Pretty

My daughter has an interesting idea of pretty. She adorns the house with toys, jewelry, scarves... even the bright green plastic tweezers from her Animal Hospital kit. I find little items strewn along the windowsill, draped from doorknobs and closet doors, and sprinkled across the floor.

Genuinely giggle-inducing is the fact that these actions are accompanied by a sort of hopping, skip-like, bouncy dance set to a repetitive chant of "Christmas is coming!" Bright eyes, big smile, and an air of importance and urgency. She must get the house ready, after all.

I have not decorated this year. Our apartment is tiny and we are out of town very soon, and so we opted not to do a Christmas tree or to unpack the "holiday" boxes currently stuffed into our tiny storage locker in the shared garage. I say "we" meaning me and my husband; clearly, our daughter has other intentions.

What interests me most is seeing how she connects the season with the act of adornment - as if festooning the house with some form of celebratory chachki ensures Santa will come and merriment ensue. "Isn't it pretty?" she asks, beaming because she already has the answer firm in her mind. Yes. It's beautiful!

Today I began thinking about how "pretty" will change as she gets older. She will begin to decorate herself, rather than the house. Adorn her skin with makeup, her ears with jewelry... carefully consider the clothes she wears, the hairstyle she sports.

Just as her concept of "Christmas pretty" and its attendant display across the house was shaped, in large part, by my decorating sensibilities and that of her relatives... so too will her concept of her own prettiness and what it means to be beautiful be shaped by all manner of outside influences. Movies, television, magazines, friends, significant others, and the multiple contexts within which she will travel: school, extracurriculars, work, etc.

And so it was in all this contemplation of my daughter I smacked right into my own concept of beauty and all my attachments to pretty. I think nearly all of us struggle with some form of insecurity about our physical appearance. We all yearn to be pretty. Desirable. Collectively labeled and culturally agreed-upon as beautiful.

I think my daughter is beautiful. Cute and magnetic; charming and powerful. She knocks my socks off daily, and I marvel at the way her insides transform her outsides so that she is lovely - through and through.

I'm not sure she'll be a conventional beauty though. I think her prettiness will be unique, distinct, unusual. And probably something only noticed by some people - not universally agreed upon or heralded the way some folks may be.

And that's ok with me. It took me a long time to accept that about myself, but I finally got to it. No matter the size of my body, the shape of my hair, the smoothness or lack thereof in my skin. I am who I am. Most days now, I can honestly accept that - some days I even wholeheartedly embrace it. (And in the last year or so I have realized the great secret of life is: Everyone is beautiful. Truly.)

But as I watch my daughter and ponder the future, I mentally cross my fingers and hope like mad she will figure all of it out sooner than I. It would save her a lot of heartache. Head off a lot of bad decisions, misguided loyalties, and deeply hurt feelings. And it would fill my heart with joy to have her come to me, adorned with all manner of outward decoration, and ask, "Don't I look pretty?" "Yes," I will say happily. "You are beautiful."

May you feel attractive today - inside and out. May the beauty of others surprise and delight you.

Chaos

Today I received a great lesson from one of my friends. I don't think she realizes she was being a teacher, nor do I think her actions were linked to any urge to impart wisdom, spur an epiphany, or suggest alteration was needed.

But lately I've noticed opportunities arise, or are given/created daily that offer a chance for reflection and - when I'm paying attention and remain open to the lesson - help me learn a little something about my thinking/feeling/deciding/attaching that might lead to positive change.

My friend invited me over so our kids could play together and we could visit. I was feeling down and worried I would not be good company. I thought about saying "no" even though I knew my daughter would desperately want to go so she could see her best friend.

I do this sometimes - isolate myself when I hit a rough spot or feel generally negative about things... figuring it best not to spread my lack of cheer all over everyone else. Of course, the paradoxical truth of things is those times are often when I need intimacy and connection the most. And so, by shutting myself off from the outside world, I'm actually doing the exact opposite of what would be most helpful.

Aware of this pattern and committed to being more mindful about my self-defeating choices, I said "yes," bundled us both up to stave off the cold for the 20 foot walk to their building, and away we went.

And we had a great time. It was wonderful to talk to someone and share some of my frustrations, to check in with another parent about the crazy phases kids go through and whether or not concern is warranted, and to hear another woman express so many things I too have combated: lack of sleep and the inevitable resulting impatience, worry over doctor visits and the health of our kids, frustration about needles and blood draws that do more harm than good, and the habit of not inviting people over because we worry our home is not ready for visitors.

Not ready, for me at least, translates into a number of things. It's like coded language for a tangle of emotions knotted up with elements of my self-worth and sense of value as a woman, wife, mother, etc. Not ready means chaotic, messy, cluttered, unfinished. It means dust bunnies in the corners, pee under the toilet seat, boxes stacked against furniture, and items everywhere.

Not ready means I haven't cleaned enough, haven't made my daughter pick up her toys or room enough, haven't managed to tackle the unending list of things-to-do... and so our house is in a state of undeniable chaos: unkempt, disheveled, and harried.

The lesson today, however, came when my friend said she experiences the exact same worries, with the exact same attachments and self-admonishments, and today decided to just say "so what" and have us over anyway. Because our being there was more important than all the fretting and self-recrimination potentially accompanying our visit.

And I realized... of course! There is no ready. There is no done. Our house carries with it an element of chaos - because it is lived in, because we are not perfect nor do we strive to be (at least not in a Homes & Garden/Family Circle kind of way), and it has nothing to do with my worth, value, or success as a mother, wife, woman, or human being.

That's what I've decided anyway. Maybe someday I'll decide I'm wrong, but today I think maybe those things are determined by the safety and love my child feels, the level of commitment I choose to make to my family, and the amount of compassion I am able to maintain in all my actions - be they at home or elsewhere.

Today I strive to embrace the chaos... maybe even love it a little. Because it's here to stay, and fighting it will only bring disappointment and sadness. Instead, I want to open my home and share that chaos with everyone I love. The richness they bring to my life is much more important than my self-imposed prison of imagined expectations and baseless shortcomings.

May you embrace your chaos and find peace within the storm. May you free yourself from confinement of your own making.

Winter

One of the things I enjoy most about living in Illinois is the change of seasons. Four distinct intervals repeating reliably to create a sense of stability, natural rhythm, and satisfying sway through each three-month cycle.

When I was younger, I remember loving the snow. I reveled in my snow pants, relished each day off from school. I built ice forts and made snowmen... stamped the yard with snow angel patterns and happily ran inside after what felt like hours of play to shed my wet and frigid outerwear. Skin bright pink. Eyes watering. Glasses fogging like crazy.

Hot chocolate. Fires in the fireplace. Warm blankets and the quiet, peaceful hush of a late night snowfall, blanketing the world with a glittering gown. I remember icicled trees lining the roads like glass sculptures and the bright, beautiful clarity of a winter sky way out in the country... stars strewn across the midnight blue like glass beads. The moon so bright the ground was painted with shadows.

Now that I am older, my relationship with winter has changed. Somewhere in my adulthood, the appreciation for nature, love of the season, and joy of play was replaced with grumpy resentment, wind-induced headaches, and hunched-up, frustrated seething amidst shovel/brushing/scraping.

One of the reasons my husband and I were so eager to leave Chicago four years ago was because of the winters. This also was one of the reasons we were so reluctant to return. And yet we came... warily waiting for the first snowfall, the first freezing day, the first taste of icy, blustery cold. Could we do it again?

And so, here we are. Dipping down to zero tonight, wind chills in the negatives, and the world around us covered in white - with chunks of grey and brown. Sludgy, wet, and cold. Colder than I remembered.

But for some reason, I am really enjoying it so far. The winter weather so familiar from my childhood has set off waves of nostalgia carrying forth memories long outdone by my negative mindset and deadlocked clench against the cold.

Lately I am filled with gratitude, warmth, and happiness when hit by these seasonally induced recollections. It has reframed my perspective and allowed a new relationship to form.

I still sometimes notice I am tightened up and gritting my teeth when walking against the wind. My shoulders reach for my ears and my hands clasp tight across my stomach as if I could prevent all my body heat from leaving if I just squeeze hard enough.

But I am also more thankful for the season. The clear demarcation of passing time, the earth's rotation, and my connection to the cycle of life all around. And, even more importantly perhaps, I remember all things pass... remind myself it will change soon enough. My appreciation grows. My frustration ebbs. And I am left to hold hands with winter - creating a new relationship with a beginner's mind.

May you take comfort in the season that surrounds you. May you see with fresh eyes and appreciate with a fresh heart each new moment.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is a funny word. One that starts sounding strange and made-up when you say it often enough... rolling around in the mouth like a coin with a tinny, sharp taste.

I looked it up - on a lark - which led me to look up forgive instead. (Dictionaries should not be allowed to define a word using a variation of said word in the definition!) Of the several definitions, this is the one I liked best:

4. to cease to feel resentment against

Ah. I know resentment. I spend a lot of time in that feeling state... and it's something I've struggled to become increasingly aware of so I may decrease the number of times I end up in that cul-du-sac of an emotion.

And so, when I think of it this way - the relinquishing of resentment - it seems like a form of letting go. Releasing an attachment to the past in order to make clear-headed and open-hearted decisions about the present. After all, if someone has hurt you in the past and still continues to do so... you may be able to forgive them, but you probably want to let go in other ways as well.

I think it takes me a long time to forgive. Perhaps a little too long. I think it goes back to the difficulty of really letting go and allowing myself to be empty... which requires freedom from the past and the future.

The more I attempt to stay in the now, the greater my awareness of the incredible amount of time I spend somewhere else throughout my day. Imagining conversations with people who are not present. Re-living events or circumstances so I may re-experience certain emotions or write new endings in order to manufacture an emotional response absent in the initial encounter. Thinking about dinner, or what to do once Ari is in bed, or the weekend, or my career five years from now, or a trillion what-ifs that careen off in infinite directions - spiraling outward like a big, crazy, spider web. And there I am, caught right in the middle of it all, stuck without even realizing it.

I sometimes wonder if being more present in my life would allow a greater capacity to forgive. Would it really make all the small stuff smaller? Would more things roll off and recede faster and more easily? Would I be more patient? Less angry? More calm? Less anxious?

The true test of forgiveness for me, however, is not in forgiving others. I get to it eventually - sometimes after a few minutes, sometimes a few days, sometimes several years. But I do get there. I find a place of compassion and emptiness (a good kind of emptiness) wherein there is no past, and no future... just now. And that's a great place to be.

Where I get stuck, again and again, is in forgiving myself. This has become especially true now that I am a parent. My child has an incredible capacity for forgiveness. I see her wake up each day with a clean slate, holding onto to none of the mistakes of the previous day. Happy, open, trusting, and brave - she leaps into each new morning with exuberance. And each night, she kisses with commitment and care and deep sincerity... already letting go and looking into my eyes in the now.

I aspire to be as forgiving as she. I yearn to emulate her easy intimacy, trusting heart, and endless ability to let go and move on. It's truly amazing.

The last few days, I have been a mommy I do not want to be. Quick to lose patience, nit-picking and negative, always ready with a direction, correction, or strong suggestion... all of which nearly always sound like some form of reproach or distinct form of dislike.

And in the aftermath of this behavior, I feel guilty; I feel sad; I feel ashamed; I feel tired. I feel deeply disappointed with myself and so confused as to why I can reach a state of peace so easily in some areas of my life and yet - particularly in this one - continuously come to a grinding halt with my daughter: clenched up, unhappy, frustrated, and less than kind.

I know I am stuck... and I know I must forgive myself and let go in order to move. But the cyclical nature of self-recrimination and inner disappointment sometimes creates a little vortex within which I seem to start drowning all over again.

But I am committed to changing it... to seeing it through to a new place that feels so different, this place will seem distant.

One of my favorite quotes, which found me a few months ago, is based on a Japanese Proverb:

Fall seven times. Stand up eight.

And so... I will sit. I will be mindful of my actions in the moment. I will reset... allow myself a clean slate. And I will fully commit to each new moment, because each one offers a new chance to become exactly who I wish to be (for myself, for my husband, for my daughter, for my family, for my friends...).

May you reach a place of emptiness with a hurt you have been holding. May you let go of your past mistakes and walk a new path within the present.

Loss

I read a beautiful quote this morning on the blog of a local Zen center down the street. I'm still trying to figure out where to practice, whether to practice, etc. and so I was checking them out and stumbled upon a new entry by their Sensei.

The quote was attributed to Yasutani Roshi, who said:

The fundamental problem for all humanity is that you believe that you are there and I am here.

Although the writer (the center's Sensei) was using this quote to illustrate a point about right action and economic compensation, it led me to think about something I've been mulling over ever since writing my post Death.

I was worried in the aftermath of posting, readers might find it cavalier or insensitive to those who have lost loved ones very close to them. I thought maybe my discussion about moving away from fear of my mortality might inadvertently suggest I fear death in no form... which is not actually true.

While I may be able to accept my death (my entirely hypothetical death - perhaps it would be different were it more near), I greatly fear the loss of my loved ones in death. Not only do I struggle with the thought of leaving them behind, but also with the prospect of losing those closest to me before I am ready to let them go.

Because we are never ready to let them go, are we? The Buddha is said to have communicated:

We must be diligent today.
To wait until tomorrow is too late.
Death comes unexpectedly.

The lesson he wished to convey through these words - it is thought - was the importance of dwelling in the now... being fully present in the current moment, rather than squandering the preciousness of life by remaining in the past or keeping one's mind on the future.

When I read it, the final line rang out to me like a small, clear bell: Death comes unexpectedly.

And so it does. Whether we have prepared for it or not. Whether we were given timelines, knew about the course of the sickness involved, or saw it inevitably looming ahead as age and frailty calmly and ceaselessly took their toll.

When I struggle with Buddhism, this is where I get stuck. The big, unyielding, and undeniably painful aspects of life from which no one is immune. How do I find inner peace when someone I love has died? How do I maintain calm, choose to be happy, or eliminate suffering when I am first-hand to the pain and suffering of someone I love? How do I stave off the fear that the people I value most will be lost... that I might be left to live without them?

My guess... it is as much a commitment and process as anything else in Zen or in life. Your grief is. Your pain is. Your fear is. And when it is not, it is not.

It took a long time for the chest-clenching sadness of my grandmother's death to subside. Several years. And looking back, I do wonder if perhaps I held onto it a bit longer than I truly needed to. I wonder if I carried it with me (that sadness and lonely longing linked to outrage and despair over her ending) longer than necessary because it was a way to stay connected to her. A way to hold on without letting go.

I find letting go very difficult. In many aspects of life. And so lately, I have started to turn my awareness to the times I am holding on. I try to ask myself: Does this help me or anyone else? Is this making my life richer, happier, or more fulfilled? Is this necessary for my growth or the benefit of another person?

And I'm sure you can guess the usual (quiet) response to those questions. No.

To circle back to the initial quote I mentioned... Yasutani Roshi points out that our thinking tends to separate self from other. We see ourselves and those around us as distinct and disconnected, which can allow for all number of cruelties should we fail to be mindful of our actions.

In truth, we are all connected. By our common humanity, by our shared biology and planetary ancestry, and by the infinitesimal atoms, strings, and hums through which our world is constructed.

On some level, there is no other. And so the reality of death is, we lose a part of ourselves. The me that is created in the combined presence of myself with my grandmother is no longer. That piece of me is gone and will never again be experienced.

The memories aren't gone; the lessons and gifts and heredity and jokes and unconsciously echoed aspects of her personality are all still with me. But the here-and-now experience of being with her... that is what I have lost. That is what I mourn, I believe, when I am in mourning.

And that is what I fear, I think, when I think of the loss that will inevitably reach other areas of my life.

May those grieving find peace with their loss over time. May we always remember to be present with all that is here, now.

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.

Suffering

Suffering is a word laden with personal meanings, semantic preferences, and emotional connection. Everyone has their own idea - their own understanding - of the term. And everyone could tell you a personal story or share an event in their lives they might label as suffering.

The Buddhist discussion of suffering often emphasizes that all beings suffer. Suffering is an inherent and undeniable aspect of living and being human. Not because we are meant to suffer, or deserve to suffer, or even because it's impossible not to suffer. Rather, because the source of suffering is something with which we all must grapple - because we are human.

What is the source? Attachment.

Many Buddhists from many traditions define suffering as attachment. Attachment to form. Attachment to word. Attachment to what we thought would be, should be, will be - but isn't.

I've seen it defined as desire, craving, expectation. And all those things are accurate and yet somehow not quite accurate and capturing all that may be felt/known/understood. I suppose it's unavoidable, because language is an imperfect form of communication for many things. But in the process of seeking to better know suffering, I still yearn to have a greater grasp on the concept of attachment.

Lately, I see it most strongly in myself as an attempt to live life along an imagined, anticipated, or deeply wanted path - rather than the one that actually exists. This leads to pessimistic emotional states and often-lengthy patterns of negative thoughts when what I wish to be and what is do not align.

Sleep, food, work, play, down time, motherhood, housework, relationships, my body... all offer an opportunity to notice how, where, and why I cling to certain things - and the ways that leads to suffering.

I experience suffering in many forms. Loneliness. Despair. Restlessness. Anger. Impatience. Guilt. Negativity. Oddly enough, this type of suffering so often springs from the silliest and most trivial of things. Seeing no one has responded to something I've posted on Facebook. Noticing all the boxes and jetsom still sitting in our apartment while continuing to leave them untouched. Watching TV instead of reading a book, writing, or working. A night of interrupted sleep after deciding I need 8 hours to feel rested. Music that is too loud in the restaurant. Imagined conversations played out in cyclical detail in my head.

This type of suffering - the self-inflicted, ego-driven, little "i" suffering - is well within my control and directly related to my emotional and cognitive attachments. I so often define myself and my experience though the minute details of my life... particularly the ones that are emotionally charged or involve much thinking. And yet, those aspects of self are but tiny sections of the whole me.

I sometimes wonder, if I allowed myself to experience more of the whole me - unfiltered through attachment and even attachment to suffering - would I enjoy myself more?

Suffering is real. There is real suffering in the world. Plenty of it. One need only read the news or watch and listen to others to know there is great pain in the world. Legitimate and, at times, overwhelming.

What I have begun to glimpse just this week is how to start discerning my true suffering (true sadness, legitimate and authentic pain) from the suffering I have chosen for myself. It's the suffering to which I am attached - perhaps because it is familiar, or because it's been a part of my identity for so long I can no longer distinguish the boundaries. Maybe because it is easier to hurt sometimes than to let go. Strange, but honest.

Sometimes I find it easier to slip into hurting than to truly put in the effort and commitment required to release my attachments and allow myself to become empty. I find emptiness a bit scary. But it might also mean that what fills me next is a genuine response to life - and as life continually changes and moves... so does my knowing of me.

May you separate your true suffering from that which is chosen. May you remove unnecessary burdens from your heart.