I’ve been asking myself some important questions lately and wondering how others would answer them. For example:
What matters most to you?
And how do you connect with it?
What consistently matters most to me is: Presence, Connection, Compassion, and Gratitude.
I connect with these qualities on a daily basis by doing walking meditation in the labyrinth, which is my sanctuary. It’s the only reason why I leave the house and has become my favorite daily ritual. It’s a meditation practice from which insights arise, and it’s really supporting me during this time of staying home during the pandemic.
After more than a month of staying home, I’ve made a series of five “labyrinth time” videos, complete with lots of uplifting birdsong. Is it a meditation? Meditation instruction? A poem? All of the above? I don’t know what to call it. All I know is that it’s real and tender and honest. (So much so that sometimes I feel shy about sharing.) These are videos for quiet moments.
Here’s what’s going on: As I walk the labyrinth, I stop periodically to dictate insights into a Google doc on my phone. Then I put my phone back in my pocket, return to presence, and start walking again. At the end of my walking meditation, before leaving the labyrinth, I record myself reading the insights and reflections out loud, accompanied by all the natural sounds. I also take pictures either before or after walking the labyrinth. This video series is my own personal chronicle of where I draw strength from during this time of deep uncertainty.
What you’re hearing is an unfiltered narration of what arises in my mind when I’m immersed in moving meditation in nature and feeling present and connected. The themes center around being intimate with what is and shifting out of expectation, desire, and thought patterns and back into presence. Repeatedly. With compassion.
And you can see the changes the natural world goes through as the weeks pass. Even as our normal routines remain collectively altered, nature keeps doing what it always does at this time of year: renewing, growing, blooming. The natural world is a steadfast background and an anchor of presence we can return to again and again.
I’m taking a few moments to reach out from my working home retreat (a.k.a. sheltering in place) to write about a topic that has been at the forefront of my mind since all this went down:
At the beginning of the month, I stepped into a new role I’d been preparing for, for quite some time: teaching a mindfulness meditation course. The first class session took place in-person and was attended by 17 women. By the second class – a week later – things had begun to change rapidly, and we weren’t able to meet face-to-face. Already familiar with Zoom video conferencing, I moved the course to that platform without missing a beat, and it’s how we conducted our three remaining class sessions. This week, I began teaching a second mindfulness course. And now a third is in the works!
Needless to say, I’ve been busy…because it’s a really good time to begin/return to/deepen a meditation practice!
As the participants in my courses report, mindfulness meditation provides real, practical benefits for navigating our lives as we adjust to new, constantly changing information and circumstances. It’s gratifying to be able to offer skills that help people to be more resilient and emotionally healthy during these challenging times when we’re experiencing so much anxiety, grief, and other strong emotions.
In today’s class, we discussed ways in which we can integrate mindfulness practice into daily life. Not just formal meditation “on the cushion” but ways we can pause for presence throughout the day. The possibilities are endless.
For example, any moments of waiting are invitations to mindfulness:
waiting in traffic/at red lights/in line (if you still go out)
waiting for websites to load
waiting for food to heat up
waiting on hold to talk to someone
waiting for your gas tank to fill
waiting for a video conference to begin.
Virtually any activity can be an opportunity to take a mindful pause and awaken a more spacious quality of presence. My new favorite is:
Hand-Washing to Awaken Awareness
In the 20 or so seconds you spend washing your hands, you can shift out of your head and whatever story is going on inside it and into presence. You can become aware of what is happening here and now: the sensation of soap lathering, the stream of warm water on your skin, the fragrance of the soap. It’s actually quite a lovely experience when you direct your attention to it.
At times, I’ve noticed myself feeling impatient and wanting the 20 seconds to be over so I can get on with what’s next. This was especially true on days when my workload was heavier. Over the course of the past couple weeks, I’ve trained myself to allow hand-washing to cue presence. As a result, hand-washing breaks have become much more pleasant. They bring me back to what is actually happening in the moment. It might be the sensations described above, the movements of the breath, or simply being aware of the energy in the feet or body as a whole while standing at the sink.
Hand-washing can ground you in the moment and in your body. And what’s wonderful about that is: It gets you out of your head and whatever trance you were in. It liberates you from the prison and tunnel-vision of thought. It’s like waking up from a dream.
Hand-Washing to Awaken the Heart
In my classes, I teach about the two wings of mindfulness that work together like the two wings of a bird: awareness and compassion. Awareness is a clear seeing of what is present here and now. Feeling the sensations of the soap and water and the energy/aliveness in your body (feet, hands, etc.) are examples of awareness. The other wing, compassion, is bringing a loving care to the moment.
Hand-washing also can be a cue for practicing lovingkindness, and here’s how: As you wash your hands, you can be aware of the greater intention behind hand-washing. By this, I mean something beyond any sense of fear that might be present. Caring for your own well-being and the well-being of others. You might send yourself caring wishes by thinking silently (or even singing out loud) phrases such as:
May I be well and healthy. May I be safe and protected. May I be peaceful and at ease.
You can bring to mind someone you care about and send them well wishes, too (which is sometimes easier than sending them to yourself):
May you be well and healthy. May you be safe and protected. May you be peaceful and at ease.
You could even expand your lovingkindness to the whole planet:
May all beings be well and healthy. May all beings be safe and protected. May all beings be peaceful and at ease.
So as you wash your hands, you remember your wish for yourself and others to be well. This awakens the heart and generates a sense of connection, even when we can’t be with those we care about. Many people have been expressing grief over not being able to hug their parents or children, and this practice offers a different, more spacious kind of hug. You can imagine your dear one’s face smiling as you send them well-wishes while washing your hands.
Mindful Moments Matter
A new study by researchers from Yale, Columbia, and Dartmouth shows that short moments of mindfulness can have profound effects on regulating emotional intensity. In other words, practicing mindfulness throughout the day counts. It’s not just about taking time out of your day to practice formal, seated meditation for months on end (though I highly recommend it if you can do it, as it deepens your practice). You can reap benefits of mindfulness practice much sooner than that, in the moment, when you switch to that channel.
Each time you wash your hands, you can consider whether an awareness or compassion practice feels most right at the moment. It gives more meaning to this activity we do so many times a day. It also liberates you from your active mind that’s so often either focused on the past (regret, grief, etc.) or the future (worry, fear, etc.) and so rarely inhabits the present moment – which is the only moment we ever have and where all our power resides.
Returning to the present moment several times a day is an empowering practice that adds up through the course of a day, a week, a month, a year. Each time you bring yourself back from the trance of thought is like doing one rep that strengthens the muscles of awareness or compassion and deepens those neural pathways back “home”. It allows you to wake up from the dream and rest in a quality of consciousness that can hold everything that arises, like the ocean holds all the waves.
The other day at work, I wanted to make some tea. We used to have an electric tea kettle in the staff lounge that took less than two minutes to bring water to a boil. It was just enough time to dash into the bathroom. Come out, the water’s ready, and back to work I’d go with a steaming cup of rooibos chai in hand.
However, the kettle has been missing for quite some time. I’m not a fan of microwaving water, so fortunately we also have a range in the lounge. Thing is: It takes a lot longer. A good ten minutes.
On my break, I decided to make some tea and stood by the stove waiting for the water to boil. It was a great opportunity for a mindful moment, as are all kinds of waiting situations. In fact, I’ve come to really appreciate waiting at stop lights, in line, etc. Waiting is an invitation to pause and be present. To practice mindfulness.
How can you be more mindful while waiting? Here are several of my favorite go-to practices:
Bring awareness to your feet. Feel them touching the ground. Notice the energy in your feet and hands.
Bring that awareness through the rest of your body, and do a quick body scan. Notice where you are holding tension in your body. Breathe some love into those areas, to release the tension. If you can’t release all of it, send compassion to yourself, and allow yourself to be exactly as you are.
Take a few deep breaths, with full awareness. You might direct your breath to a spot just below your navel, and follow the whole circuit of your breath. Feel it enter your nostrils and caress the back of your throat. Notice your chest and belly float up and down as the breath enters and leaves your body. Then breathe normally with the same awareness, allowing your breath to be exactly as it is.
Look out the window, and notice what is going on in the natural world. Simply watch. At the same time, you also could be aware of the energy in your body and the sensation of your feet making contact with the floor.
If you practice Reiki, do some self-Reiki. If you don’t know Reiki, perhaps place a hand on your heart (or other area that calls for attention), and notice the heat and energy where your hand rests lightly on your body. Imagine light entering the top of your head and traveling through your arm and hand and into that part of your body. Feel love and light being channeled through your hands.
Send love and light, or lovingkindness, to someone. Perhaps someone else waiting in line or traffic or someone who is on your mind. Instead of worrying or focusing on negative thoughts, send love and light. Acknowledge that, like you, this person wants to be happy and free.
Do a little yoga or stretching. Notice how your body wants to move and which muscles want to be stretched, and allow yourself to move in that way.
All of these are ways to transform moments of waiting into opportunities for presence and connection. They are portals that bring you out of busy mind and into presence. Presence connects you with the world around you and puts more spaciousness around your thoughts and reactivity. It literally brings you back to your senses and restores balance and calm. It’s like pushing a reset button.
With practice, moments of waiting become cues for mindfulness, lovingkindness, and mindful self-compassion. A lovely, nourishing habit develops, and new neural pathways are formed. Little, mindful moments practiced regularly truly can transform your life. Presence is such a lovely gift to give yourself and everyone you interact with. It makes a difference.
I’m walking the labyrinth this morning and noticing dewdrops on blades of grass as they catch the light of the rising sun. Patches of dewdrops are visible only from certain angles. Otherwise, they are present but unseen. It’s an interplay that depends on where you and the object are in relation to each other and to the sun. Timing is also a factor because of the dewdrops’ transitory nature.
I recognized this immediately as my daily metaphor. Nature is a mirror that helps me to make more sense of the ambitious curriculum of Schoolroom Earth.
I can tell the labyrinth received some TLC recently, probably yesterday. It was neat and tidy and perfect for walking. Feeling appreciative, I stood at the end of the willow branch threshold and didn’t step into the labyrinth until I arrived fully in the space and could feel my feet on the ground, hear the sounds, and feel the breeze on my skin. Ground, sound, around.
As I walk, I notice the shadow pictures on the recycled slate steps of the labyrinth and think of all the different images that went unnoticed until I looked in a new way, and they became visible. Then I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed them before.
Isn’t that just how it works, though? You’re blind to certain realities until you’re in the right place and ready to see them. Visually and otherwise. Even when they are right there in front of you and had been all along.
All of a sudden, in one moment, breath, or footstep, it seems so obvious, and you can’t unsee the thing. I remember the day I first noticed the shadow pictures. It was like a new world opened up, and from then on, they were plain as day. Then I started noticing other kinds of shadow pictures. It was a new, expanded way of perceiving the world.
Sometimes other people can help us open our eyes. For example, one of my photographer friends shared a picture of geese floating on colorful, autumn reflections. Her image spoke to me and planted the seed of longing to notice and photograph the interaction of birds and reflections. Sharing her perspective made me aware of a new possibility.
Shadow pictures, others, self: It’s all the same. When the blinders finally come off, you see (and then can’t unsee) things that previously passed under the radar. We evolve by becoming aware of blind spots and expanding our field of vision and awareness. Sometimes it happens when there is a pressing need and we’re actively seeking a new perspective, and sometimes it happens when everything lines up just right. And when it does, there’s no value in regretting that you hadn’t seen it sooner. For whatever reason, you weren’t ready.
Just be glad you finally did, and go on from there.
I’m really glad I went to dharma meditation group this morning, even though I was five minutes late. It might have been because I got out of bed about a half hour before I needed to leave, and someone beat me to the bathroom, so I had to wait a few minutes. At any rate, by the time I left the house, I realized I would be a few minutes late.
What were my options?
Sit outside the door until the break between sittings.
Enter the meditation room as quietly and mindfully as possible.
The group meets in a wellness facility. A room at the back of a gym. When I got to the door, it didn’t feel right to sit outside the room. It felt more right to enter quietly.
Ever so slowly and mindfully, I turned the door handle, opened the door, and walked towards the meditation blankets and cushions, feeling each slow-motion, bare footstep making contact with the hardwood floor. It was a very short walk of fewer than ten steps, but in the piercing silence of the meditation room, it felt intrusive nonetheless.
I sat down silently on my cushion and tuned in to what was going on in my head and body. Most of all, I hoped I didn’t disrupt anyone’s meditation. Do I have a right to be here? Was it selfish to come in a few minutes late?
In meditation, you work with what arises, what shows up. For me, it was the voice in my head that didn’t want to bother anyone or act selfishly. I took a couple of deep breaths and did a body scan, which revealed energy in an area that often feels imbalanced, in a nook right below the center of my rib cage. So I directed my attention there, like a flashlight.
There was some panic in that spot. I was tempted to focus on my breathing instead of the tension. I noticed some resistance to being intimate with that energy and noted: Resistance. Then I realized there was a tender and vulnerable energy beneath the panic and investigated it. It seemed like a young child, and I heard: Am I lovable? Is it okay to make a mistake? Do mistakes make me bad?
This energy called for presence, not for the logical mind to step in and fix things and avoid connecting with and feeling the vulnerability. The childlike sweetness and purity of the questions touched my heart. I wanted to care for this little child.
But then I got distracted. I noticed the sounds outside the door: the whirring of an exercise machine moving very fast with an intensity that was in stark contrast to my stillness on the cushion. I heard voices talking. Were they louder than usual? OH NO! Did I not close the door all the way? Am I responsible for ruining everyone’s meditation?
Paying attention, I once again noted: Panic. I stayed with the source of that energy.
A few minutes later came the most dreadful realization of all: I FORGOT TO TURN OFF MY PHONE! Oh dear God, no! Please don’t let my phone make any sounds! What are the chances I will get a phone notification before the meditation bell rings? Okay, so I have a choice right now. I can hope and pray my phone will remain silent until the meditation is over. Or I could very mindfully and as quietly as possible reach for my bag, unzip it at a snail’s pace, and turn off my phone. Which would be least disruptive? Waiting for the bell did not seem as empowering a solution as turning off my phone. However, I decided to take that risk. Oh meditation bell, please ring soon!
Panic.Choice.Choosing to wait for the bell to ring.Questioning that choice. Noticing the temptation to criticize myself.
Then the bell rang, mercifully. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned off my phone.
After a brief break and dharma talk, we meditated again. I returned to the vulnerable energy at the base of my rib cage and placed a hand on that area to flow Reiki – unconditional love – to it. The energy wasn’t asking for reassuring explanations. It needed love. So I nurtured it with loving presence. How often do I shush that voice and focus on something else, thereby diminishing its importance and not hearing what it wants to tell me? And therefore not giving it what it needs.
After a few minutes, the energy calmed and cleared.
Then I noticed the voices outside the door again. The glorious voices! They were still loud. But that meant I didn’t mess up! It’s just the way the sounds are in that room. Maybe others were irritated by the voices and wished they would be quieter and less disruptive. In which case: Irritation. Desire.
Maybe some were grateful for the sounds of the voices bringing them back from wherever their mind had wandered. Returning. Appreciation.
Maybe when some people come in late, they squelch the voice that wonders if they are lovable, or maybe that voice doesn’t arise in them as it did in me. Maybe they assert their right to be here, and screw anyone who has a problem with it! (Thought bubbles over a roomful of meditators would be hilarious, heartbreaking, mundane, and everything in between.)
In the past, I sat next to people who came in late during meditation and noticed the sound of their rapid, shallow breathing, as if they’d been rushing. Compassion arose in me, and I radiated love to them and honored their intention to practice. Who knows what they went through before arriving. Their determination to attend meditation group was greater than whatever obstacle got in the way. Good for them!
I’ve also witnessed a meditator scowl at a latecomer. And I judged the scowling, thinking: He should just focus on his own breathing and reactions rather than get upset with someone who decided to show up after all. And then I caught my reaction. Judging. Storytelling.
Hello, Ego, my old friend. You nearly pulled me in again.
An observer might think it looks like everyone in the meditation room isn’t doing anything. But there’s so much that arises as invitations for awareness, healing, compassion, self-compassion. You work with whatever shows up. That’s the practice. When other people are involved, there’s an abundance of opportunity for practice because relationships are perhaps our principal means for learning in this world. But there’s plenty of opportunity when we sit alone in a room, too. There’s no shortage of material to work with, whether alone or with others.
At the end of the meditation group, an older woman approached me and complimented how quietly I entered the room and said she wishes others would come in so quietly. She told me she’s glad I came. Someone else might have a different response, a different story, different habits.
But you know what? The energy that arises in me is what I have to work with, and I felt good about how I handled it today, for the vulnerable, child energy received what it needed. The more I can accept and love all the parts of myself that arise, the more cleanly I can relate to others.
Of course, it’s important to get to meditation group on time. But if you are a few minutes late and choose to enter the room – or even if you’re on time or practicing alone – pay attention to the voices and energies that arise. They are there for your healing and liberation. All of them.
This afternoon, a friendly, older couple came into the library with a little girl about eight years old. They asked me to help them locate a DVD and handed me a piece of paper with only the call number written on it: 792.8 COPP. I didn’t need to know the name and didn’t ask.
It ended up being a DVD of the Coppélia ballet. They were taking their granddaughter to see it later this week at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center (SPAC) and wanted her to know the story ahead of time.
I saw the New York City Ballet perform Coppélia at SPAC many times when I was a little girl. It was my favorite ballet aside from The Nutcracker. I told the girl I loved Coppélia when I was about her age and mentioned that the costumes are beautiful, and I think she will enjoy it.
The grandparents’ energy was lovely. Their personalities seemed a lot like my parents’. My mom always made sure I knew the story of the ballets before seeing them, and the grandmother’s excitement reminded me of her love for ballet performances at SPAC. And the little girl reminded me of little me.
My mom worked at SPAC since I was in elementary school and retired a few short years before she died five years ago. When she retired, my parents were given lifetime, complimentary tickets for the ballet and orchestra performances. They always sat in “their” seats in the amphitheater. After my mom died, I accompanied my dad and sat in her seat. Their seats have plaques, and my mom’s bears the inscription:
Nancy Meyer “The Heart of Art of SPAC” From your SPAC Family
My dad’s, on the seat next to hers, reads:
Ed Meyer Nancy’s Husband “Partner in the Arts”
I haven’t been to the ballet or orchestra since my dad passed away. However, thanks to a partnership this year between SPAC and the libraries I work at, I’m going tomorrow evening with my family. I would have loved to see Coppélia, but I’m not free that evening. But it makes me happy to think about the little girl and her grandparents going to see it.
It was a really sweet interaction. However, when I sat back down at the reference desk, my eyes teared up. It was the kind of moment that has become so much rarer than during the early years of bereavement.
Grief is so very, very different now than it was for a few years after my mom (and soon after, my dad) died. It even feels benevolent. There’s still an initial sting, but it subsides swiftly into gentle ripples of gratitude and appreciation. I’m so grateful because grief was intense and overpowering for a while, a flood tide force that knocked me down and threatened to pull me under. There were a few complicating factors that made it downright brutal and certainly the darkest, most challenging years of my life.
It’s not like that now, for I’ve become familiar with grief and have learned to co-exist peacefully with it. Although every now and then a “moment” happens, it’s so much more fleeting than it was before. The sea is quieter. More of a gentle splash than a smack-down.
Within seconds of feeling tears welling in my eyes at the library, a familiar patron approached me with a joke that made me smile. Then he showed me a very marked up book of poetry he carries with him that has some of my favorite poet’s work in it. And just like that, the “moment” had passed.
If a distraction hadn’t come along, I probably would have greeted it silently: Hello, Grief. Then I’d generate lots of self-compassion and compassion for others all around the world who are grieving. That’s what Grief seems to ask of me these days. It wouldn’t have stayed long. It comes to connect me with our common humanity and to help me cultivate lovingkindness.
The moment of grief at the library was poignant but very brief. The brevity made me aware of the contrast between the dark years and now. As soon as I got home, I sat down to write this because I want you to know, if you are grieving the loss of someone dear: It’s going to get better. Grief is impermanent. It changes. Your relationship with it will change. It won’t always feel so intense. In time, there’s even a possibility that Grief will be your friend and reveal its silver lining. Perhaps you’ll even learn to dance together.