Practice

One of the lovely things about Buddhism – and really just about any major faith – lies in the challenge of bringing the foundation of your faith or spiritual philosophy into your living on a daily basis.

Though a measure of forgiveness or patience is not built into all spiritual roads, Buddhism definitely seems to encourage the practice of letting go of one's shortcomings... even as you attempt to expose each and every one of them so you may know yourself better.

I like this idea of practice. I am in love with the notion of concentrated and nearly continuous effort toward the betterment of oneself. To be courageous in the response to one's darknesses and failures. To be persistent in honestly assessing where you might be at any given moment. To hold a mirror up during times of tension or pain... and know you are still responsible for your piece of the human equation.

I am not always mindful... but in my spaces of mindfulness, I am forever surprised by the infinite number of opportunities I receive to practice the ideals I wish to embody. Compassion. Patience. Honesty. Trust. Peace. And in a full circle sort of way, how many chances I get to remember them when I fall short of my goals.

Today I received a parking ticket. My daughter had been pokey, and I knew we were running late. I had relaxed a bit on our departure time, imagining no one would come down our little side street. I had refused to carry her when she said she was too tired to walk (despite running around just minutes prior in the theatre), and she had thrown a fit—flopping down and lying prone in the middle of the sidewalk, refusing to move.

We turned the corner to see a woman nearing our car, and we both started running. My daughter's little legs suddenly recharged with energy after her insistence she could walk no further. (I had alerted her to the danger of tickets if we did not return on time, and instinctively she seemed to understand how important it was to get to our vehicle quickly.)

"We're here! We're here!" I called frantically as we ran up. We were less than 30 feet away and rapidly closed in, just as the woman stuck the ticket in a bright orange envelope and handed it to me.

I told my daughter to stand on the sidewalk as I took the ticket and attempted to look the woman in the eyes as honestly and openly as I could. "You're late," she said. "This expired at 1:21." She handed me the ticket.

"I have a four-year old," I said trying very hard to make it a statement of fact and not an emotional backlash.

And then she walked away. An older gentleman who had been standing about 15 feet away from us approached as she left and asked if we had still gotten the ticket. I told him yes. "I can't believe that," he said, shaking his head. "One minute earlier and you'd have been fine."

I got in the car and tried very hard not to be angry. My daughter immediately blamed herself and started getting upset as I tried not to cry. I didn't want her to feel guilty or responsible; life is such a complex tangle of factors it's ridiculous to isolate any one person or event as being solely responsible for anything. I told her everything was ok... assured her it was not her fault... and we rode home together feeling upset and sad and worrying after each other.

Although there were flickers here and there, I was able to keep my reactive hatred and retributive hostility in check until I got home and opened the envelope. $50.00. We were less than 10 min late.

That's when the real anger kicked in. Remembered slights and all the unhappy baggage of my childhood years exploded open the emotional doors... and for about half an hour, I struggled to keep those feelings in check. To remember my promises to myself as to what kind of person I wish to be... what kinds of feelings/thoughts/actions I wish to put into the world.

I stopped myself from wishing comeuppance or even karmic payback. I resisted the urge to post something on Facebook wherein I could pour some venom or release some spite back into the ether in the hopes it would somehow make me feel better. And finally, I even stopped crying. Stopped thinking of it as something done to me or the universe treating me unfairly and instead decided to write this.

Which hopefully aligns with those values I mentioned earlier. Compassion. Patience. Honesty. Trust. Peace.

It is easy to love my daughter for being so empathic and caring so much about me. Easy to love the random stranger who came up and tried to make me feel better by commiserating about Mayor Daley's parking meter decisions. Easy to love my husband who listened to me sob on the phone and tried to calm me down.

What takes practice, today at least, is loving the woman who gave me the ticket. The upstairs neighbor who walks heavily through her apartment in high-heeled boots. The grocery store patron who looked at my daughter with disdain. The landlord who has not fixed the lock on the front door. The driver who nearly sideswiped us.

But if I am to remain true to my goals, to my spiritual focus, and ultimately to my self, then I must love them all. Love myself when I fail. And then try again.

May you remain open to your opportunities. May you remain patient in your practice - especially with yourself.

Gifts (Part II)

So as I was thinking about gifts, gift-giving, and an awareness of abundance last week, my husband made a comment one night about gifts we, as individuals, bring with us or cultivate during our lives.

It's a concept I had encountered many times before, but had never thought about in quite the way he put it. He said he was thinking about people who are born into money... specifically, the ones who seem to squander it or do nothing of meaning or purpose with it. The folks born with a silver spoon who never give anything of meaning back and therefore just move through life like bloated and entitled blemishes upon the body of humanity.

We loathe those people, generally. We see in them a selfishness and lack of compassion both startling and disheartening... and they tend to carry after them legacies of infamy, ill-repute, or at least deep sighs and shaking heads.

The point he made is that we are all born with gifts: things we do really well or seem to excel at in a way that sets us apart from those around us. Everyone has something like this. Maybe it's artistic, maybe it's organizational, or interpersonal, or physical... whatever. You've got some prowess and ability that is unique to you and undeniably special.

(Pressfield touches on this in The War of Art; he links it to God and the divine... but I think it's less important where it comes from and more important that you notice your strengths/blessings with honesty and gratitude.)

My husband (who has been navigating his own path of self-identity, career, and life-purpose) said he realized refusing to make use of one's gift, or find ways to share it with others in some fashion, was akin to being a myopic, avaricious rich kid who was blessed with unasked-for rewards and consumed them all without ever looking up to see who else might benefit from such wealth.

And when he told me this, I chewed on it for days... all weekend, in fact. I thought about seeing Ani DiFranco in concert and being blown away by her talent and hit with this indelible sense of "this woman is doing what she was put on this earth to do." And then I thought about the people I've met - teachers, counselors, artists, doctors, psychics, engineers, ministers - who called forth in me that same recognition... and awe... and envy.

It was not until very recently the envy started fading. An unflinching awareness of the ways in which I hold myself back has served to erase those displaced emotions. My joy remains my responsibility. My willingness to embrace the talents I possess - to see them as a compassionate response and fortunate opportunity - directly impacts my experience within the world and my level of happiness, peace, and personal fulfillment.

I have been better, lately, about sharing my gifts and utilizing my strengths in a mindful and compassionate manner. And - bit by bit - I am creating cracks in the self-imposed barriers I see between myself and the realization of various inner callings. I notice a greater sense of connection to those around me, and I feel more comfortable in my day-to-day being.

I think Buddha probably summed it up best: "Meditate. Live purely. Be quiet. Do your work with mastery. Like the moon, come out from behind the clouds! Shine."

May you discover and celebrate your singular talents. May your gifts bring you - and those around you - closer to something wonderful.

*Special thanks to Melinda Evans for taking this photo - from the booth! - during Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind. You rock, girl!

Silence

There is an odd and inherent contradiction to blogging. It creates a public and infinitely open forum from which to communicate, and yet the words shared are limited via the medium used and must always be funneled down to an individual perspective. It's hard to walk the fine line sometimes between personal and purposeful. Ultimately, one's intention as a writer remains helpless in meeting the perspective of the reader... and so the process ends up feeling a bit like writing a love letter to someone you know from afar - without expectation of response.

In looking back on yesterday's post, I have been thinking a lot about silence (specifically, the Buddhist take on silence), and also about suffering and compassion... and how that all blends together in the context of blogging through the process of my spiritual exploration.

One of my favorite Buddhist proverbs is:

Do not speak, unless it improves on silence.

I love the recognition of silence as something valuable, as well as the importance of thinking before speaking. Sometimes our words are like our thoughts: random, ego-driven, tangential, and disconnected from mindful awareness. Silence may afford further reflection; it may allow someone else an opportunity to provide wisdom, guidance, or strength; and it may lead to a more silent internal state... one truly centered in the now and from which we may speak and act with authenticity and humility.

How, then, does silence come to bear upon blogging? It's a rather talky activity - potentially self-important and typically one-sided in its execution. My guess: Most bloggers negotiate and utilize large periods of silence before setting out to communicate their thoughts. Posts are purposeful, the structure and tone of the blog decided in advance and carefully maintained by the author. I would also hazard a guess most bloggers are doing so because they value interpersonal connection and believe there is merit to sharing their thoughts and personal experiences while reading those of others in an effort to remember and expand upon the universality and interconnection of the human experience.

One of the things I struggle with lately, in seeking to better understand Buddhism, is in knowing how to balance an awareness of the suffering of others with an openness and honesty to my suffering - in whatever form it may take. This can be difficult because we are relativistic thinkers... and so our tendency is to compare self with other - be it for good or ill.

Halfway through my post yesterday, I started to worry my focus on boredom might seem callous in the context of the earthquake in Haiti, the health struggles of friends and their families, the financial struggle of thousands striving to make basic necessities (food, shelter, clothing) a consistent and stable reality, the disenfranchisement and discrimination faced by individuals whose rights are unjustly and consistently denied...

It is a luxury to be able to focus on an emotion such as boredom. I see it as an opportunity to practice gratitude and consider my blessings to be able to label my suffering with such a small and trivial word. And I chose to blog about it - and to keep it even when worry struck halfway through - because I hoped my words might bring a sense of connection or comfort to someone else standing under the same raincloud.

There is another proverb I found today that seems fitting:

Every path has its puddle.

Sometimes the puddle exists in the wake of a tsunami and threatens to overwhelm us, and sometimes it is merely the mirage of water we seem to be standing in - a self-propelled hallucination because we are determined to see water where there is none.

I like to think there is merit in exploring both.

May you listen, pause, and breathe today. May you answer all forms of suffering (even the imagined ones) with compassion and courage.

Empathy

One of my daughter's favorite activities is watching old cartoons on YouTube. She tends to go for Disney's Silly Symphonies, Pink Panther cartoons, or even something as modern as my personal favorite: Pixar Shorts. Of course, inevitably in the course of searching, watching and getting recommendations, we eventually end up somewhere unanticipated and stumble upon items at times outlandish and at times surprisingly good.

One such example was Emily's Journey with Gaucher Disease (both Part I and Part II). For whatever reason, my inquisitive little daughter (who is equal parts artistically expressive and scientifically investigative) became obsessed with this video for over a week. She would request it, watch it multiple times in one sitting.... and eventually started to point out telltale signs she had what Emily had. "See how my belly sticking out, Mama? I can't eat... maybe me sick."

Rather than discourage her fascination with the video, I let her watch it as much as she liked and tried to address her questions and worry patiently. I figured such exploration on her part would make it easier to discuss things if and when anyone in the family became seriously ill, and it would hopefully give her a greater range of understanding/compassion/empathy any time she encountered someone struggling with an illness. Yet, I am glad the "Gaucher Disease" phase passed and we are back to The Ugly Duckling and Ferdinand the Bull.

Just the other day, we were doing our usual gallivanting around YouTube and my daughter happily poked her finger at a video we had never seen before: The Little Match Girl. I didn't realize it at the time, but it's attributed to Disney/Pixar and the version we found relies solely on animation and music.

As an education buff, this was especially interesting to me, because it required my daughter to unravel and create the narrative for herself... and it lead to many interesting questions. We discussed poverty, homelessness, orphans, fantasy/reality, and eventually... death. She didn't realize what happened in the story the first time we viewed it, but a different version with narration (requested by my daughter, of course) provided insight into the ending and gave the entire story new meaning because we have often talked about death, dying, and the many theories of what happens after death.

It was an equally moving and sobering experience because I realized how little suffering she has been exposed to in her short life. As a parent, I consider this a blessing in a way because it means we've been lucky, and it means she feels safe and protected in this family. The idea of an adult mistreating a child, of a child being alone in the world, of a child not having enough to eat - all of this is foreign to her.

As a novice Buddhist and lifelong spiritual spelunker, it also struck me as a crossroads in her development as a human being and increased an awareness of my responsibility to her in way of tangible and intangible guidance.

Were she to continue living in ignorance of the suffering of others, she might become less able to respond with gratitude to her numerous blessings. She might assume everyone has an equal experience and live her life in blindness to the reality and effect of privilege and power across societies. She might never learn the importance of donating her time, resources, or energy to causes of compassion or justice.

And in the wake of that afternoon, my mind has continued to race over possible ways to help her gain knowledge and experience in this area of life without creating undue psychological or emotional hardship. Empathy is an integral skill and, I believe, a foundational building block in learning to effectively navigate interpersonal relationships with respect and kindness through one's entire life. I want my daughter to be able to empathize with others because I know it will help her become a considerate, responsible, and generous adult.

Again I continue my tightrope walk along the middle way... seeking balance in an effort to discover the blemishes of my little "i" self while pursuing a course of right action for the benefit of my and my family's growth. Not too fast, not too slow. Not too much, not too little. Honest, but gentle. Firm, but malleable. Strong, but always openly human.

May you notice someone invisible to you up until today. May you respond with empathy to the experience of others.

Disaster

Being in the middle of a natural disaster can feel not only frightening, but also paradoxical. I think, particularly in Western culture, there is a tendency to view nature as benign and loving; however, nature can also be highly dangerous, unpredictable, and seemingly cruel.

I say seemingly because ascribing human emotion to natural phenomena seems somewhat counterproductive. Maybe it's helpful to have someone or something to lash out against... fight can be a form of survival, and sometimes manufacturing a fight can provide the catalyst we need for decisive response. But, ultimately, the motives of the natural world cannot truly be divined and most likely have nothing to do with us on an individual or ego-based level.

But disasters do sometimes feel cruel, or unfair. Natural disasters, like any crisis, are what psychologists or counselors would call an unanticipated (or unexpected) adverse event. We didn't plan for it, didn't see it coming, and don't want it in our lives. It creates stress, engenders fear, and may shake our resolve because it challenges the religious, spiritual, or other meaning we have made of our lives.

Our safety and stability are questioned; the truth of our lack of control is brought into stark and startling focus. And often, in the midst of so much emotional, physical, and mental difficulty... we are left to question everything we knew before the crisis occurred.

I have been through only one natural disaster in my life, and it was rather minor compared to the many disasters experienced by so many others. We lost power, but it was restored in less than a week. There were downed trees, blocked roadways, flooded areas, and exposed power lines everywhere, but our house was untouched and still inhabitable. We had no cooking gas, but we had running water, plenty of ice, and access to grocery stores and restaurants scrambling to stay open and provide resources. There were few deaths or injuries, and everyone in the region rallied together to provide assistance, food, shelter, friendship, and compassion in the aftermath of the storm.

It is difficult to fully comprehend the devastation those in Haiti are now facing. The images and stories being shared via international news agencies provides an opportunity to show compassion and provide assistance in whatever way we are able, while also taking stock of our blessings and practicing gratitude.

To suggest the earthquake is anything other than a natural disaster - an unanticipated adverse event that took place in the natural course of life - seems to me both unjustified and inhumane. It's akin to seeing someone suffering before you and choosing to increase their pain rather than seeking to relieve it. In essence, "kicking someone while they're down" - both cowardly and malevolent.

Perhaps you have already found ways to offer assistance. Perhaps you are already holding those affected in your prayers and meditations. Should you be seeking information on how to help, CNN has an excellent site with multiple links.

If you feel uncomfortable sending money, perhaps you can consider others ways to show compassion and be a source of assistance, comfort, or peace. I encourage you to reach out, to empathize, and to consider the words of Thich Nhat Hahn: "Compassion is a verb."

May you ease the suffering of others as you are able. May you practice gratitude, compassion, and love with mindful awareness.

Love

"Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive." ~ H.H. the 14th Dalai Lama

Today I've been thinking about love. It's become somewhat banal and even corny to say we all seek love, or that love makes the world a better place... more inhabitable and more meaningful. But this morning I was struck by how integral our sense of love, our capacity to love, and the meaning we make of love is to the way we experience our lives, others, and our selves.

The holidays can be a time of great stress and worry. I feel like I see more sadness around the holidays: head-down, inner-thinking turmoil; fretful and angry interactions. Certainly there is kindness too, but the holidays and our inherent attachments, expectations, and fantasies surrounding them become a time of heightened emotions - some good... some not so good.

This morning I realized many of the sadnesses I have witnessed in the last few weeks seem to stem from an issue surrounding love. And not necessarily romantic love - that's a whole other system of desires, fears, and truths. I mean instead, love that translates to acceptance, kinship, connection, belonging.

Those things, I believe, are some of what we yearn for most strongly - desire most deeply. I think this connects to Adler's emphasis of inferiority and superiority, which is ultimately an experience of "out" versus "in" - "belonging" versus "not belonging." We seek an identity straddling independent strength and interdependent interconnection. And our experience of them shapes our perception of everything around us. It impacts the narrative we weave and our concept of ourselves and our place within our multiple contexts (check out Bronfenbrenner's Ecological Systems Theory).

In a moment of clarity this morning, I realized I struggle with accepting and truly reveling in the love others show me. I struggle to consistently and freely show my love to others. And I really struggle to love myself.

This colors my perception of life. It impacts the narrative I write, the memories I collect, the thoughts I think, the actions I take, and the meaning I make of myself, my purpose, and my relationships.

Today I feel deeply loved. And I am immensely grateful. I am determined to open myself up to it, smile and glow in it, and then pass it on as best I can to everyone else.

May you feel a deep sense of love today - for yourself and others. May you remember how incredibly special and valuable you are.

Perspective

So... my car was towed this weekend. I was doing the first week of anniversary shows for Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind and when I tried to start my car to head home, it wouldn't start. I caught up with some ensemble members and Tim offered to help jump the car.

And then we realized I had locked my keys in. So... 30 minutes up to Evanston to get my husband's keys... but he was fast asleep (which was totally fair since it was about 2:30am at this point). So... I knocked on the front windows while Tim banged on the bedroom windows and we finally got Andy up. Poor guy. Bleary-eyed, totally confused, and still sleepy he handed over his keys, gave me lots of kisses... and I went back to the theatre to get the car.

The jump did not work, and since it was 3am at this point, Tim offered to call 311 to see if the car was in a tow zone. We told them where it was. They said it would only be towed if there was 2 or more inches of snow (which there was not). So... I decided to leave it there and deal with it in the morning.

Tim drove all the way back to Evanston one more time, and I got in bed next to my still-awake husband around 3:30am. Our daughter woke up at 4am, and came in each half hour. Andy got up at 6am, and I slept until 8am. We headed out for breakfast and then took the train down to Andersonville to get the car.

Which was gone. Gone gone gone. I tracked it down, went to the impound lot, and paid the $160 to get it out. Then called AAA to have it towed. Then waited for 4 hours; yes... 4 hours. Ari missed her nap. Then she missed lunch. Then it was closing in on dinner time. Finally, someone from AAA showed up and said they couldn't come in to get the car. We had to have someone else tow it to the gate.

We found someone who would tow it out, but the AAA guy left and said he would come back in half an hour... maybe. Thankfully, the private towing guy agreed to drive us all the way to the service station we had found in Evanston for $100 (it's $60 just to get it to the gate of the lot, so this seemed like a good deal).

We got home around 6pm, I ate, slept a bit, and then went back to the theatre, this time catching a ride with Greg from the el. Meanwhile, I looked at the ticket we also were given on top of the towing expense and saw it was another $60. Lovely.

So... the car was ready Sunday afternoon. We picked it up. $147. And all three of us spent the day in a sort of daze. Andy and I shellshocked by the expense of my decision not to call AAA in those wee hours of Sunday morning BEFORE the car was towed... Ari still talking about the "mean" people who took our car away and the "stinky place" we spent our whole Saturday.

My husband asked this morning if I was going to blog about this today. And I really hadn't intended to. He was right in suggesting it was an incredible test of spiritual reserve and opportunity for growth (kind of a practice in action thing). And it really did shake all three of us up. Ari is still talking about it and acting it out in play. I keep getting hit by random waves of panic and have a pretty strong twinge of anxiety every time I start the car.

But mostly, I felt okay about it. I mean... I have been very mad at myself for not calling that night instead of leaving the car behind. Very mad at the woman who said I would not be towed. And very, very mad at the city for not posting adequate signage and for creating a system wherein you cannot contest what has happened without endangering yourself financially—which means anyone who gets towed ultimately has to end up paying. Because no one can afford to take the risk of keeping the car in the lot while they wait for the hearing to happen and find out if the charges will be dropped.

So. The unfairness is upsetting. The inherent possibility and almost-definite existence of corruption within the system angers and saddens me. But I was mostly able to let go of even that. I pretty much forgave myself all my crying during our ordeal on Saturday. Was grateful I kept my cool the whole time and did not lose my temper. Was extremely grateful to Tim and Greg for their help.

It is what it is. It is done.

And then I heard a story on NPR this morning about a woman who crossed from Egypt into Israel with her children, seeking asylum. That's when I decided I would blog about this. Because her story, and of other refugees like her, put all the little emotional loose ends I might have been feeling to rest as soon as I heard it.

I encourage you to listen to it when you have time.

My car being towed was such a small thing. As my husband noted on the day we waited so long to get our car: the only thing it was costing us in the end was money and time. Both of which, at this time in our lives, we were able to spare—a significant thing to note.

We were all safe. We all stayed warm. My friends helped me out, they made me smile and laugh, and we are with vehicle again. Something that, in this economy especially, is a blessing all by itself.

It took me a very long time - very long - to stop comparing my suffering to that of other people. And sometimes, I still find I get wrapped up in my private, inner emotional tailspins and have to remind myself to stop. Mindfully cease the litany of sorrow and shift instead to seeing with eyes aware of the many good things I call my own... to look around and notice so many other people much more in need of compassion and empathy than I.

I actually feel very lucky today. And so much more aware of how small this event was in the grand scheme of things. My energies are much better spent focusing on the suffering of others, the injustices of the world, and opportunities for action and compassion and giving back.

Listen to that story.
Consider your blessings.
And don't leave your car overnight on the corner of Ashland and Foster - no matter how much snow is on the ground.

May you see the positives in your life today. May you reach out to help someone in whatever way you can.

Silliness

My daughter is a funny girl. Silly and playful - she loves to make others laugh and she's got a pretty sly and witty sense of humor for one so young.

One thing I admire about her and my husband is their willingness to be ridiculous in their play. They don't mind looking crazy or acting dopey - particularly if it's funny and is going to get the desired response of laughter they may be seeking via their antics.

I have always struggled with appearing foolish. I equated silly with stupid, and I feared appearing stupid. Here I am in my late 30s, and life looks very different in this decade. So it is my concept of foolish has begun to change.

It began, I believe, when my daughter was very young. She liked to go to the mall and ride the electronic doodads and geegaws all clumped together in the small, tyke-friendly playland outside the arcade and across from the food court.

One day I watched my husband do a series of clown routines for her as she rode a series of objects. Horse. Ice cream truck. Car with tongue-wagging dog. He threw himself into it completely - without regard for passers-by, mall staff, or other children milling about.

I saw him do this many times. In many malls. And each time, he unflinchingly chose to be as foolish as possible in the most public of places... all so his daughter would giggle in the way that makes his heart giddy.

And here we are in toddlerhood. Moving away from the rides and into new territory filled with preschool, friend-making, and an increased curiosity about the world and its many inhabitants. I see my daughter choosing to be silly and playful at home... reveling in the genuine laughter she can produce from her oft-too-serious parents. And I have seen her shy away from being anything that might get her noticed in any way when at school or meeting new people.

She is caught between two models... two modes of interaction offered by her parents: 1) abandon and 2) hiding. Perhaps it is this observation, above any other, leading me to question my relationship with silliness.

I have begun to notice great strength in the foolishness of others. My envy of others' ability to dive head-long into goofy behavior has morphed into admiration... something to be inspired by. Something to aspire to.

Back in October, I did a run of five weeks in Too Much Light... and challenged myself to be silly. To be laughed at. To be ridiculous or large or clownish. And... in some ways... I was successful in my pursuit. In fact, one ensemble member actually used the word clown (which made my day).

My hope is to become sillier with age... to grow increasingly willing to engage in antics and goofiness for the benefit of others and to care less about what it means or what it looks like or what so-and-so thinks of my behavior.

Silliness is ego-less. It is without attachment and often without expectation. In its best sense, it's the embodiment of compassion and joy - an authentic response to the humor and playful wonder available in so many small moments and details of life. Just as it is.

May you abandon your ego in pursuit of silliness today. May you refuse to self-edit yourself out of goofy, grinny, foolish fun.

Compassion

There are people, places, and things in our lives for whom we willingly do all we can with kindness and love. Maybe it's an organization you work for. Maybe it's your dog. Maybe your child, parent, friend, or partner.

For most of us, our compassion flows freely and easily with a select group of priorities in our lives. Sacrifice comes willingly; selflessness is not even labeled as such - it feels so natural.

Today it is my daughter, sicker than she has been so far in her brief life and desperately craving care, love, and strength. No question, no hesitation; she gets all I have. I wait (and write) in her small moments of sleeping, hoping for better news with the next thermometer read.

These easy acts of compassion are important, I believe, because they offer greater insight into our capacity to love something in the absence (or at least forgetting) of self. There is no longer separation between "me" and the object of my compassion because I am already such a decided part of it, and vice versa.

So, these loves of ours provide windows into the majesty of our souls. Becoming mindful of the compassionate acts, words, and thoughts we commit without hesitation provides occasion to look more honestly at the opportunities we miss or ignore.

I happened upon Speaking of Faith this weekend, and caught an interview with Karen Armstrong, who has dedicated her life to the study of spirituality and religion in multiple forms. Many of her ideas gibe with others I've encountered lately:

• The concept of right action as a conscious choice and form of ethical behavior and moral comportment more linked to the person we decide to be than a religious concept of God or specific dogma.
• The overriding concept among a multitude of faiths (monotheistic, creedal, covenantal, fundamentalist, philosophic, etc.) uniting each, which boils down to how we treat one another and make our way through the world.

These ideas led her to create the Charter for Compassion, which is a stunning concept and uplifting and inspiring project. It unites people of all faiths, mindsets, and beliefs to commit to loving action and greater empathy. Just imagine, if we could all commit to this level of compassion in all aspects of our lives: no cruelty, no violence, no conscious infliction of pain upon another... any other. What might we accomplish?

Compassion has the potential to unite us all. It has the power to change the world - and not in a Pollyanna-ish, pie-in-the-sky kind of way. I mean really change it... on small and large levels. Someone lets you into merging traffic; someone holds the door for you because your hands are full; someone tells you they believe in you and gives you hope in a dark time; someone holds your hand in the hospital before surgery, providing an anchor in a storm of crisis; someone says something kind in the midst of your mourning and it allows you to push forward one more time.

Compassion for ourselves, compassion for others. It indelibly alters our world experience and worldview in a way that is positive and productive. Bound to authenticity, honesty, kindness, and empathy - it is the opposite of control, the antithesis of judgment, and the impossibility of hatred.

May you hold another in your heart today and treat them with compassion. May you honor yourself with love and kindness. And may the objects of your compassion increase daily.

Communication

I tend to be very careful with my words. I have always been a fan of language - reading, writing, speaking, performing... words
words
words.

I love talking and relish in the art of communication (it is important to note I attach "art" to speaking... telling, in fact).

I am attached to language. Sometimes to the detriment of my understanding others. Of course, this can sometimes mean I am also too attached to words as well. My husband has a somewhat different approach to communication and often has to remind me to listen to what he has actually said and not what I infer from his speaking.

I am a user of subtext, I have come to realize. I look for the message beneath the words... which, in some cases, helps me understand and empathize a bit better. It also means I sometimes overlay my own interpretation and assumptions onto someone's hoped-for and intended message. That can be messy or even embarrassing.

My communication style - and more importantly the way I communicate - has become more noticeable and on display since having a child. She mirrors my speech patterns and habits, echoes my sighs and phrasings... even - at times - reflects my cycles of impatience or anger, my tendency to forget communication must still contain compassion if we are to be mindful of the receiver.

The great book I am reading (I will mention it again: Momma Zen...) has a beautiful chapter on this very exchange process. She has a great suggestion, which really rang like a wake-up bell for me, which is essentially... when you notice your child starting to forget their manners or speak to you in ways that don't fit with how we talk to each other in this family - listen to yourself.

See if you have forgotten some of those shared rules... children reflect what they see. They mimic what they experience. In terms of our evolution and growth, they can be amazing mirrors wherein we see all our blemishes, deserving of attention and focus.

This week, I have been very mindful of my communicating. Mindful of my choice of words, mindful of my tone, mindful of the ways I do and do not use please and thank you - despite my faith in their necessity and usefulness. Mindful of my bossy-ness... echoed by my daughter like a little babbling brook providing me the chance to see (and hear) my reflection.

Most importantly, and with all people, I've striven to be more mindful of ulterior motives, hidden questions, or ego-driven reaching in my conversations. I have been practicing direct communication - saying what I mean, meaning what I say - which is sometimes quite scary and often yields unexpected results.

It is a constant practice, this act of simple speaking. How funny that the mind, ego, and heart (full of insecurities and dreams and expectations) could take something so potentially direct and sure... and instead tangle it all up in a tightly wound ball of half-spoken, half-honest, half-meant, half-minded prattle.

And so I re-learn what I hope my daughter will learn for the first time: There is strength in stating your feelings directly and honestly. I'm upset. I'm scared. I'm sorry. I love you. There is love in using words of kindness. Please. Thank you. I'm listening. I'm watching. And in order to be a good communicator, we must listen as well as we speak - perhaps even better.

May you choose your words with care. May you listen to others with a full and open heart. May your communication be mindful, honest, and simple today.

Hope

Today I am thinking about hope. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because it's been a difficult week. Maybe because I am starting to look for work and feeling a bit bewildered due to all the variables we must consider with regard to our daughter, our residence, our income, our tax bracket, etc.

It could also be due to the several stories I heard this morning on NPR that make my concerns look tiny and more-than-manageable in comparison with the difficulties faced by so many others throughout the world.

The older I have gotten, the more I've come to understand the importance and impact of hope. It's the thing that keeps us feeling connected, the thing that keeps us from going under or spiraling downward beyond articulating, past reaching out... locked in paralyzed hiding.

Hope reminds us we are beautiful - in a divine and valuable way. It tells us we are strong. It whispers possible connections between ourselves and everyone around us... weaving safety nets along our support systems so that even the slightest waver catches someone's attention - and they answer our call before we even knew we needed assistance.

Hope is tied to compassion. Our capacity to be compassionate with ourselves and to be open to the imperfections and potential challenges contained in others. Hope allows failure. Hope allows forgiveness. Because it sees neither as a finite answer and believes new questions can always be asked.

One of my assignments this week was to meditate for 5 minutes each day. Such a seemingly small thing, and yet - as our teacher knew it would - it can pose a challenge for those of us unused to making time for such things.

A remarkable aspect of these daily sittings has been the discovery of a deep-seated and very powerful force of hope within. I am still in the process of fully uncovering it... like a deep-sea diver carefully removing wreckage around a sunken treasure. I catch it gleaming... get a sharp sense of how valuable this finding will be... and then my awareness shifts to the hulking metal, the rusty, barnacled shell of some long-forgotten mishap.

It's hard work, clearing away our internal rubble. Painful and murky... with long spans of being left alone in the dark to wonder if the debris we've stirred up will clear enough to see again.

Hope is that shiny little sparkle you catch out of the corner of your eye. The one that makes your heart quicken and your mouth open just slightly so that the corners begin to inch toward smiling.

It's worth it. For those of you reading this and questioning whether to keep going, whether to allow hope a larger space in your heart, whether to continue digging through the remains so you may finally let go... the answer is yes.

May you allow hope to reside within you. May it spur you on to greater action.

Attachment

I was checking out a local zen center last month and stumbled upon a blog they create. The post I happened to reach that day was about Layman Pang and his act of putting all his worldly possessions into a big ol' body of water.

The author focused on the multiple ways to understand this story. What jumped out at me in particular was his focus on the assumption we make in reading such a story that the decision to go to the lake happened one day - like a bolt out of the sky - and that was that.

He argues that such types of renunciation - acts of detachment - often require more time, thought, and energy than we foresee when first we conceive of them. And part of the journey of letting go is the multitude of steps along the way wherein we must question, falter, convince, and recommit ourselves to our chosen path.

That really resonated for me. And so I spent a long time thinking about Layman Pang, this particular story, and what lessons it might hold.

In this time of "reduce, reuse, recycle" it's difficult to conceive of simply destroying the bulk of our possessions. Even if we've taken the step of simplifying our lives and really looking over what we need, what we value, and what we can let go of in order to enjoy more freedom and peace in our lives (be they tangible or intangible things)... we still most likely feel some impulse or urging to not let those things go to waste. To do something useful with the detritus or at least see if they can be reborn/reimagined/repurposed in some other way or by some other person.

We had a huge garage sale before moving to Evanston. We were moving from a two-story, 4 bedroom home with extra rooms into a two-bedroom, one bath apartment - and we knew downsizing was not just something to consider as we played with the idea and struggled to embrace the concept of simplification. It was downright necessary or we were going to be miserable and overburdened with belongings.

So... we had two sales and ended up parting with many, many things. A good experience, a good boost to our bank, a good way to finally let go of some estate items I had been reluctant to relinquish, and ultimately successful because our apartment feels livable, at least.

When we got here, I realized there was even more from which I could metaphorically unclench my fingers. So much extra stuff I was holding onto and carting around. Stuff. Just stuff. With no real purpose in my life and very little in way of being a source of joy or impact.

Which is when I encountered the post about Layman Pang... and began to wonder why in the world he did not sell his possessions, donate them, reuse them, etc. Why destroy them? Why dirty up the Earth with one's old things?

My guess, lately, is that he did it as an act of compassion. You see... when we pass along our unwanted items to other people, we are relying on their sense of need and their expressions of attachment to rid us of our own. We successfully unhinge ourselves from the imagined importance of the fifth trinket on the right behind the dusty doodad on the highest shelf... only to pass it along to some all-too-willing person who has not yet recognized his or her own displaced act of need.

Layman Pang, I think, wanted to spare those around him from the fate from which he had finally extricated himself. Why perpetuate that form of greed, that type of attachment, that consumerist mentality to which so many of us is accustomed? Instead... he selected that which he no longer needed, threw it into a boat, rowed out to the middle of a lake, and chucked it all into the water. Good riddance. May you never trouble another.

I consider that a compassionate act. One that is difficult to emulate in modern times because it would be littering to toss all my stuff into Lake Michigan, and I can't just start a huge bonfire in the backyard, and I do believe that some items would actually be of use to other people. But I think about Pang's act a lot, and I continue to ponder my role and responsibility in shedding the attachments of my life for which there is no longer room or purpose. How do I do so in the most loving and respectful way possible?

I suppose I'll let you know if I figure that one out.

May you see the attachments in your life with clarity; may you deal with your "baggage" (in whatever form it may take) with compassion for others.