Sit. Repeat.

A year ago November 1st I began meditating. Slowly at first, just 5 minutes a day, adding a minute at the 1st of the month. When I got to 10, I added 2. Now I’m “comfortably” at 20 minutes. The 1st of January I’ll revisit, maybe 20 minutes twice a day. We’ll see. It’s a lifelong practice after all.

I put comfortably in quotes because meditation is never comfortable. You sit and hope this time MAYBE, just maybe, you’ll get through it without having to scratch your nose, adjust your cushion, pull a wedgie out of your ass, make a grocery list in your head before bringing yourself back to the present with the word “thinking”.** This time maybe you’ll be in the now, even if it’s only for a few seconds.

It’s frustrating, but the rewards are great. And I’ve learned a few things. . .

1. It’s Okay.
The most important wisdom I’ve obtained is that it’s okay. It’s *ALL* okay. It’s okay to scratch your nose, it’s okay to think of all the things you could be doing instead of sitting. The idea of meditating is NOT to empty your mind, just the opposite. Allow those thoughts to come up. Glance at them objectively, without judgment, as if they were leaves in the wind. Then let them go. Bring yourself back to the present moment. Again, and again, and again. With practice, this becomes easier. Some days you’ll have piles of leaves, others just a few. There will always be leaves. And that’s okay. Your leaves are your practice.

What’s great is this “okay” realization translates directly into your life as well. It *IS* okay. It’s all okay. Who you are, right now, in this moment, is okay. It’s who and where you’re supposed to be. Start from where you are. Work from that. Because it’s your practice. As Pema Chödrön says:

“The desire to change is fundamentally a form of aggression toward yourself. Our hangups, unfortunately or fortunately, contain our wealth. Our neurosis and our wisdom are made out of the same material. If you throw out your neurosis, you also throw out your wisdom.”

2. Every Day.
For it to become easier, you must meditate every day. Every. Single. Day. Three times a week won’t work, twice a week, every other day. Nope. You’ve got to get on the cushion. You’ve got to sit. Then sit. Then sit again. Of course, if something comes up preventing you from sitting, that’s okay. Just get back to it tomorrow. Meditation is not about beating yourself up for missing a day. It’s about ALLOWING yourself to be yourself.

3. Self Acceptance.
The most profound change I’ve realized is true, deep love and respect for the person I am. Right now. Meditation slowly but surely removed that imaginary person with the clipboard I used to envision standing behind me and marking a big, red “X” every time I fell on my face. Sure I still beat myself up, but I’ve gained an awareness of self hatred when and as it happens. I’m sometimes, not always, able to recognize it, observe it for what it is without judgment, then let it go. Just like the leaves. I say sometimes because again, this is a practice. A lifelong practice.

Remember, all beliefs are just thoughts. 

And thoughts are not facts.

4. Awareness.
Meditating daily carries over into the rest of your life, becomes a part of who you are, and can affect how you observe and interact with the world. This is major because eventually, it’s like you’re meditating while walking around. Sometimes :)

Let me explain. During meditation your thoughts bubble up, swirl around like leaves. You allow it, observe it, then let it go, bringing your mind back to the now. You can do this in your life as well.

For example, I’ve found myself angry in traffic and sometimes now I’m able to catch it. I stop, observe, “Wow, you’re really pissed. What’s that about?” I allow the anger to bubble up in all its ferocity. I feel it, really feel it. Feel how sucky it makes my body and mind. Then I breathe it out, letting it dissipate. Where before I would just blindly feel rage before covering it up with either a cigarette, a loud catchy song on the radio, or a trip to Starbucks, or maybe a drink when I got home, now I’m able, sometimes, to actually feel emotions flow through me. I’m not holding onto anything.

I’m groundless and it feels great. Like those dreams where you fly. It never lasts for very long, but when it does I feel like I can conquer anything. Meditation has opened me up so rather than stuffing feelings down blindly, I can sometimes (not always) allow them to just flow through.

Again, I say sometimes because like life meditation is a PRACTICE. If you rage and head for a double cinnamon dolce, it’s okay. Because maybe next time you’ll be more aware. Every single minute you are is a victory. But if you don’t, that’s not defeat. Just another opportunity to practice.

5. Slow Down The Car.
Meditation awakens you to positive, joyful moments as well. Where before I might inhale a piece of cake, now, SOMETIMES, I’m really awake to how it tastes. I savor the moment rather than living in fast forward.

Most of my life has been spent in fast forward: what will I do this weekend; where will we spend the holidays; where do I see myself in five years; what do you want for your birthday; where should we go on vacation? Always looking ahead so you’re blind to what’s in front of you.

Meditation can’t slow down time, but it has slowed my sense of time. It’s made me more aware of the now. This moment. Right now. I’m typing these words, right now, and hopefully, you’re reading them. Not to get too “Cosmos” on your ass, but that’s all we have. The right now. Meditation, sitting, has helped me to appreciate the precious gift of that.

6. Warriors Come Out and Play.
You’d think with a year of meditating under my belt I’d be this free and easy floaty hippy guru. Nope. Here’s the hard truth: meditation isn’t easy. It’s built for true spiritual warriors, beings with the courage to tackle all the shit from their past they’ve been previously too fearful, unwilling, or unable to face.

Of course every person’s life journey is different, but for me, meditation brought up a ton of crap I’d been ignoring. I’d been stuffing memories, feelings, raw emotions, so far down into myself for so long. By just sitting and getting quiet, after a while my psyche realized it was okay to open that door, release that seal, turn that key. All these horrible feelings decided it would finally be okay to unravel themselves and come to the surface. Like a space bag with the vacuum released. Or a stuffed closet that someone opens by mistake. A real shitstorm.

At first, there were a few weeks of calm, but then the real work began. All that old stuff came up and I had to feel it all over again before letting it go. And it really sucked. I had nightmares. I got physically sick. Some nights it felt like the flu, vomiting up all these old feelings and memories I’d buried. I cried some nights and some nights punched the cushion I was so pissed off. It totally, completely, sucked. I wanted to give up, and did for a few nights. But I always came back. Because in the end, feeling emotions FEELS better than stuffing them. It really does. If you have the balls to do it.

Again, meditation is not about changing who you are, but about becoming more awake to ALL life’s experiences big or small, positive or negative. It’s about being able to face and handle all of life with a peaceful smile and a warm heart.

I sit here 1 year later profoundly changed. I’m still the same person, but I see things differently. What I know is no matter what, I will continue to sit. For a very long time. Every day. No matter what. Namaste.

**  There are many methods of meditation. I used Pema Chödrön’s, When Things Fall Apart. Wherever You Go, There You Are by Jon Kabat-Zinn is another great resource.

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Gratitude 9/25/12

I'm grateful for music which can lift me when nothing else on Earth can even come close. I let it take me away and for just a moment I surrender and am no longer groundless but am clinging to the notes, and not beating myself up for clinging, just enjoying, laughing, floating, and reveling in the happiness it brings me. Whether it's STAX, Leonard Cohen, Francis Dunnery, bad House Music, '80's New Wave, '70's Soul, '90's Quiet Storm, or any of the other thousands of kinds of notes I let sink in my ears, it's all good. All of it heals. It makes the groundlessness easier.

I'm grateful for another good Lois day, her laughing face giving me kisses, urging me outside, reminding me that there's much to be learned.....outside.

I'm grateful for friends calling from afar, just to say hi and remind me I'm not alone in this unpredictable, crazy atmosphere and existence. We've all got our life to breathe through and even when I feel alone, I'm really not.

I'm grateful for unexpected kindness. You brace yourself for a lashing and instead receive goodness and generosity and kindness. So grateful and so much more valuable because you guessed wrong.

I'm grateful for birdsong. Just that. Trilling, rolling, lilting birdsong. Precious and beautiful. I want to hold onto it for the days in our winter woods when it's completely silent. Too damn silent. For when I long for the song of birds. I take it in and hold it, before letting it float back onto the fall breeze. Surrendering it for someone else's ears to cherish.

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My Girl.

On August 27th, my doggie daughter Lois was diagnosed with colon cancer.

I savor every quiet moment with my girl, the good as well as the not so good. She roams our woods searching for a good place to do her business, walking through our forest floor, ferns brushing our legs, mushrooms of every size and shape and color dotting the leaves. Brown tiny-tree like stalks peeping out, and huge white mounds the size of bread loaves or flat like dinner plates. Tiny red umbrellas, and lacy orange fluttering down the side of a stump. Once a tiny pink elfin mushroom, and once, even a magical blue too bright to be real.

She hunts for the perfect spot and I breathe through the fact this might be one of our last days together. I hope we get to roll in the snow one more time. She so loves the snow. My beautiful girl.

My favorite moments of all are when she sleeps by my side early in the morning after The Hubby has gone to work. On her back with her legs splayed out snoring softly. I lie there and listen to the birds and breathe and try to hold onto it, to remember what it feels like to hear crickets chirping, dogs barking in the distance, their echoes calling for my girl to come play, to actually hear the sun rising and to hold onto and remember what it feels like to be loved by Lois. Her gentle eyes telling you everything will be okay Mommy, I’m here, everything will be okay.

Her koala smile tucked into her closed mouth, turned up ever so slightly at the corners, such a small grin conveying such huge happiness. Her soft snore, the way she softly barks in her sleep, her paws tap-tap-tapping on the sides of her crate in the night as she chases rabbits or deer or runs with the direwolves chasing shadowcats. I read, listening to her and The Hubby snore in tandem, each one on either side of me and I am content.

When I first read “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” many years ago and Tereza described to Tomas her love for the dog Karenin, how she might just love Karenin more than she loved him, I rolled my eyes and wrote her off. She’s just a dog. Tomas is your husband.

Then I fell for Lois and my whole world changed. I understand how a dog can make you see the world differently, can make you see yourself differently and teach you things about yourself you never knew. They look at you in such a simple, pure way, with such a clean love and never, ever do they expect anything back. What little you have to give them they will take gratefully and never begrudge you a single thing in return. They never resent you or feel threatened by you. You can hate them and even beat them and they will still crave your love.

It is such a purity of spirit, such a generosity, love at its essence. It makes all other forms pale in comparison. You give them love and they give you the world.

You have so many things in your life, your family, your job, vacations, cars, hopes, dreams, goals, anxieties, fears. All they have is you. And that’s all they need.

You never see a dog with self esteem problems. Sure they might be afraid or shy, but a dog never goes around hating herself. Lois just smiles, wags her tail, and looks at you with those big dark eyes as if to say, “Aren’t I cute? Aren’t I just the greatest? Don’t you love me? I sure love me. I sure do. You do too, right? I can see it. You’re DYING to give me a pet. And a treat. And a belly rub. You loooooooove me. You really do. I can tell. Who wouldn’t love me?”

Lois has taught me more about life than any person ever did or will. Dogs have the uncanny ability to act as a mirror. We look into their eyes and they reflect back onto us that which we love most about ourselves. And for most of us, it’s a shocking sight, one we’ve never seen before. For many, including me, it’s the first time we haven’t felt indelible self hatred from reflected images.

Instead of walking around this planet beating ourselves up, dogs remind us why we should love ourselves and each other. I feel better about myself knowing Lois. And by being her Mom, she has taught me to finally get rid of the self-hatred I’ve been carrying around since I was a child.

Taking care of her has been my greatest honor. Loving her my finest gift. And each day I have left with her will be my best.

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Gratitude 9/12/12

Today I am grateful for the late summer sun warming my face as I take my girl out for her afternoon constitutional. The crickets sigh their end of summer song longingly, drawing out their notes in hopes to make it last. The air is still and quiet, holding its breath, waiting for that moment that change in the air when you wake up and notice the leaves have started to turn.

I'm grateful for words and the trickle of them that have started to drip through my fingers after so long a drought.

I'm grateful for photographs and the very few I take where I can say to myself, "Yes, that's it. In that photo my eyes were open and I really captured what I saw. I was able to look beyond the immediate to something more."

I'm grateful for the people who care about me in this world, who check in, ask how I'm doing, and really make an effort. Because it can be a big, ugly world at times and friends very often are more family to me than family. I'm grateful for their love, and for their complete and utter acceptance of the flake I can be. It makes me feel like I can handle anything.

I'm grateful for wonderful morning dreams, the kind that take you outside yourself to a better, dreamier place. Would be so easy for me to cling to such dreams in times of trouble but I must remember like everything they are only air, just a mist that drifts away.

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Gratitude 9/11/12

Today I am grateful the blanket of summer has been lifted....the air has come rushing in and the day is so bright and sunny the very air is edgy with relief and joy....it feels like a little girl squealing with delight on a carousel and sounds like a whisper of silence and crickets. I am grateful my girl Lois remains asymptomatic and a reflection of the joyful weather, her bedtime bodyslams are forceful and committed, utter bliss and ecstatic doggie laughter behind every one. I'm grateful for hot coffee milky and warm smiling to itself and saying, "Remember me?". I'm grateful for the need to somehow capture this gratitude in words. Every moment is fleeting and yes, one day far in the future perhaps I'll read this again and remember, but I know the memory will be soft-edged and fuzzy like the inside of a sweatshirt. It won't have the clarity, the committment, the prismatic light that this very moment has. I have to breathe it in and let it go, breathe it in, and let it go. And I am grateful for the courage to do that. Lastly I'm grateful to have traveled here today to find 2 quotes from strangers, wonderful, uplifting quotes that made me feel buoyant, lifted, full of light. Much like the weather. Namaste.

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Listening. And Melancholia.

When I started my writing life almost 2 years ago, I charged forth, eager to create “WRITING” in all its artistic glory, in all capital letters each and every day. I said yes to every opportunity that came my way and ran like hell at every chance that presented itself. I was going to be the best, the biggest, the brightest. Basically, I attempted writing as a job. With every job I’ve had since I was fifteen, I charged forth and swore I would be the best and outshine everyone else. The first to get promoted, the first to get accolades. In development, as a teacher, office manager, even a bartender. I charged forth, got there early and eager and excited. I finished projects, or got the biggest tips, or earned gold stars before going on to the next challenge.

But writing isn’t about product, it’s about process. In most jobs you’re working towards a finished goal, it’s linear, you have an endpoint in mind, whether that’s making a drink, raising a certain amount of funding, or getting a student’s SOL scores up, that goal is always at the forefront of your brain. With writing, there is no endpoint. Sure you have projects, but writing is circular, amoeba-like. You write a little here, snatch some time for a journal entry or vignette there, come back to your main project here, post a blog there. It’s like raindrops of paint falling on a Pollack canvas, where my other jobs were linear, concrete shapes like Miro or Calder. Point A to B. Writing is point A to Z to G to H and every point in between.

In my eagerness to get to point Z, I forgot to get quiet and listen. But my muse, the lady with her hair up in a bun who wears overalls and paints pictures in the basement of my mind reminded me that to create you have to listen. And if you’re charging and achieving like some AP high school student with an Ivy League in mind, it’s hard to listen. It’s much easier when your neck is injured and you can’t move. When you can’t move, all you can do is listen. So that’s what happened.

My body broke. I hurt my neck and it felt as if somehow I’d been broken right down the middle, like a tree that’s been struck by lightning. My insides charred and died. The bolt tore through the middle of me, tearing away the old as it went. And from the smoldering ashes a new me has gradually begun to grow. My neck injury was just a physical manifestation of what I’m feeling emotionally and creatively.

The lightning struck and my body broke and it was all I could do to sit or sleep or lie or do much of anything EXCEPT listen. My body broke which felt physically terrible, but even more awful emotionally. I felt like a job failure. I canceled engagements, stopped writing, and was convinced that while I had been successful at every other job known to man, in this one I would fail. I just didn’t have the discipline.

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Tower of Security.

I had the most vivid dream recently. Actually, it’s been one of several. Since I’ve started meditating, all sorts of weird matter is vomiting itself out of my subconscious almost nightly. All with a good dose of Dada weirdness of course, and every single one highly charged emotionally. I awake feeling exhausted, yet refreshed. Like I’ve just run 10 miles. Or taken a gigantic shit.

In the latest one I’m in a room, faced with a gigantic tower of boxes. And when I say gigantic I’m talking “Martin Scorcese’s-Hugo-in-3D-materialized-in-a-CGI-Lab” huge. Not occurring anywhere in nature. Willy Wonka huge. Only occurs in dreams huge. I can’t even see the top of this box tower. But I know at the bottom, under all that brown cardboard, there is a trap door. Under that trap door is the secret I’ve been protecting all of these years. Under a mountain of boxes, under lock and key, is either a situation I can’t yet face, an emotion I won’t even attempt to fathom, or a painful memory I’m blocking. And the only thing to do is start unpacking.

So I do. Methodically, agonizingly slowly, I begin picking up boxes and unloading their contents, placing them off to the side. No matter how many boxes I remove, the tower never shrinks. But I plod on confident that someday, I will unlock that trap door.

Each box is labeled, things like: “Alcohol” or “Drugs” or “Music” or “Sex” or “Shopping”. These are the boxes at the bottom. Ones at the top are labeled with things like “Momma” and “Lois” and “Family” and “Career” and “Video Games” and “Chocolate”. There are multiple boxes all over the tower labeled “Sleep”.

What does it all mean? When I awoke, I knew instantly. Here, vividly depicted for my understanding (I am a visual learner after all), was every single security blanket I’ve ever used to avoid feeling groundless. To avoid pain. As Pema Chödrön says in her book, “When Things Fall Apart”: 

“The most precious opportunity presents itself when we come to the place where we think we can’t handle whatever is happening. It’s too much. It’s gone too far. We feel bad about ourselves. There’s no way we can manipulate the situation to make ourselves come out looking good. No matter how hard we try, it just won’t work. Basically, life has just nailed us. . . . . Most of us do not take these situations as teachings. We automatically hate them. We run like crazy. We use all kinds of ways to escape---all addictions stem from this moment when we meet our edge and we just can’t stand it. We feel we have to soften it, pad it with something, and we become addicted to whatever it is that seems to ease the pain.” 

This is me all over. Depending on whatever period in my life I happened to be in, I was always addicted to something. Early on it was the obvious stuff, the contraband, the liquor. Then it became my mother after her accident. By focusing on her care I could avoid facing my own problems. That turned into saving EVERYONE I knew. Whether family member or friend, if you had a problem, I would listen, then lie in bed and worry how I could help. Spend money and time I didn’t have just to have something real to grab onto.

Then it was my job, I piled on the hours, worked three jobs at one point, all just so I could avoid facing that trap door. And the boxes kept on piling. Sleep? I’ve always dove into bed at any hour of the day to avoid pain. The bed is my ultimate “blanky”.

All these boxes are real, all of them my way to grab something. When you feel pain, when you face your fears, when you come face to face with something uncomfortable or fear-inducing you are groundless. You feel the breath rush out of you, you feel light-headed, your emotions start to run rampant. It truly feels as if you’re going to fall off a cliff. The wind is knocked out of you. You’re looking around for something to grab, a branch, anything. Anything at all. And nothing is there. Well, there’s these boxes...

Those boxes were and are my security. Now that I’m becoming more comfortable with that groundless feeling through meditation, I’m ready to unpack. To travel lighter. What’s under the trapdoor? I’ve got some idea, but right now it only remains in shadow, a dark, fearful, horrific vision. Those are the nightmares I’ve been having. I’m not even sure it happened, but my gut tells me it did. And my gut is never wrong. I’m just grateful I didn’t come to the end of my life without trying to become comfortable with groundlessness. I may never finish unpacking this tower of “blankys”. But I’ll sure as hell try.

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The Four Maras.

In my last post, I made a big show about how I encountered an ugly situation occurring in my life, and successfully diffused it through meditation. An email was sent to me, from a person obviously suffering from sadness and anger, and all of it directed toward me. Like a bodhisattva warrior I stood tall, deflecting the arrows, turning them all into flowers. Feeling the anger, dispersing it, sending out love to the person suffering, as well as to anyone in the world at that moment suffering from anger or hate or pain. Afterwards, I floated off the cushion, “cured” of my ugly email through successful implementation of Buddhist tonglen and loving-kindness practice.

Except it was all a lie. Sure, in those first hours I felt lighter than air, cleansed of the situation. But slowly, assuredly, old habits crept back in as they tend to do. I felt so proud for having dissolved the hard edges of anger and turned them into flowers of joy. What I realized was I had sapped myself of every ounce of energy in the process. Rather than deflecting, I had absorbed.

So much so when I arose the next day I was completely useless. I spent the next two days in an emotional and physical tailspin, unable to do much of anything except get out of bed and shower, but unable to eat, unable to write, unable to do anything except obsess about why this person could possibly be so angry with me. What had I done? The possibilities, the thoughts, the stories we so often create, spun and spun around in my head like an out-of-control psychotic loom.

I was deep in the Buddhist notion of “mara” or how we react to obstacles in our lives. What do we do exactly? How do we fall apart? There are four maras, and much to my chagrin, I found myself acting out all four at the same time like some insane play.

Devaputra mara involves pleasure seeking. In other words, any time we feel uncomfortable, we run toward the nearest thing that will make us feel better whether it’s food, sleep, drink, shopping, whatever will help us forget we’re hurting. Let’s see, Zappos.com and a whole bowl of queso and chips anyone? Devaputra mara – check!

In skandha mara when pain occurs you automatically re-create yourself into the person you WISH you were. Paint on that smile girlfriend. Pretend it doesn’t hurt. Tie on that emotional girdle and protect your emotions. Tighten those strings. Gird your emotional loins! You don’t need any help, you’re fine. Bury those feelings deep, deeper. And yes, this was me all over in the wake of my incredible meditation experience. Instead of feeling gratitude toward the amazing MOMENT I had just had, I felt proud. And that pride turned into skandha mara. I was fine. I would be fine. All will be well – FROM NOW ON. No more pain, no more drama. You’d think I was Mary J. Blige the way I was walking around.

With klesha mara, strong emotions are the order of the day. You feel pain and because of it, you’re going to stir the pot, and stir it, and stir it, until what was a cup of turmoil is suddenly an entire seething cauldron of anger, hate, and pain. If you hurt, so is everybody else. No need for you to go it alone. No need to suffer in silence – shout it from the rooftops! Not only will it get you sympathy, but maybe your friends will light some torches and go on the witch hunt with you.

The next day, deep in devaputra mara, this is exactly what happened. I stirred and stirred, obsessed and thought and conjectured, until my story was so illogical and out of control anger took over. I lashed out in my mind, on the written page, to everyone and anyone who cared to listen. I was being hurt didn’t anyone care? Like a wounded warrior fishing for compliments on his valiant courage I was unstoppable.

Finally, there is the beautiful and talented yama mara, maybe the most diabolical coping mechanism of all. Yama mara stems from feeling if you just did all the right things, you’d be perfect. Exercise, meditate, eat right, get enough sleep, never be angry, volunteer at a shelter, pat your dog on the head every day, and never yell at your spouse. Except perfection doesn’t exist. And neither does security. You can do ALL of those things, but eventually things still fall apart. You change. You fall apart. Life is flow. Life is change. There is no security blanket to hold onto and until you get comfortable with the groundlessness that is this life, you will suffer.

Boy, is this me! I keep lists, or I used to, checking off the amount of time I spend writing, did I take my vitamins, did I call my Dad this week, did I exercise? And you know what? It never fails to make me feel bad about myself. It’s never enough. In the wake of my incredible meditation moment I once again thought, “Well, I just didn’t meditate LONG enough. If I sit for at least 30 minutes, it will be easier, I will be better, and this anger will all go away. For good.” Except it won’t. Because life isn’t stagnant. Life flows apart, and life flows together.

 So what did I learn from this experience? Holding on to maras is TIRING. It’s a struggle to put up roadblocks to your emotions (queso and Zappos) and very exhausting to wear that fake, painted smile. That much anger and hatred and stirring of the cauldron feels like an enormous weighted pack of lead on your shoulders, and the checklist? Who’s it for anyway? I’m learning to have AN UNCONDITIONAL FRIENDSHIP WITH MYSELF. Why do I need a checklist for that?

Thank god I had this experience of maras. What a blessing. What a moment to learn! Even though it was shocking to discover I do these things, now I’m AWARE of them. The more I read, the more I realize, awareness is key. It’s the whole shebang in fact. And this is way they call it meditation PRACTICE after all. Surrender is a wonderful gift. And life is about being comfortable with groundlessness. As Pema Chödrön says:

 “The essence of life is that it’s challenging. Sometimes it is sweet, and sometimes it is bitter. Sometimes your body tenses, and sometimes it relaxes or opens. Sometimes you have a headache, and sometimes you feel 100 percent healthy. From an awakened perspective, trying to tie up all the loose ends and finally get it together is death, because it involves rejecting a lot of your basic experience. There is something aggressive about that approach to life, trying to flatten out all the rough spots and imperfections into a nice smooth ride. 

To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man’s land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over and over again. From the awakened point of view, that’s life. Death is wanting to hold on to what you have and to have every experience confirm you and congratulate you and make you feel completely together. So even though we say the yama mara is fear of death, it’s actually fear of life.” 

You think I could get that tattooed somewhere? ;D

The teachings on the four maras can be found in Pema Chödrön's book, "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times"

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Rug Pulled Out.

Guan-Yin, The Bodhisattva of Compassion.

I had the most vivid dream. I was doubled over, cramping in agony, puking my guts out. The kind of puking where you seriously don’t think you can take it anymore, you want to die, kiss the cool porcelain, cut out your stomach, anything to end your pain. Except it wasn’t food I was throwing up. It was emotional garbage, which oddly enough looked like bits of cardboard, paper, actual objects. Shit I’ve been holding onto for way too long.

I heaved and cramped and heaved again until there was absolutely nothing left. My two friends, Melissa and Jacque, sat hunched over me, rubbing my back, whispering consoling words. Melissa whispered, “Don’t worry honey, when this is over, you can go absolutely anywhere you want to go.”

I awoke in tears, feeling light. Like a feather. Like the weight of the world was off my shoulders. Like I had just puked up 25 pounds of who knows what. And that felt just fine.

Four months ago I dove headlong into some pretty strong meditation practice and Buddhist study. I was so tired of feeling tired, and in pain, and while I never feel hopeless exactly, I am on just this side of apathetic. And all I can say is, thank god for Pema Chödrön. If she’s taught me one thing, it’s that groundlessness, those moments when the rug is pulled out, when you feel like you’ve got nothing to hold onto, are okay. They are the moments when you become stronger. They are the moments when you train as a warrior bodhisattva.

And god, if it’s one thing I absolutely abhor, it’s feeling groundless. Feeling like nothing in your life is solid, there’s nothing you can count on, and you’ve got no creature comforts to grab onto. You are completely out of your depth, drowning, overwhelmed, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to who understands, and no solutions presenting themselves. These are the moments when I hide. In my house, in bed, in movies, in video games, in food and drink and daydreams.

I hide so I don’t have to face the things I fear. Like new opportunities. Family drama. Meeting new people. Public speaking. Being recognized somewhere and being asked to do something I don’t want to do, or am not willing to do, or am scared to do but can’t say no. You name it, I’m probably scared of it.

I hate change. Except change is the only constant. What then?

So I’m learning. Slowly. When you’re presented with moments where you feel uncomfortable, or angry, or scared, or sick to your stomach, if you can do the following four things – EVEN FOR JUST ONE SECOND – before you relapse and go running for the chips, you are training as a warrior bodhisattva. You are successful.

1. Don’t lash out
2. Don’t run away
3. Don’t blame yourself
4. Don’t blame someone else

As Pema says, life every day presents us with opportunities to practice training during difficult moments. Traffic. Long lines. Bitchy co-workers. Family drama. Then there are times when huge crises present themselves and you get BIG opportunities. Like what I seem to be experiencing these days. It’s scary and I hate it. But I’m also learning not to beat myself up about it, and not to run away. Because running TOWARD is so much healthier. Even if you can only do it for one millisecond.

I had an experience last night I can only classify as huge. I was sent an ugly email. Emotionally ugly. Full of anger, pain, resentment, accusations. This person is really suffering. A type of email I had received from this same person before and lashed out against. Which of course didn’t help. And once again my chest felt tight, my stomach began to ache. I wanted to curl up in a ball and hide under the covers. This person was so angry at me. Nothing I could write or say would diminish this anger. It was there, right there in my face. I wanted to run.

Instead I tried what Pema suggested, even though I had tried it many times before and it had never worked. I sat in meditation with this ugly feeling. And I REALLY felt it. All up and down and around. Underneath and up top. Every angle of ugly. I breathed it in. Then I breathed out purity. And contentedness, and peace, and healing, and joy. I directed it toward this person, my family, and to anyone else who had ever received an ugly email. Breathed in ugliness. Breathed out joy.

For several minutes I did this. And for the first time, I felt something. A softening. The hard edges of this feeling began to soften and the feeling itself began to slowly dissolve. After several more minutes all I was left with was joy. I felt my face dissolve into a gentle smile (I was reminded of Sheldon Cooper’s “Koala Face” :D and tears formed at the corners of my eyes. It was so lovely.

I can’t explain in words what I felt. It resembled how proud you feel when you accomplish something, the minute you accomplish it. But it also felt like the warm sun on a spring day. Gentle and hugging and light. The feeling surrounded me and when meditation was over I floated off the cushion.

And sent waves and waves of gratitude to Pema Chödrön. Because for the first time I understand – TRULY – what she is talking about. For the first time I know working with anger and fear is possible. Having the rug pulled out from under you, feeling groundless, is okay. It can even be a good thing.

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