Category Archives: Mindfulness

Somehow the day got away from me. Certain days do that. They pass quietly and unnoticeably by, and when it’s time to look up from the tasks at hand you find, rather startlingly, that the bulk of the day has gone. It happens less when one is working at home, and more acutely aware of the ticking of the clock, but it still happens. 

More often I find myself doing an evening meditation when I’ve gone into the office, then out to dinner, and by the time I’ve settled down and have a moment to rest, I remember that I still need to meditate. It’s become such a part of my daily routine that when it doesn’t happen I feel like something is missing. Doing a night-time meditation is how I started my meditation practice; in the early dark of winter, I began meditating to find some calm in the emotional turmoil that the dark season can occasionally conjure. It was a way of ending the day and preparing the body for rest and slumber. 

When the clocks turn back and the daylight declines, I’ll be forced to do some meditation in the dim light of the evening again, and it actually makes for a lovely close to the day. It’s easier to soften the focus when the only light is carried by a candle. The items of interest fade dimly into the background, the mind is free to clear itself, and that somewhat elusive sense of clarity and peace that is the goal of most meditation seems to present itself most comfortably at the start or ending of a day. 

{Programming note: this seems like a fitting post to carry us through tomorrow, when we go dark in honor of 9/11 – a tradition I’ve kept since the inception of this website in 2003. Back then it seemed like our country would never see such a horrible loss of life again. That was before COVID and this administration’s disastrous response to it. Now those numbers feel different, but the ache of any loss resonates, no matter how much time has passed. Let’s take some time to be still and silent, and come back here on Saturday.}

This is a post that’s going to hit you with a bunch of numbers that will likely mean little to nothing to you, but I’ve always loved how numbers worked, and what they symbolized, so indulge me. Like you have  a choice. 

On August 24, 2020, the day I turned 45, I turned my meditation timer up to 24 minutes. Previously, I’d upped it on July 23, when I advanced it to 23 minutes. A month of doing that prepared me for one more minute per day, so now I’m at 24, and it’s a nice round number. My goal is to hit 25 minutes a day for the fall, when meditation will be more important, and hopefully up to half an hour for the winter, when meditation will be absolutely vital. We know how brutal the winters can be. 

For now, those 24 minutes ground me, settling me into my body again, calming my mind, and keeping bothersome and agitating thoughts at bay. Eventually they creep back, but they have less of an impact, and are less of a burden. The more I do this, the easier it gets. Such is the beauty of meditation. 

Since deep breathing is a part of these meditations, I can also conjure a certain peace when I simply slip into a state of deeper breathing, which is helpful at stressful times. It’s a simple safety net when you don’t want to reach for other crutches. 

A few days ago I had a difficult meditation. It wasn’t anything traumatic or tough in an emotional sense – I was just finding it difficult to deepen my breath and focus my head. Random thoughts skittered and scattered across my mind, and try as I might to banish them, it wasn’t possible for at least ten minutes. I was trying to fight them – something you don’t typically do in a meditation. It’s often best to acknowledge those thoughts as they enter your mind, then let them pass by in their own time, which acknowledgment usually hastens. 

For whatever reason, that wasn’t happening. I thought briefly of ending the meditation early, as it seemed pointless when the mind was racing, going against the very notion and reason for meditating, but I kept at it. I eased up on the deep breathing until it became comfortable again. I allowed the thoughts to present themselves, no matter how annoying or mundane or bizarre they were.

My breathing deepened. The crowded compilation of worries dispersed. The bright clarity of meditation revealed itself again, and as I lost myself in such beauty, the phone chimed the end of the 23-minute session. 

Some meditations take longer than others to click. In the very beginning of my meditation journey, I didn’t find that sense of clarity and release that I can find more often now. My meditations were only five minutes back then – such was the length that I could stand to sit still. Once in a while, I’d lose myself and get a brief glimpse of the expansive peace and calm that seemed to be the goal, and these little peeks at something greater kept me going. 

Every few days and weeks I’d increase my sitting time by a minute, and it became easier and more natural to sit in the lotus position, to not only seek but also to find that elusive sense of peace and calm. That doesn’t mean I can always locate it. Like the other day, sometimes it proves itself furtive and difficult. It brought me to the point where I entertained the thought of giving up, just for the day, just for that meditation, yet I kept going, pushing through those moments when it seemed futile. Little failures offer the opportunity for little improvements. And that’s how we get to where we want to be, or at the very least a little bit closer. 

The first slow, deep intake of breath is usually the quickest of the session. The body takes a moment to slow itself down. The brain, depending on the day, takes a little longer. But by the second inhalation and exhalation, as my eyes close out what the daylight illuminates, a new light and expanse spreads itself out before me. A universe unfurls from within my mind, pushing out the mundane worries and concerns, leaving no space for discontentment or restlessness. 

This might seem like some sort of magic or New Age hokey-pokey, but it’s actually an ancient practice, something humans have been doing for centuries, and the ones who practice it religiously are usually the ones who are most at peace with their lives. I’m nowhere near that total sense of peace and calm, but I’m a little closer than I was just a few short months ago, and that is largely due to meditation. After starting out at just five minutes a day, I’m up to 23. Not a lot, and that’s ok. It’s enough. For 23 minutes of each day, I sit calmly and quietly in the lotus position, close my eyes, and gradually push away the worries of the world. When the time is done, my mind is clear, and it’s a clarity that lasts a little longer with each passing day. It’s also a clarity which I can sometimes summon when I need a moment of calm. A few deep breaths and I return to the space of calm and quiet. 

It’s not magic, though it sometimes feels like it. It’s the simple act of meditation. Moments of mindfulness.

While there’s a certain element of sacrilege to invoking the fall this early in the summer, my plan is to reach 25 minutes a day by the time the seasons change, and then the long trudge to and through winter, when I’ll hopefully see what half-an-hour of meditation can do. 

It was during the summer of 1998 and the magnificent ‘Ray of Light’ period when Madonna taught the world (or at least the portion of the world watching ‘The Rosie O’Donnell Show’ at the time) how to engage in Ujjayi breathing. Newly-obsessed with yoga, it was a breathing technique she employed when practicing, and as was the case with so many of Madonna’s obsessions it trickled down to me. To this day, I narrow my windpipe and slow the breath when I meditate, and it has become a simple but effective way of calming my body.

Known also as the ‘ocean breath’ it is a deep breathing technique that uses the diaphragm and stomach as the main means of propelling air, as opposed to the upper chest that most people use out of habit and ease. First, you close your mouth and breath through your nose. Narrow your throat and air passageway so the breath is constricted and slowed. The breath and air should be noticeably louder now as you’re passing more air through a smaller space, and the accompanying effect sounds similar to an ocean in the distance. Using your belly first, expand your diaphragm so air fills the space, opening and allowing it to move into your rib cage and finally up into your chest and throat. Slowly exhale in the same time that you inhaled. (That time will differ according to comfort level, and at first it will be as quick as your regular breathing sequence – the goal is to gradually elongate the breaths.)

It may feel slightly suffocating at first, but just keep breathing, retaining a sense of calm and regularity, focusing on the breath and the sounds and the way you are slowly opening up your belly and rib cage and chest, allowing the air to fill in those spaces like light, expanding that space and pushing ever outward. I’ve found that this helps with any back pain I’ve had too. We often neglect to use a huge portion of our lungs when we breathe, taking shallow and more frequent breaths instead of focusing on slowing things down. If you have ever been aware of your breathing as you fall asleep, you will find it veers closer to the calm and measured deliberate cadence of Ujjayi breathing.

This is how I breathe when I meditate, and it’s been helpful in moving past the first uncomfortable weeks of not quite knowing or understanding what meditation method would work best for me. By employing this breathing technique, I could focus on the breath above all else. That was enough to capture enough focus so I could meditate with a mostly uncluttered mind for a few minutes each day. Once that was done, and once I had a feel for what that clarity felt like, I understood the point of meditation.

It won’t work for everyone. Some people like to focus on a body scan to eliminate distracting thoughts, or have a mindful intention on a certain feeling of calm or relaxation that holds their focus – the important thing is that your mind is clearing itself for a few minutes and you understand what that feels like. It is a release and a relief, and once you access that you can, ideally, bring it into the rest of your day. If done consistently, it will spill over into your regular life, training your brain not to be overwhelmed with racing thoughts and worries. That’s the ultimate benefit of meditation in my life, and why I keep pushing it onto my friends and family. (It turns out I’m a terrible pusher because no one has found similar joy in it – mostly because my friends are too high-strung and engaging to be able to sit still for five minutes. It’s why I get such a kick out of them. Sadly, I think they’re the very people who would benefit most from slowing down and finding a space for quiet and stillness and silence. That’s the way of the world.)

As for Ujjayi breathing, it’s become a place of refuge, a practice that can be employed anywhere at any time, and it instantly produces a peace because I’ve training my mind and body into receiving it as such. It’s a way of conjuring the undulating tranquility of the ocean while in the midst of an arid desert. As we prepare for the possibility of hunkering down at home, it’s more important than ever to find such mechanisms of escape and peace.

Once upon not such a long time ago I would have thrown quite the hissy fit and tantrum over not having a pool for the summer thus far. Fortunately, once in a great while the universe grants me just enough wherewithal to move into a new perspective in the nick of time. There was a sprinkling of the divine in the grand scheme idea of therapy and meditation leading into this summer, and those practices have left me in a better place to deal with life’s minor setbacks.

One of the lessons of ‘The Science of Well-Being’ course I took on finding more happiness in life was getting off social media. Unplugging and stepping away from the phone. Not checking on FaceBook or Twitter ot TikTok or Snapchat or Instagram or Name-Your-Own-App. For someone whose website is fed by links on social apps, it was surprisingly easy. I’m actually on most social media sites far less than some might assume. I hit often, but I hit quickly and leave. I’m not usually a scroller who burns away tons of time just peeking at things that don’t directly concern me.

More importantly to the happiness course, and the lesson that is really at the heart of stepping away from social media, is the idea that we should not be comparing our happiness with the happiness of others, nor should we compare anything in our lives with what others have. That’s a certain path to unhappiness and discontentment. There will always be someone who has, or pretends to have, “more” than you and me. What we forget is that “more” is relative, and one person’s “more” can be quite different from what truly constitutes our idea of “more.” In other words, comparing someone else’s online life – the image they cultivate and put forth on social media – to our life, whether real or cultivated for public consumption, is a certain recipe for unhappiness.

My general attitude goal – the one that has allowed me to survive on social media for all this time – is that I’m happy for whatever someone else is happy about. If they get to do something or obtain an item they really like – a vacation, a show, a new bag – then I’m more or less just happy for them. Very rarely do I think, “Damn, that should be me!” In fact, I’ve never thought that. I can’t say I haven’t ever felt envy and jealousy about some of what I’ve seen, but I never thought I deserved it more, or deserved it at all. Prior to this year I was definitely guilty of making those comparisons, and while I was strong enough never to be bitter over it, I felt somewhat bad whenever I went online. Once I realized what I was doing – comparing myself to other people rather than to what I really wanted in life, as well as believing that what appeared to make other people happy would invariably make me happy – I was able to adjust how I looked at things online. What a profound difference that made. 

And so, these days when I see my friends and family frolicking in their pools, with actual water, I don’t feel envy or bitterness, I just feel happy that they are having a good time. It’s so much nicer, and feels so much better, celebrating other people, and I’ve never been able to feel bad about myself if someone else is finding their own happiness.

Besides, who says you can’t have fun with an empty pool? Stay tuned for those photos…

Maybe the Grinch was onto something before his heart grew all those pesky sizes so big. He proclaimed one of his biggest problems with all those Whos was the noise, noise, NOISE. Lamenting the loudness of certain neighbors, I can totally relate, if not wholeheartedly sympathize with the Grinch’s plight.

The half-joking of this opening belies a more serious statement, which is that the world needs a little more appreciation of stillness and quiet. After working mostly from home for the past few months, I’ve found more silence during the day than I’ve ever had, and it’s been good. For the first few hours of the early morning, instead of turning on the television or the music, I do my work in relative quiet while Andy sleeps. That’s not something I’ve had when trying to pack trips and travels into most weekends, but in the current state of the world, we’ve had nothing to do but stay at home and find our peace here. To my surprise, it’s been just as rewarding.

Silence is a big part of my meditation process too. While some people find it too scary to be alone in quiet, I prefer it, embracing the complete silence, slowing my thoughts, and allowing them to present themselves and then float away. There is no noise to cover that up, no distraction to make it easier. At first I’ll admit it was a little disconcerting. Not uncomfortable, just different. The world has evolved to the point where we are almost constantly surrounded by sound, and once you take that away it can be slightly jarring. If you’ve ever been to a rock concert, you know the feeling when it’s over. The world is suddenly eerily quiet. You may wonder if you’ve suffered some hearing loss for a while. And slowly, the noise comes back and things return to the general level of sounds to which we are all accustomed. When you meditate in silence, the same phenomenon surfaced, in smaller fashion. That’s partly why I started slowly, in short five-minute sessions before gradually increasing my time in quiet. Now I find it more comforting than classical music or white noise. Clearing the mind is easier for me when the world is silent.

I find similar peace outside in the yard. Where I once lugged out an old portable stereo to fill the air with Madonna or 80’s bops, now I walk in silence, listening to the birds and the chirps of chipmunks. At night there are noisy frogs that provide all the sounds I need. Amid the ferns, and the gentle unfolding of a summer day, silence feels like the best soundtrack.

The true narcissists and egotists of the world make every day about themselves. 

The rest of us, the wanna-be narcissists and pretend egotists, carve out special days in which to make ourselves feel a bit better. 

The more-enlightened don’t need a day or even a moment for themselves – they exist in the present and that’s all they need. 

I’m somewhere in-between these circles, so I’ll take a Sunday of self-care, which these days means just taking things a little easier. When thrashing out some of my not-quite-successful efforts at self-improvement with my therapist recently, she reminded me of what I’d already accomplished, and wondered whether I was being too hard on myself. The Virgo in me sees nothing wrong with wanting to be better; the human in me is starting to realize that the whole Virgo thing needs to be adjusted. 

And so we have reached Sunday, the day of rest.

A day to savor the simpler things.

The beauty of the world.

As seen in this exquisite box made by my friend Meredith, which I purchased for the holidays as a gift for Andy. Comprised of gorgeous paper she has traveled the world to procure, it stands on the table beside which I meditate, where a stick of Palo Santo incense unfurls its ethereal smoke coils. 

Through my half-closed eyes and deep breathing, the flowers and cranes and colors dance hazily in scenes of beauty as I try to clear my head. The best thing to occupy the senses when darker thoughts threaten to encroach is a thing of beauty. 

The box is a work of art, and not only on the outside. Lifting the lid there is more beauty to be found inside. Placid water scenes, flowers from other seasons, worlds contained within worlds… I like that there is still more to be seen and discovered if you slow down and look deeper. The charm and surprise and variety of life, and of what life hides just beneath the lid, is a large part of what keeps me entertained and enthralled by this world. 

Grounded in new ways, I sit on the floor in front of this box – a box that could contain nothing and everything – and I begin my meditation. A moment of self-care, framed in a room of beauty. 

Awakening to a few rolls of thunder, I rolled over on my side and curled into myself for a few more minutes of sleep before facing the day. A hint of coffee and bacon drifted into the bedroom, stirring the senses and giving hope for a stomach-centered start for the day. More thunder sounded. I got up and walked into the dining room, where a robe still hung from a chair. Wrapping it around myself, I made my way groggily past Andy and out onto the backyard patio.

It was the same temperature as inside the house, but the rain was pouring down. We needed it, badly, and I stood there listening to its cadence on the canopy, watching it fall into the flowerpots and over the garden, revitalizing the plants and the lawn. It was a sublime sort of gloom – the sort of summer rain that doesn’t feel so much sad as contemplative. There can be something very soothing about rain in certain measured doses. That we are due for a few days of storms probably means the reconciliation won’t last, but for now it’s a welcome switch from the 90 degree heat. As expected, this string of rainy weather comes just as our pool renovation was about to begin, so I maintain my no-hopes-up stance of not having a pool this summer season, and I’ll do a few extra minutes of meditation to accept it.

The rain has mottled the leaves of our fig trees in pretty fashion, and runs over the blooms of a begonia, aiding in its weeping form. I can’t tell if the plants are annoyed or grateful; sometimes you can sense happiness in them. Maybe they’re just not accustomed to being wet this year. It does take some adjusting.

Back inside, the bacon is filling the kitchen with its promising aroma – perhaps I’ll make some sort of egg breakfast to go along with it. Or maybe I’ll nudge Andy into crafting one of his amazing omelettes. I sit down at the computer to sip on coffee and decide. I see that Karel Barnoski has opened the day with a session of Sunday jams, ideal for a rainy day, so I put that on play and begin writing out this post.

When Mercury is in retrograde, when the day is getting darker and the rain shows no sign of letting up, and your husband switches on the lamp to see better, it’s time to simply pause and lean into the messy feelings of a Sunday morning.

At the end of ‘Black Swan’, Natalie Portman’s ballet-dancer falls through the air having finished a triumphant performance of ‘Swan Lake’ that literally bleeds the life out of her. Or maybe it doesn’t. That gloriously fucked-up movie leaves it somewhat up in the air. She whispers almost inaudibly, “I was perfect.”

I still want to be perfect too, but it’s a much smaller want, more of a general nod in that direction if you will. Not much more than a whisper to be honest, and it’s taken quite a lot of work and effort to make it to this point. I spent many years pretending, claiming I really didn’t care, when really I did. As soon as I admitted to myself that, yes, being perfect was important to me, was a lifelong goal of mine, it suddenly lost its power. It lost its hold. The spell was broken. And I could, and can, genuinely say it no longer matters as much. That holds a different kind of strength and power.

This journey isn’t quite over, and part of me fears it is so far from being over I will never get there, yet that will be all right too. We aren’t designed to resolve absolutely everything. Without some itch or impetus, we wouldn’t make motions to do much of anything. I’m grateful for the spark that lingers, the electric frisson that lights up all the darkness momentarily, showing the way in tantalizing and all-too-quick fashion, leaving us always on the cusp, ever-wanting for more. We see, for one shining moment, all there is to see, and we spend our lives seeking out how to find that paradise, stumbling over all the paradise that’s right in front of us, beside us, within us.

In the middle of the night, alone in bed, I grapple with the nagging remnants of that need to be perfect.  There, I go over mistakes, my face flushing again at my fumbles, my heart racing with remembrance of all my rookie errors. Lately, though, I’ve begun to let go. And I’m getting rather good at it, so much so that I let a lot of it go before I even find my way to bed at night, and by the time I put the book down and turn off the light, I’m able to slide swiftly into slumber.

Reflecting on how much I’ve worked on things over the past several months – a time period in which we’ve all changed in some way – my therapist reminded me of how far I had come. I’d been so busy moving forward, trying to better myself, that I hadn’t taken any time to look back. That was a good thing. When you get lost in a task, it means you are enjoying life – you are flirting with happiness by being more fully present in the moment. It’s a form of mindfulness, and it occupies the space that would otherwise be left for demons and troubles to populate.

Art and beauty can fill those spaces too, especially when you find yourself too overwhelmed or tired to be mindfully present (and that does take a fair amount of effort). Meditation has helped in my case too – canceling out that void of space that would otherwise be bombarded with racing thoughts and worries, allowing it to be empty and quiet for a bit, to exist in silence and stillness. It’s not perfect, but it’s perfectly imperfect, and that’s the best that any of us can hope to be.

A Canadian goose walked to the edge of the river, then stood sentinel beside a tree. It had rained during the night and everything was wet, but there was a break in the sky, and though it was still grey, it was lighter, allowing for more sun to permeate the high clouds. I pulled into a little hidden park off the main road and checked my phone. I was due to video-conference with my therapist in a few minutes – we were trying out the new Telehealth options during the COVID crisis, and this was to be our first video call. Technological advances being what they are, and everyone also being on the same plan at this busy time of the morning, the call did not go through, so we ended up doing it the old-fashioned way over the phone without video. Getting over my trepidation over video calls would have to wait another week. I watched the goose approach the river and studied the vivid green of a patch of grass that led to a single picnic table. Our session began, and in the privacy of the Mini Cooper I settled in to a closer examination of the past.

It’s been over six months since I’ve been going to therapy regularly, and for the first time since I started I took a look back at the road behind me, not realizing how far I had come. Not that I’m anywhere near where I need or want to be just yet ~ this is not a finish lap by any means~ but I’m at a completely different place than I was back in the late fall of last year.  A global pandemic can re-order priorities I suppose, and when internal changes and shifts in the very bedrock of one’s existence are also at work, it’s impossible not to be swept up in some very dynamic and dramatic differences – some sort of plate tectonics, if I recall the earth-altering theory correctly from 8th grade Earth Science. 

How to navigate such swells in the tumultuous waters where we now find ourselves? I can’t quite explain it, other than to analyze the facts of the past few months, and find there some collection of clues that give reason to why I haven’t completely lost my shit. Quite the contrary, I feel more at peace and present than I have in a very long time. This I can only attribute to my therapy, a few books I’ve read, an online class in ‘The Science of Well-Being’, and daily meditation and mindfulness. The latter has been a constant and consistent part of my day since the early part of the year. Its calm and resulting joy didn’t happen overnight, and the more I meditate, the more the world seems to be falling apart – or maybe it’s the other way around. Whatever the case, meditation has been one of the main things keeping me grounded and moored when for almost 44 years I would have otherwise lost my mind from all that’s been happening. While other people seem to be consumed by anger and frustration and the realigning of what we considered normal, I’ve been able to process and accept things without as much emotional damage as I once might have suffered.

Ahead of me, a tree bloomed with white flowers. They were there before most of the foliage was out, something the redbud and the American dogwood and many cherry trees have in common – these flowers that appear before the main leaves, blooming without the background and support that most flowering plants have, but blooming nonetheless, even after the coldest winters, they are there, putting on their show, valiantly performing in the midst of late-season frosts and snowfalls. 

A large rock fronted with a plaque stood near my car, with the name of the park and a dedication on it. I was more interested in what was behind the rock, on its river side, where a pattern of lichens blossomed like flowers themselves in shades of grayish green and bright, bold chartreuse. Nature knows how to combine her colors and how best to show each of them off. Lichens, unlike most flowers, could easily withstand a full-blown, devastating snowstorm, no matter what time of year. Strength, resilience, and beauty.

As my therapy session went on that morning, I recalled moments of shame from my childhood, touchstone turning points where the trajectory and course of my life was being determined, and I was too little, too young to know how I was taking each hurt and heartbreak into the formation of my soul, and when I was finally old enough to understand I had already buried those things deep down in some inaccessible place to protect myself. It was the best I could do. It wasn’t the best thing to have done, but it was the best I could do. It was the best we all could do. 

Would I have discovered this without therapy? Perhaps, with a great deal of effort and time. Would I have been able to process such things without meditation? Perhaps, with a great deal of patience and self-discipline. But why make it more difficult than it has already been? I find therapy to be of great help, to help speed up processing and understanding, and to get a view into my mind that 44 years of living has sometimes worked only to obscure and hide. I find similar benefit in meditation and mindfulness to calm the mind, because I live and work and do my best when my mind is at a state of unrushed calm and quiet. Meditation has broadened that state for me, extending the ability to stay focused and steady the more I do it. The best thing about all this? I’ve only just begun – and the path ahead can be whatever I make of it. My plan is to slowly and gradually expand the meditation, and focus on bringing it into as many moments as possible. The ultimate goal is to make the peace and serenity I feel at the end of a meditation part of daily living. I’m getting there…

When it’s time to finish the session, I put the phone down and let out a deep breath. It was the closest I had come to crying during therapy, and it felt good. I got out of the car and walked to the edge of the river. I saw the goose there. We both looked down over the water; only one of us looked down over the past, and then he made a vow to let it go. 

“What kind of feeling comes upon you when you’re in touch with nature, or when you’re absorbed in work that you love? Or when you’re really conversing with someone whose company you enjoy in openness and intimacy without clinging? What kind of feelings do you have? Compare those feelings with the feelings you have when you win an argument, or when you win a race, or when you become popular, or when everybody’s applauding you. The latter feelings I call worldly feelings; the former feelings I call soul feelings. Lots of people gain the world and lose their soul. Lots of people live empty, soulless lives because they’re feeding themselves on popularity, appreciation, and praise, on “I’m O.K., you’re O.K.,” look at me, attend to me, support me, value me, on being the boss, on having power, on winning the race. Do you feed yourself on that? If you do, you’re dead. You’ve lost your soul. Feed yourself on other, more nourishing material. Then you’ll see the transformation.” ~ Anthony de Mello

We have come to the conclusion of the ‘Awakening to Awareness’ mini-series, and while the posts for this book are at an end (for now) the work continues. Self-improvement doesn’t come with a deadline or end-date -it’s entirely up to us whether we plateau, fall back down into bad habits, or keep going to better ourselves. I’m going to try for the latter, as I like the way I feel lately. With all the insanity of what’s going on in the world around us, to feel better at such a time is a major feat in and of itself. Something is working.

The idea of a Sunday afternoon/evening post of something positive and uplifting is one I will seek to maintain, so this space will be reserved for similar sentiment in the future. It’s a nice way of reconnecting to what matters at the end/beginning of a week.

I like the above quote from ‘Awareness’ because it touches on feelings most of us have experienced. The worldly feelings the author addresses are the one that society has conditioned us into thinking we want. Popularity. Appeal. Being #1. They feed on any shred of competitive nature within us and drive us to excel at goals. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Without some elements of drive or compulsion, most of us wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Yet I’m more interested in the soul feelings – they’re the ones that matter. They’re the ones who will sustain us in times of darkness and doubt. Would you rather the mass, superficial adoration of the world, or the genuine affection of a singular dear friend. In my younger years I might have debated the two lightly, but I’ve always erred on the side of the genuine and earnest, even back then. (Hell, if this was a popularity contest I’d be going about things in a drastically different manner.)

If we put our minds to it, most of us can figure out a way to win an argument. We can use facts and reason and a bit of subtle persuasion in order to prove ourselves consistently ‘right’. I’ve done it for years, and after being challenged on it by family and friends I can always come up with a long litany of examples where I’ve been right and the world has been wrong. It’s there in history. It’s there in the facts. Looking back over those moments, however, I’m left with a sad realization: being right can be one of the loneliest places to be.

And so I strive to focus on the soul feelings, because I know those well. They don’t come along all the time – but when they do I tend to recognize them immediately. A sunny pocket of afternoon when I stood alone on a stream bank in Ireland, watching the water weaves its way through the reeds as the bright green of a late spring scene played out before me. The way time seems to evaporate when I’m in the midst of a new project that suddenly clicks into place and the pages start making sense, connecting as if compelled by a force of magical destiny. A dinner with Andy in Boston when we were trying to figure out wedding restaurant options and the young couple next to us, on what looked to be an awkward but sweet first date of sorts, offered their support for our upcoming nuptials. These are the memories of my soul feelings, and they’re the ones I hold closest to my heart. All the rest of it doesn’t much matter.

{See also Awakening to Awareness: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four and Part Five.}

“When we start off in life, we look at reality with wonder, but it isn’t the intelligent wonder of the mystics; it’s the formless wonder of the child. Then wonder dies and is replaced by boredom, as we develop language and words and concepts. Then hopefully, if we’re lucky, we’ll return to wonder again.” ~ Anthony de Mello

The world whipped my butt this week (stop asking for photos of that) and so I’m taking this time and doing my best to turn it into a learning experience. I had a tremendous therapy session which helped a great deal, because once in a great while the universe saves you when you least expect it but need it the most.

This week’s awareness quote from Anthony de Mello is the aspirational motivation I need to keep going in these uncharted times. It may help to turn what might first be perceived as difficult and different into something challenging and wondrous – an adventure that one can learn from and embrace, a trial that might make us all better in the long run. That’s always hard to see in the first moments of hardship and confusion, and our initial instincts may be to lash out or hide the pain within. Neither is very conducive to growth or improvement

At a time in our history when we are being forced to slow down and consider our actions more than any other in my lifetime, perhaps the universe is reminding us to reconnect with the basic tenets of what makes us human. To find the wonder and exuberant innocence of a child, to step back and away from the language and concepts and social constricts we have artificially created to distract and entertain ourselves from the natural beauty of the world.

This site leans toward that beauty. I strive to find the pulchritude of a flower, a leaf, a bird, a cloud, a plate of food, a drink garnished with verbena, a colorful scarf, a sparkling bauble, or a photograph outlining the gorgeous contours of the human body. The beauty of a song, the memory evoked by a certain melody, a fragrance that recalls the first day of summer after a whole year of school that ran all the way through June.

In beauty there is wonder. There is all that we don’t and never could understand. It is a strange thing to reach for that kind of wonder. Strange and beautiful and, well, wonderful.

{See also Awakening to Awareness: Part One, Part Two and Part Three and Part Four.}

“Until somebody told you you wouldn’t be happy unless you were loved, you were perfectly happy. You can become happy not being loved, not being desired by or attractive to someone. You become happy by contact with reality. That’s what brings happiness, a moment-by-moment contact with reality. That’s where you’ll find God; that’s where you’ll find happiness. But most people are not ready to hear that.” ~ Anthony de Mello

Oh what happy and reassuring words, and oh how I wish I had heard and heeded them in my twenties! Oh well, absolutely no regrets. We know better, we do better, we are better. All those years of thinking and wishing and assuming that someone else would complete or improve or even complement my existence – my, it almost feels like a waste.

Almost.

Because that was my life in its formative years, in those years when music meant the most, when fragrances were at their most potent, when the emotions felt more powerful and overwhelming than they would ever feel. I’m glad for that. Some of my friends claim to miss it, but I think what they really miss is the uncomplicated way we could live our lives at such a time. I think they miss their youth. That’s understandable. The great realization of coming to live in the moment is that the feeling of youth that I think some of them miss is entirely within grasp again.

Tripping over my words, I stumble on a past that is immobile and set in stone. Though it doesn’t change, no matter how much we want it to, our perception of it is malleable. That is the way we re-route the path from whence we came. That’s how we re-write our history. Most importantly, that’s how we forgive and heal. 

There are many such nuggets of wisdom in Anthony DeMello’s book ‘Awareness’ – and I’m still grateful to my friend Mary who suggested I read it. Her words were the whisper of the universe that I needed to hear. Those messages come when we are ready to receive them, and it’s up to us to watch for and heed them. Now, perhaps more than ever, it is vital to be aware. 

{See also Awakening to Awareness: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.}