If you’re not, trade in 15-20 minutes of squandered time to start. (Even you have 15 minutes of squandered time, you know.) The internet is full of how-to instructions. Feel free to disregard any attached philosophies or religions if they don’t appeal to you. It’s an ancient art. It’s picked up a lot of baggage along the way. Simply pay attention to the what-to-do, not the why, of it. I’ve already given you the gist of it, but instruction can certainly help.
In our tumultuous world, it’s a practice that provides you with a refuge, a rich and beneficial retreat. It’s healing. It strengthens you. It teaches you patience and presence. And it gives you a realigned perspective, allowing you to see a broader, more accepting, more far-reaching view of things.
For me, it’s a primary means of finding the light of true joy. And despite all the fits and starts as I learned it–through practice–I am deeply grateful that it has become an integral part of my life.
One day this week when I was thinking about all the misery and conflict that ceaselessly rains down on us, suddenly a memory popped into my mind that made me explode with a huge laugh. I pictured the scene clear as day. I was with a group of friends and one of them asked Henry what he would say to people if he was king of the world.
He thought for a moment, got a ferocious look on his face, puffed himself up, took in a giant breath, and bellowed at the top of his lungs, “STOP IT!”
I think we could use a King Henry today! We’ve all had about enough of this fear-filled, monotonous, rancorous routine.
Later, I ran across a much softer and more gentle piece of advice for affording ourselves relief from the oppressiveness of the times. It was an article on practicing loving-kindness meditation.
As I contemplated it, I thought about the idea that our realities, both personal and universal, rise from our thoughts. How we think about ourselves, the people in our lives and all the others in the world determines how we’ll behave toward them, how we’ll see them, how we’ll react to what they do. Collectively, our thoughts shape the world.
Mark Twain thought about this, too. Once he wondered, “What would happen if all the people in the world laughed at the same time?” Think about a time when laughter spread in sudden contagion through a room you were in. Nobody knew what so funny, but they couldn’t help but laugh because, well, it was just so hilarious to see everybody unable to stop.
I thought about the hundred monkeys story, where one day a monkey on an island starting washing his food in the sea before he ate it. The other monkeys copied him, and when the hundredth monkey joined it, the practice suddenly erupted on a far-away island, too.
What if practicing loving-kindness meditation worked like that? What if, by taking 10 or so minutes a day to send loving wishes to ourselves and each other, we became a link in a chain of loving-kindness that spread peace and joy all over the world?
It’s easy enough to do. I’ll show you in a minute. But first, here’s what loving-kindness means. It comes from a Pali word metta. Its meaning embraces the concepts of friendliness, goodwill, benevolence, fellowship, inoffensiveness and non-violence as well. In an article titled, “Metta: The Philosophy and Practice of Universal Love,” Acharya Buddharakkhita says, “True metta is devoid of self-interest. It evokes within a warm-hearted feeling of fellowship, sympathy and love, which grows boundless with practice and overcomes all social, religious, racial, political and economic barriers. Metta is indeed a universal, unselfish and all-embracing love.”
Sounds pretty powerful doesn’t it?
The process itself is simple. As with any meditation, you begin by relaxing in a comfortable position, with eyes closed, in a place where you can be undisturbed. Then, putting a gentle smile on your face, let go of any negative thought or feeling. Begin by saying to yourself,
May I be safe from danger; May I be healthy; May I be happy; May I live with ease.
Just breathe for awhile and sincerely wish yourself these blessings, repeating them until you feel satisfied.
Next practice sending your wishes for safety, health, happiness and ease to your circle of loved ones, imagining each of them one at a time and speaking your wishes to him or her directly in your mind.
The next stage is to move on to those people whom you know casually—neighbors, coworkers, acquaintances, members of your community.
And finally, you send your well-wishes to everyone, everywhere, as sincerely as you can.
In the article I read this week, the author suggested writing the words instead of silently repeating them. Writing, she said, can can instill them in our subconscious in a way that seems more effective than simply reading, hearing, or speaking them does.
Try whatever way appeals more to you.
Personally, I find the practice very soothing. It’s a way to stop the world’s madness from infiltrating your thoughts for a while. And with continued practice you’ll find your world truly does become a more peaceful, happier, friendlier place.
And who know what might happen if enough of us send wishes for well-being to ourselves and each other?
When I first committed to being a joy-warrior, an image appeared in my mind of a glowing golden light that looked as if it was pouring through an open doorway, its light making a long, equally glowing path from where I stood to the distant doorway. Along the dark structures rose of various sizes and shapes, casting their shadows on the path. To me, it represented both the goal and the challenges I would face in reaching it.
Like many of us, I’ve been experiencing this time we find ourselves in as one of the shadowed parts of the path. And the shadow sometimes feels very dark and long. We persevere, but we get weary and discouragement nibbles away at our resolve. All the contention and anger, the disruptions, suffering and uncertainty take their toll.
I was standing in a pool of gloom myself today when I ran across a quote from Dalai Lama XIV that somebody posted on Twitter. “ Choose to be optimistic,” he said. “It feels better.”
“Oh!” some little voice in my head responded. “That’s right!” Feeling better was exactly what I wanted. I was getting pretty tired of gloom. And what a poke his sentence was! It reminded me that optimism was a choice. Hope was mine for the choosing.
Choosing to find the good in any circumstance is one of the disciplines a joy-warrior works to master. And optimism is just that–a discipline. You need to train for it, and to practice it. Otherwise, the shadows will stop you in your tracks and eat your heart.
I opened my joy-journal and found some notes I made the last few times I battled the shadows. The first one I found was a reminder of the reasons for adopting an optimistic view: less stress, greater self respect and integrity, better coping skills, better health, more patience, increased proactivity, more effective problem solving, enhanced peace of mind, increased gratitude and forgiveness.
Yes! That sounded good to me. I turned a few more pages and found “Tips for Reclaiming the Light.” It was a list of familiar practices that I had cast aside while stumbling in the shadows.
The first one was a little list under the heading “Mindfulness.” It started with a simple instruction. “Be Here Now. Focus on being intensely aware of what you’re sensing and feeling in the moment, without interpretation or judgment.” Under that, it said, “Pay attention to your senses. What are you seeing? Hearing? Smelling? Feeling? Tasting?”
I remembered the peace and gentle happiness I felt last Tuesday as I sat on the porch at night, listening intently, with closed eyes, to all the sounds I could hear, and how I became aware of the subtle changes in temperature. I remembered the little thrill of joy as I opened my eyes and saw the stars above me. Such a simple act, and yet what beautiful rewards!
The next line said, “Walk. Slowly. Pay attention to your posture, to the movement of your muscles and bones.” This is a good one. You can do it out in nature or, if it’s raining, right in your kitchen or living room. It breaks the chain of stories you’ve been telling yourself and conquers your racing thoughts.
The last line said, “Breathe.” You just sit down, close your eyes, take a deep breath and then pay attention as your breath flows in and out. It’s very calming and refreshing, and if you do it for a little while, bringing your attention back to your breath when you notice that thoughts have intruded, you come away from it feeling wide awake and aware.
Those were enough to get me on the right track again, out of the weight of the shadows, into the light.
But I flipped through a couple more pages anyway. “Name three things that you enjoyed today,” one said. That’s something I do every night writing them down in a gratitude journal I keep. It’s a nice way to end the day and sends you to sleep with greater peace.
“Be your own beloved friend. Just as you are.” When I remember to do that, to accept myself, with all my warts and imperfections, the way I accept my dearly loved friends, it dissolves whatever hardness and self-blame I’ve been holding, turning them into self-compassion.
I was just going to put my journal away, grateful for the reminders, when a folded slip of paper fell out. On it, I found a beautiful observation I’d saved, authored by historian Howard Zinn. I’ll leave you with it’s wise perspective and wish you a week of light and peace.
““TO BE HOPEFUL in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness.
What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places—and there are so many—where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.
And if we do act, in however small a way, we don’t have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.”
One day, while riding in the car, my teen-age son and I were listening to the radio. Some guy was explaining that we don’t always feel warm fuzzies toward someone we love. “We like each other because,” he said. (Because she made you laugh. Because he did the dishes. You can imagine any “because” you like.) “But,” the radio guy continued, “we love each other anyway.
We love each other even when. That’s because love can embrace even those things in each other that drive us batty, or that conflict with our own cherished viewpoints or beliefs. Liking often can’t go there; it stops at the differences.
My son and I l both laughed over the radio guy’s statement: We like each other because; we love each other anyway. It delighted us, and from that day on we often said to each other, as a kind of affectionate joke, “I love you anyway.”
I thought about that this past week when I ran into a difficult situation with a friend. She was recently diagnosed with a serious medical condition and when she asked me to pick up a certain snack item for her, I said I would feel guilty doing that. I suggested that she might want to make a different choice. And later, I suggested that she see a dietician for help in changing her eating habits so her body could stay as healthy as possible as long as possible.
She told me that she knew I was trying to help, but that it was up to her to choose what she wanted to eat and what she didn’t, and she didn’t want any more of my advice on the subject.
I thanked her for telling me that, and promised that I would respect her wishes. And I will – even though in my belief system, her choices are unfortunate.
It’s not the first time I’d run across this issue. The partner of a friend of mine who is a strong advocate of alternative medicine was recently diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. Her choice of treatment options went against everything my friend believed were in her best interest.
What do you do when someone you love is, in your view, choosing to do things that may cost her life? Things that make you furious, that make you feel helpless, that, according to everything you know and believe, are deadly wrong? Do you abandon your relationship because it’s too painful to see your friend’s choices? Because she’s refusing to accept what you (of course) believe to be superior information?
Nope. You love your friend anyway. You love her enough to honor her free will to make her own choices about her own life.
That doesn’t mean you consent to enable clearly self-destructive behavior. You can draw lines and say what you are unwilling to do. Your free will counts, too. You can talk with each other about your feelings and work to find compromises. You can even do things she requests that you strongly disagree with, telling her you that your respect for her decision doesn’t mean that you condone it.
In essence, it all boils down to the Golden Rule – treating others the way you want to be treated.
Yeah, it gets difficult when you and the other hold strongly conflicting beliefs. You have to face the fact that each of you has plenty of evidence for what you believe, and that, in the end, beliefs are just that.
Whether it’s which foods to eat or not eat, or what political party to support, or what treatment to choose for a medical condition, or what God to believe in or reject – each of us must choose for ourselves. And each of us has the right to expect those who love us to accept our choices – whether they agree with them or not.
Because, in the end, it’s really true. We may like each other because, but we need to love each other anyway. As Jack Kornfield says, “Our time is too precious not to love.”
* * *
Wishing you a week with plenty of liking, and loving it all anyway.
You know the old kids’ song about Martha and Henry, don’t you? It romped into my mind today for no reason at all and ran a whole movie for me as the verses unfolded.
The song, in case you don’t know it, is a duet between Martha and Henry. I picture them as a couple of pioneer settlers,making a homestead in a rough-hewn wood cabin in the rocky, Appalachian woods.
Martha asks Henry to fetch some water. Henry says he can’t.
“There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Martha, dear Martha. ” he explains, grabbing the bucket to show it to her. See? he gestures, pointing. “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Martha. A hole.”
Well, they have to have water, right? There’s no way around it. Martha, slightly exasperated sings back to Henry, ”Well fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,” Her hands are on her hips. Her foot is tapping the dusty ground. “Well fix it, dear Henry. Dear Henry, fix it!”
The story unfolds from there. Poor Henry holds his hands out at his side, shrugs his shoulders and says to Martha, “With what shall I fix it, dear Martha?”
She has little patience with him. She tells him to use straw.
He informs her that the straw is too long, and she tells him to cut it.
Then, he actually dares to ask “With what shall I cut it, dear Martha, dear Martha?”
She’s pretty sure his every last lick of common sense is gone. She tells him to use a knife.
“The knife is too dull,” he says.
“Well, sharpen it!” she snaps..
“With what?” he asks, smiling a bit slyly.
“With a stone!”
He gets his sharpening stone and pulls the knife blade across it. It’s not going to work.
He looks up at Martha and tells her the problem is that the rock is too dry.
Poor Martha’s patience is hanging by a very slim thread now. “Well, wet it!” she growls.
“With what shall I wet it, dear Martha, dear Martha?” he says, crossing his arms across his chest, and looking her in the eye.
“With water!” she snaps, calling him a dunce in her mind.
“In what shall I fetch it?” he asks ever so slowly.
“In the bucket!” she spits through clenched teeth.
Then he gets her.
Standing nose to nose with her, he grins, then sings, “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Martha, dear Martha.”
And that’s where the song ends. Unless, of course, you want to sing it all over again. Some people do that.
I imagine there’s a moral to this old song somewhere. Maybe it’s advice to keep a spare bucket on hand. But I think it’s probably just to remind us that we’re all like Martha and Henry sometimes, picking at each other when things go wrong. Such is life. It’s okay.
Besides, after we leave them, Martha and Henry have a good laugh at their situation and work together to figure out workable solutions to their problem. By nightfall, they’re enjoying freshly brewed tea in front of a bonfire.
They don’t tell you that in the song. But it’s good to know.
Have yourself an excellent week, my friend! And do think about picking up a spare bucket.
Then,