Today is a Salem day, so I'm up and out the door by 7:30am. I'm still crawling down the little lane that leads away from my home when the horrible, sinking feeling strikes me. "You've left the door open" it says. At once, I recognize this feeling as irrational. I have a checklist in my head for leaving the house and it includes ensuring that the door is closed and locked. The feeling will not let me go. I have a cold, flowing feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the urge to turn around and go check the door is palpable.
This is the anxiety monster, come to sit beside me in the car on my morning commute. I've learned to greet this feeling and sit with it, to remind myself that it will pass, that it is not rational. It is accumulated stress from my work week, trying to find a place to be real, instead of just being a bad feeling that exists in my head and heart. I ride with it as I drive. By the time I reach I-5 and turn north, the anxiety has gone down a little, and I no longer have the powerful feeling that this is real. The anxiety fades and I'm left with just a sad, tired feeling, an emotional hangover from a hard, hard week.
A shiny new Toyota Camry passes me and the Toyota logo on the trunk catches my eye. The day is brilliant with sunshine and the silvery logo flashes in the light. My yoga teacher advises me, when I'm feeling unsteady, to steady my gaze. The gaze will steady your mind, he says. I focus on the Toyota logo as it recedes from me, staring intently at it, then relaxing my body into the sight of it. The anxiety is way down now, and the sad little feeling is moderating. I can start to notice other effects of the sweet morning sunshine. As cars go past me in the fast lane, I can see each one reproduced by the sun, a stretched and distorted image of the car, in black, traveling north with the car itself. The shadows are as stark and clean as the sunlight itself.
Shadows also move across the broad valley floor, borne by the same breeze that moves the huge, fluffy clouds that populate the June sky here in the central valley. I am suddenly in this moment, and the anxiety no longer stands in my way. I feel relaxed and safe. So, of course, the feelings surface. There has been some hard stuff this week, and now, finally, it has a safe space to come out. It's a painful process, but also cleansing and liberating. They are after all, just feelings, white noise left over from the difficult experiences of a busy week of practicing my craft. They flow and they are gone. And I'm left with a pure process of living this moment; sunlight catches on the deep green fender of a tractor as it plows a broad, brown field. A log truck to my right lumbers along, bark chips flying from the cargo.
And from the radio, Debussy. By the time I reach the Salem office, I am transformed, joyous in this new day, excited for the opportunity to practice my craft yet again. And all I did was pay close attention to the process, from anxiety to emotional release, to present beauty.
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Thursday, June 2, 2016
A New Moment
As I'm lying under a maple tree in the park, reading about the history of Pompeii, I grow drowsy and rest the book on my chest. It is such a perfect day, blue and just warm enough to be a comfort. I can hear raptors singing above me, and before me, about a hundred yards away, the river is rushing along. My breath rises and falls as a background.
Suddenly I am feeling an odd, faraway feeling, a sad feeling. I don't know why. As I examine it, my first impression is to blame the surroundings. They remind me, I think, of difficult times that went before.
And then I recognize this for the mistake that it is. Every difficult time can be linked to something that is a reminder in the present. I bring my attention back to the river sounds, to the red tail Hawks calling out above me, to the blue, blue sky and the warm air drifting over me.
And suddenly I'm having a brand new experience, unique to this moment. After I strip away the thoughts and comparisons, and return to the raw sensory experiences, I see that this day is unlike any other that I've ever lived. Because I am unlike I've ever been in my whole life on this day. The similarities to other times dissolve. There is no other moment like this one, and there never will be! The sensory inputs are unique to the me that is now, the mind inputs are unique to now, it is all fresh, brand new, and delicious.
It happens in the space of a breath (or maybe because of a breath!). I watch my thoughts and I move them to the present. And in an instant, I and the world around me are transformed. The book calls to me again. Without a doubt, the Pompeians too sat under a tree, enjoying the day, and struggling with their thoughts. Perhaps in a way that would be foreign to me culturally, but in another way, perfectly familiar.
Every moment is fresh and new. Every single one.
Suddenly I am feeling an odd, faraway feeling, a sad feeling. I don't know why. As I examine it, my first impression is to blame the surroundings. They remind me, I think, of difficult times that went before.
And then I recognize this for the mistake that it is. Every difficult time can be linked to something that is a reminder in the present. I bring my attention back to the river sounds, to the red tail Hawks calling out above me, to the blue, blue sky and the warm air drifting over me.
And suddenly I'm having a brand new experience, unique to this moment. After I strip away the thoughts and comparisons, and return to the raw sensory experiences, I see that this day is unlike any other that I've ever lived. Because I am unlike I've ever been in my whole life on this day. The similarities to other times dissolve. There is no other moment like this one, and there never will be! The sensory inputs are unique to the me that is now, the mind inputs are unique to now, it is all fresh, brand new, and delicious.
It happens in the space of a breath (or maybe because of a breath!). I watch my thoughts and I move them to the present. And in an instant, I and the world around me are transformed. The book calls to me again. Without a doubt, the Pompeians too sat under a tree, enjoying the day, and struggling with their thoughts. Perhaps in a way that would be foreign to me culturally, but in another way, perfectly familiar.
Every moment is fresh and new. Every single one.
Friday, May 27, 2016
First Yoga Class
Last Sunday, I woke feeling excited and a little nervous. I had made an agreement with myself to go to a real live yoga class for the first time today. I've been putting it off, mostly because it scares me little bit. What if everyone is younger than me, or fitter than me, or slimmer than me? Today's the day, I tell myself, no more excuses.
Truth to tell, I'm pretty excited about going. I roll up my light green yoga mat and put it in it's little white bag, put on my loose-fitting pants, fill the water bottle. And drive to the studio, which is in downtown Eugene. As I pull up outside, I have a moment of angst, when I almost chicken out. Everyone I see going in there is in fact, younger, fitter and slimmer than me! I have to give myself a stern talking to; you've planned this, you are ready. What finally pushes me out of the car is contemplating what it would feel like in the coming days, walking around knowing that I had let fear win.
So I go in, and introduce myself to the instructor. He is a perfectly age-less man, taller than me, about six foot two, and very slim. He tells me this is the right class for a beginner, and he invites me take a place anywhere in the large room. But the studio is full of students already. The only spot left is in the front row, right in front of the instructor's mat. Oh well, I think, and walk courageously past row after row of yoga mats and spread out my own right in front of the instructor.
We begin. And in no time, I'm moving through poses with the group and feeling a warmth and a welcoming that feels like a home long lost and re-discovered. As I move with the group, I get to know my classmates, in a way. To my left, a young man, very muscled, is always doing more than the instructor asks, and he seems very serious. To my right, a woman about my age struggles a little. She seems very flexible, but her breathing is labored. I think the class is challenging her.
Soon we are in savasana, and the instructor comes around and puts some oil on our foreheads. We all sit up and he asks us to finish the class with some "Ohm-ing." I did not expect the religious aspect of the class, the chanting and anointing with oil. But it seems okay. The Ohm chanting turns out to be especially powerful. Done with fifty voices in unison, I can feel it vibrate in my chest and it is very soothing.
As I leave, I smile at a woman who is gathering her things. She must be seventy years old, and she gives me a smile that is absolutely electric. Outside, walking to the car, I feel like I'm two inches taller, and very confident. My mind is clear as a bell. And then it hits me; this is way I used to feel after a good climbing work out.
I'm going to come back next Sunday and take a harder class.
Truth to tell, I'm pretty excited about going. I roll up my light green yoga mat and put it in it's little white bag, put on my loose-fitting pants, fill the water bottle. And drive to the studio, which is in downtown Eugene. As I pull up outside, I have a moment of angst, when I almost chicken out. Everyone I see going in there is in fact, younger, fitter and slimmer than me! I have to give myself a stern talking to; you've planned this, you are ready. What finally pushes me out of the car is contemplating what it would feel like in the coming days, walking around knowing that I had let fear win.
So I go in, and introduce myself to the instructor. He is a perfectly age-less man, taller than me, about six foot two, and very slim. He tells me this is the right class for a beginner, and he invites me take a place anywhere in the large room. But the studio is full of students already. The only spot left is in the front row, right in front of the instructor's mat. Oh well, I think, and walk courageously past row after row of yoga mats and spread out my own right in front of the instructor.
We begin. And in no time, I'm moving through poses with the group and feeling a warmth and a welcoming that feels like a home long lost and re-discovered. As I move with the group, I get to know my classmates, in a way. To my left, a young man, very muscled, is always doing more than the instructor asks, and he seems very serious. To my right, a woman about my age struggles a little. She seems very flexible, but her breathing is labored. I think the class is challenging her.
Soon we are in savasana, and the instructor comes around and puts some oil on our foreheads. We all sit up and he asks us to finish the class with some "Ohm-ing." I did not expect the religious aspect of the class, the chanting and anointing with oil. But it seems okay. The Ohm chanting turns out to be especially powerful. Done with fifty voices in unison, I can feel it vibrate in my chest and it is very soothing.
As I leave, I smile at a woman who is gathering her things. She must be seventy years old, and she gives me a smile that is absolutely electric. Outside, walking to the car, I feel like I'm two inches taller, and very confident. My mind is clear as a bell. And then it hits me; this is way I used to feel after a good climbing work out.
I'm going to come back next Sunday and take a harder class.
Yoga Morning
This morning when I rise, I can't wait to get to the yoga mat. It isn't always like this, but I love it when the practice calls me. I put on some Debussy and sit cross-legged on the mat, in front of my wide living room window. The light is still low, the sun not yet up. And it's perfectly quiet, except for Claire de Lune coming from the iPad.
As I start to move, my mind clears. The cares of the day had begun to press into me, taking over my awareness. But the joy of movement quiets these thoughts, over powers them; it isn't time yet to attend to these things, and there is nothing I can do about them right now anyway.
I move into cat-cow and do some rhythmic breathing, synchronizing with the movement. From there, to the pigeon pose, and up to forward fold. A slight smile spreads across my face, from the pure joy of movement. I wind down into a bridge and finally, Savasana, for a few minutes until I stand, face the sun and clasp hands toward my heart. The light is full now, the sun shining in my face. I feel so grateful to have health, movement and positive outlook on the new day.
As I start to move, my mind clears. The cares of the day had begun to press into me, taking over my awareness. But the joy of movement quiets these thoughts, over powers them; it isn't time yet to attend to these things, and there is nothing I can do about them right now anyway.
I move into cat-cow and do some rhythmic breathing, synchronizing with the movement. From there, to the pigeon pose, and up to forward fold. A slight smile spreads across my face, from the pure joy of movement. I wind down into a bridge and finally, Savasana, for a few minutes until I stand, face the sun and clasp hands toward my heart. The light is full now, the sun shining in my face. I feel so grateful to have health, movement and positive outlook on the new day.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Bully
When my case manager comes into my office and tells me Mrs M is on the phone, my stomach sinks. Mrs. M is legendary for being difficult to deal with. I don't want the case manager to deal with her alone, so I've asked her to come get me when she calls.
Sure enough, when we pick up the phone, Mrs M. starts right in. She's huffing and sighing at everything we say, as if we are so stupid it's just exasperating to deal with us. Her words are a string of false accusation and hateful, personal insults. I've dealt with bullies enough in my life to know that each accusation and every insult is bait. The temptation to engage is almost overwhelming, but I know if I give her that, she wins. Because she doesn't want to make a point or fix anything. She wants to fight, and most of all, she wants to hate. So I answer every hateful accusation and insult with further clarification about what we can and can't do, and what her responsibilities are and how she must meet them.
This is, as the Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron says, the place that scares me. I suppose we all have our worst fears. For me, it is being hated and falsely accused. I also suppose that this is a fear that many people share with me. As Mrs. M pours the hatred onto me through the phone, a small part of my personality stands back and watches as the fear runs rampaging through me, breaking all the china in the house that is my ego. When Mrs. M doesn't get anywhere, she runs down and concludes the phone call with "is there anything else, Bob?" Her voice is drenched with sarcasm.
When I tell people I am a social worker, often they put on a patronizing voice and they say "you must be so patient." How do I tell them that the real theme of social work is not patience but courage? Courage, because when you try to do something good, the first reaction many people have is to hate you for it. And to be hated is a terrifying thing and a demoralizing thing. That's why social work is hard.
And yet, oddly, being hated also opens the door to the state of Flow or mindfulness that I write about in these pages that is so very valuable to me, and to the human condition. There is liberation in facing your worst fear squarely and merely watching it as it unfolds. In the words of the great Pema Chodron in her book "The Places that Scare You,"
“A further sign of health is that we don't become undone by fear and trembling, but we take it as a message that it's time to stop struggling and look directly at what's threatening us.”
So this morning I'm raw and exhausted and I haven't slept. I've spent the night looking the boogie man right in the eye. And today I'm going to do some more social work.
Sure enough, when we pick up the phone, Mrs M. starts right in. She's huffing and sighing at everything we say, as if we are so stupid it's just exasperating to deal with us. Her words are a string of false accusation and hateful, personal insults. I've dealt with bullies enough in my life to know that each accusation and every insult is bait. The temptation to engage is almost overwhelming, but I know if I give her that, she wins. Because she doesn't want to make a point or fix anything. She wants to fight, and most of all, she wants to hate. So I answer every hateful accusation and insult with further clarification about what we can and can't do, and what her responsibilities are and how she must meet them.
This is, as the Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron says, the place that scares me. I suppose we all have our worst fears. For me, it is being hated and falsely accused. I also suppose that this is a fear that many people share with me. As Mrs. M pours the hatred onto me through the phone, a small part of my personality stands back and watches as the fear runs rampaging through me, breaking all the china in the house that is my ego. When Mrs. M doesn't get anywhere, she runs down and concludes the phone call with "is there anything else, Bob?" Her voice is drenched with sarcasm.
When I tell people I am a social worker, often they put on a patronizing voice and they say "you must be so patient." How do I tell them that the real theme of social work is not patience but courage? Courage, because when you try to do something good, the first reaction many people have is to hate you for it. And to be hated is a terrifying thing and a demoralizing thing. That's why social work is hard.
And yet, oddly, being hated also opens the door to the state of Flow or mindfulness that I write about in these pages that is so very valuable to me, and to the human condition. There is liberation in facing your worst fear squarely and merely watching it as it unfolds. In the words of the great Pema Chodron in her book "The Places that Scare You,"
“A further sign of health is that we don't become undone by fear and trembling, but we take it as a message that it's time to stop struggling and look directly at what's threatening us.”
So this morning I'm raw and exhausted and I haven't slept. I've spent the night looking the boogie man right in the eye. And today I'm going to do some more social work.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)