Commitment

One of the biggest life lessons my husband and I both seem to face involves commitment. Paradoxically enough, committing to each other seems to be the one area in which we are able to commit most successfully!

Instead, we struggle with commitment in many other forms: work, friendships, parenting, exercise, healthy eating, art-making, inhabiting our home...

I'm not entirely sure why this is or from where it stems. We have separate histories with long stretches of restlessness and ennui - escapist tendencies and neurotic, emotional longing coupled with sometimes paralyzing self-doubt and continual existential questioning.

The good news: we seem to be moving in a positive direction. We each seem to be finding our way through our individual morass of wishy-washy, noncomittal leanings - and we work well as a team to mindfully notice and work to undo the collective apathy or downright stubborn opposition that can sometimes result in our combined indifference and/or doubt.

This issue of commitment has become especially highlighted this past week via two paths: 1) my role as a novice and my noncommital pursuit of Buddhist study and regular daily meditation practice, and 2) my tumultuous attempts to be an ideal parent (and yes - I am aware of the inherent contradiction and unhealthy attachment present in such terminology).

My little ah ha moment this week came when I connected my former practice of yoga (again, rather sporadic and casual) to both of these processes. You see... one thing I both loved and hated about yoga was the fact that there is no end point. No final destination whereupon you can deem your work successfully concluded or perfectly executed and happily check it off your list with a happy coo of accomplishment.

No... yoga is all about imperfection. The process of yoga - the commitment involved - is in recognizing you will never get it just right, but rather must wholeheartedly accept the task of pushing yourself to forever move infinitely closer to a perfect pose. Like those mathematical equations where the line moves toward the axis in incremental amounts, but will never actually intersect. Infinite striving toward an unreachable goal.

Such is the way of mindful practice, I am beginning to think. There is no right, or perfect, or done in meditation or Zen study. I may reach toward enlightenment with all my being and purpose - I may even reach it... touching briefly upon awareness like a dragonfly alighting upon a stone. But I will not stay there. I will not exist within that simple yet complex balance forever.

It's as if it just dawned on me that mistakes and failure are as much a part of life and authentic living as triumphs and success. I will not be a perfect parent. I will make errors of judgment; I will lose my temper and yell too loud; I will forget to be consistent; I will try too hard or not hard enough; I will forget myself and my love and my respect for the gift that is my child. I will forget she is a gift.

But perhaps the necessity in such a situation is committing to the journey rather than the destination. Accepting and embracing the futility and transience of "ideal," while mindfully and passionately committing to the pursuit of such an ending.

After all, perfection, happiness, and enlightenment are attainable. I think most of us experience these things more than we think... but because they are fleeting and impermanent we decide they must have been false, or they do not count because they did not last.

There is a beautiful teaching I recently read that essentially says: On a cloudy day, you may not see the sun. You may feel enveloped by the grey and gloomy sky and forget the warmth and light of a bright, clear day. But once the clouds clear, the sun is there. It has always been there... has always been shining - whether it was part of your awareness or not.

The perfection (the Buddha nature) of you is like that. It's always there. Sometimes we feel it, sometimes we do not. Sometimes we express it, and sometimes we fail miserably to be authentic, compassionate, and courageous. But it is always there. Always shining.

This week I realized I must commit to myself - to my possibility of an ideal me... my Buddha nature realized and lived: my ability to parent wisely and lovingly; my compassion as a wife, friend, relative, or stranger; my work and my art and my everything in between. But not as a goal... not in reaching a finish line or declaring myself done.

I must commit to the journey. The imperfect, rocky, mistake-laden journey with bright sunny days of hope and laughter... and dark, lonely times of fear and sadness. And one day, when I really understand this form of commitment, I will no longer attach my failures to my ability, thereby eliminating guilt, shame, and the desire to give up.

Instead, I will re-commit with an open heart and keep a form of faith, because I will understand the promise I make to myself to walk an endless path is the key to the truest expression of success.

May you commit to all stages of your journey. May your success lie in your courage to persist.

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.

Time

I started reading a book recently by Thomas Bien (Ph.D.) called Mindful Therapy: A Guide for Therapists and Helping Professionals. It's the second book I've read for pleasure since finishing grad school (the first being The War of Art).

Although I am making slow progress, it's already afforded a little nugget of wisdom I've been turning over in my mind for the last week or so.

In the introduction, Bien talks about the distinctions we make between selfish time and time for others. This translates many ways... compartmentalization so many of us engage in using various labels. What I want to do versus what I have to do... me/my time versus his time her time time, their time. Freedom versus obligation.

He suggests this act of delineation (which is a process of labeling and attachment) actually reduces our ability to be mindful and present in whatever time we are using. We name it and pre-conceive the meaning we assign to those actions, and thus we are unable to truly be in our daily living and experience it authentically.

Of course, I'm paraphrasing here and he's much more eloquent in his explanation. But that's how I made sense of it and folded it into all the other lessons that overlap with this concept.

There is a concept in Buddhism, as best I understand it so far, about zen instruction. Essentially, the idea is that any teaching (be it a person, a book, a blog, a conversation, a meditation, etc.) is a "finger pointing at the moon."

Which is to say... the truth is not in the instruction, it's in the individual's understanding of the lesson to which the instruction is pointing. The finger pointing at the moon is not the moon itself... it may show you the way to look to see the moon, but you will not truly know moon until you have stopped looking at the finger and seen the moon.

My clearer understanding of Bien's words come in applying them to my experience, primarily in the present, as a mother, wife, pet owner, artist, and colleague. I noticed, as soon as I read those words, that I had been separating my time in many areas of my life, rather than experiencing it all as my life - interconnected, whole, and filled with opportunities for mindfulness at all points.

• Things I do for me versus things for my husband and daughter.
• Time when the bunny is awake versus times when she is sleeping.
• Chores versus pleasures.
• Grunt work versus fun work.
• Selfish time versus obligatory time spent on shopping and cooking and bill-paying.
• Time writing everything down ahead of time to get it okayed instead of just being able to go and do.
• Walk the dog versus sleep in bed undisturbed.

It's been a true challenge, even in the last few days, to try and eliminate those categorizations from my thinking. To stop labeling and defining my experience as dichotomous and instead try to be present in and enjoy every moment... to value each action, each use of my time, and see it as fruitful. I think too often I throw my time away - even when I'm in it! - because I am busy wishing it was being used differently.

This not only shortchanges my experience of those moments, but it also gives less to those around me - ensures they do not have my full presence and attention in my interactions.

So... my act of mindfulness lately has been a continued practice of noticing when I am "assigning" my time - naming, labeling, compartmentalizing. There is no good or bad, no right or wrong, no happy or sad... should I choose it.

If I can see all my time as valuable and connected to my practice of mindful living, then it will all be. Just as it should. Without a seeming struggle between positive and negative affiliations.

May you embrace all of your living today. May even the seemingly most mundane of activities bring you an opportunity to learn and be closer to joy.