La Dolce Vita

Man with a Message

A few nights ago, I went with a couple of good friends to see Keb' Mo' play on a local stage.  The intimate setting was a perfect venue for the bluesy Keb' and his full band.  I got more than money's worth and plenty of groove, too.

What I like about Keb' Mo' is what I like about live music in small settings in general.  The community spirit.  The message.  The energy.  The love in the room.  It's amazing to me that a few hundred strangers can come together for a concert and just because a guitar plays, they suddenly feel like friends.  That's the way it felt with Keb' anyway.  Like a lot of friends having a soulful soiree.

The message of Keb' Mo' is as simple as L-O-V-E.  Even with somber, "ain't got no woman" blues tunes, the man manages to engage a spirit that feels like nothin' but heart.  With ditties such as "Life is Beautiful" and "Shave Yo' Legs", the tall, lanky blues guitarist brings the simple goodness of loving life (and a girl) to the melody of song.  He makes a party happen, but he makes you grateful, too. 

I hadn't heard his song, "We Don't Need It" before the show.  Since then, I've thought of it several times.  The mood shifts in that ballad, and it moves to big, beautiful gratitude.  When a songwriter can get into your thankfulness, he's gotten into your essence, I think.  Keb' is a man with a message, and I love it.  I need me some blues music almost every day, but I can't breathe without giving thanks.  And right now, I'm thankful for an artist who made me dance, smile, cry and sing-a-long.  It was a perfect night of music. 

 

How I Got the Blues

I was about 28 years-old when I really discovered the blues.  I was a doctoral student who worked with undergraduates planning to be teachers.  One night, in Knoxville, Tennessee, I met a couple of these "youngsters" at a local blues club for some live music.  I suppose that I had "heard the blues" on rare occasions; I mean, I knew who B.B. King was, and I recognized the swing and swagger of some classic Etta James.  But I grew up listening to pop and rock on the radio and plenty of country "down on the farm" from which I came.  Soul, rhythm and blues would come later, but they would come in like a lion.  They would come in at the Baker Peters Cocktail Lounge. 

I remember sitting in a corner in the dark, intimate, jazzy lounge, alone at first, and then with my new friends.  When the blues band cranked up, it took me less than 10 minutes before I was swaying on the dance floor, tapping my feet and rocking my hips.  It's an instinct I have little control over; parts just start moving in sync with the beat of the drum and the guitar strum.  I can't help myself. I just want to dance. 

And dance I did.  Even by myself. I wore a smile bigger than my shoe size, and I shuffled all over that tiny floor. I drew some attention, too, because a brother, probably nearing his sixties, said, "You got the moves, girl. You got the blues moves." 

I'm embarrassed that I can't recall that young woman's name who met me at the club that night. Working with her and her peers was a temporary stop in my graduate studies, but I will always remember what she offered me in that juke joint.  She said, "Go buy Eric Clapton's From the Cradle, and if you don't have any Stevie Ray Vaughn, getcha some of that, too."  Within the week I had Stevie Ray's Greatest Hits and the Clapton album in hand.  I've been rockin' to the genre ever since.

Tomorrow night, I'll be sitting a few rows away from the soulful, bluesy Keb' Mo' as he does his thing on a small stage here in town.  I'm excited about it, too.  I'm giddy, actually.  I'm about to"get the blues" in the only way that's not sad and lonesome.  I'm about to get "Dirty Low Down and Bad." 

 

 

This is what I'm doing . . .

Ever since I discovered my place in contemplative studies, including membership in The Center for Contemplative Mind in Society, I have felt a surge of new awakening.  It's as if I stumbled into my life's purpose all over again, knowing full well that teaching is part of it, but something bigger, something related to what I'm teaching, not just that I'm teaching is blooming for the first time.  It's always been in my roots, and using other words for it, I can honestly say that being "contemplative" in its broadest sense has always been "me," despite the fact that I am obviously extroverted.  The philosophy that grounds contemplative pedagogy is as much a part of my identity as farm life is.  No surprise, then, that the connection between contemplative and environmental studies appeals to me, too.  Still, as I begin now to speak this work I am doing, to share its language and purpose, I find it quite challenging to make it clear for others.  Most of my closest friends and colleagues seem to get it, but other academics meet me with a kind of pause and sometimes even a commentary that suggests, "Are you for real?"  Ever since the Enlightenment and the Scientific Revolution, any mention of heart, soul, love, mysticism, spirituality and emotion--in the context of academic disciplines and learning--has been risky at best.  We are a society that privileges the mind's capacity to reason and to critically think, and I have absolutely no beef with this truth (though I might argue that our culture is not necessarily doing a great job with deep thinking). Yet, we are also a society laden with big problems and issues that affect our well being and wholeness, and to isolate the heart from the solutions or to leave it up to religion for that is a serious mistake, in my opinion.  I think we're whole people, and less compartmentalization in the realm of education makes a lot of sense to me. Put another way, I think that giving real time, even class time, to going "inside" of ourselves is valid and meaningful work. Here's why:

Mirabai Bush writes that, "Practices that are specifically designed to open the heart and deepen connection to others work directly to foster love and compassion.  Other practices cultivate the capacity for asking forgiveness as well as giving and receiving forgiveness for oneself and others; supporting these are practices of letting go, grieving, and reconciliation.  And yet other practices, which cultivate capacities from simple stillness to insight and wisdom, also develop awareness of teh interconnectedness of life from which the actions of love and forgiveness can grow.  Maybe there could be fewer dead pelicans in the future." 

A Fox and an Elk

My mom saw a fox today on the farm.  She spotted something "larger than a cat," she said, just stretched out on a big haystack, soaking up the sun.  As she got closer on the ATV, the red, bushy-tailed fox raised his head and looked at her.  Only after she stood up and flailed her arms did he rise, as well,  jump off the hay, and scurry over into the barn.  And that was that.  But that was good.

A couple of months ago, while checking a herd of cattle, my dad saw what is believed to be the first spotted or reported elk in Madison County.  The buck was just sauntering along in the herd, and after the word got out, everybody came wanting to take a gander. This guy was huge.  Deer are commonly spotted on the farm, but never, ever have we seen an elk.  It was truly a spectacular experience for my parents.  And that's the point.

The 600 acres that my parents keep are rich with natural beauty and wildlife.  I grew up on the farm and during most of my childhood and adolescent years, I was, shall we say, less than aware of the prize we owned.  I think that's because farming is and was hard, hard work, and the stress of trying to break even or clear a little profit caused a lot of pressure-filled memories to form in our family.  Yet, all the while, in the midst of the day-to-day grind, I learned that the cycle of life comes in many forms.  I learned that life itself is something to marvel, especially when it shows itself in a rare existence.  A fox and an elk, for example.  I learned from my parents that we're never too old to stop the work to admire the play. I learned what it means to observe in awe and wonder. 

There is a  lot of awe and wonder on the farm, and we still get a little giddy when we see fox taking a sun bath on some hay.  I love how my mom and I can talk about bird habits or the creek leaving its banks.  We can mourn the loss of a favorite tree in some back field that a storm finally took down, or we can celebrate the birth of four or five baby calves in one spring day.  When I was a child, I often heard my elders' conversations about these kinds of topics, and back then, it struck me as kind of frivolous, unworthy of a dialogue and well, maybe bordering on boring.  Now, thanks to the appreciation I learned from them, it's the highlight of my day.  And I'm glad I have something to say about it, too. 

 

"There are no classes in America." ~ Rick Santorum

Let me just say up front that I tread lightly when it comes to publishing my thoughts on political matters.  First, I admit to feeling some fear of attack and being pulled into a hostile dialogue that, frankly, drains me of energy that I need to put elsewhere.  I also know that while I consider myself fairly informed, I recognize that I do not keep my head buried in enough political discourse (newspapers, biographies, scholarly articles, journals, magazines, blogs, etc.) to formulate what I would call a sound, reasoned, well-thought-out argument.  I have high standards for myself when it comes to this kind of conversation because I happen to believe that too much of what gets said about politics is reflective of media sound bites and polarized viewpoints.  I try very hard to think deeply about the issues we are facing as a country, and well, that's becoming ever more difficult because of the overflow of "information" that spews like greasy oil from the Internet well.  Occasionally, though, I hear something or see something, and I just cannot be silent.  Hence, the title of this post. 

In last night's GOP debate, I heard former Pennsylvania Senator Rick Santorum say that there is no class system in America. The argument that he was trying to make was about semantics, saying that "class warfare" or the use of the word "class" does not belong in our lexicon.  He said something about "middle income" being a more appropriate use of vocabulary, and I can appreciate his attention to word choice and the power that words carry.  I've listened to him enough, however, to know that what he stands for does not reflect my values in the least, and I have to say something--here and now--about this "class" issue.  It's at my core, and I can feel it churning inside. 

Art Appreciation 101

Yesterday, I received in the mail the necklace you see on me here: 

I ordered it from Christina Ramsey, a friend of mine from high school who is quite the gifted artist.  Like most of the original art I choose, be it jewelry, paintings, ceramics or music, this pendant connected with me. Something about the art I decide to purchase has to  "speak to me," as they say, and I knew immediately that the necklace made of agate, hemp, and small crystals was telling me there was a link between us.  As it turns out, the pendant is Quan Yin, a deity in the Buddhist tradition.  The "Goddess of Compassion" resonates with me in that I often feel as if I hear people's cries, too, sometimes to the point that I would like them silenced.  Being compassionate and lovingly kind is a noble aspiration indeed, but without enlightenment (acceptance and understanding of the suffering), it sure can be exhausting and frustrating.  I am constantly negotiating boundaries and limits, making myself aware of my own grief and hurts while also trying to care for others'.  It's not easy for me, so I'm thinking Quan Yin around my neck might generate the right energy for this kind of love--the kind that starts with compassion for myself. 

Treading New Waters: Teaching Contemplative Education

Today I will prepare the syllabus for a new course that I am creating and teaching, beginning next Tuesday.  "Contemplative Education" will serve as an elective for any major on campus, and it will count as a core course for the Educational Studies Major or Minor.  The manifestation of this course comes directly out of my sabbatical (Fall 2010), which you can read more about here.  I am terribly excited about this endeavor because I am deeply inspired by the literature and the content that is "contemplative education."  While talking to a friend yesterday about blog topics and ideas, I confessed to too much "writer's block" and something like nervousness about what to publish.  When I heard myself say that my studies "at work" are my "platform," I realized I better get said platform started on the blog.  As I get ready to sit down for a spell to construct this syllabus, I want to clarify here what it is I'm advocating and why I believe the course is just a starting point for a cultural shift.  A cultural shift, that is, and I hope, on our little college campus.

The Word is RELEASE: Welcome, 2012! I Release In You.

Last year I gave myself a word for the year, a theme if you will,  and a couple of days ago, I wrote about my "voice" in 2011 here.  There were periods of time, of course, when I was less focused on my thematic word and seemed to be, if anything, quiet and reclusive.  I certainly chose to not use my voice on the blog, for example, but just when I was beginning to feel stifled and silenced, I remembered that I had something to say.  I remembered my word--and, my words.  I'm so thankful for the times I spoke my truth, and I look forward to more of that in 2012. 

I'm naming my 2012 word "release."  It holds a tremendous amount of power and promise for me because there is always, absolutely, positively always something inside of me that needs releasing.  Learning to gently and gracefully "let go" has historically been the hardest of life's lessons for me.  I'm hoping that the "release" of 2012 makes it easier.

Most of the suffering in my life, that is, most of the emotional discomfort or uneasiness in my life, has come from what the Buddhists might call desires or cravings for something that I might assume, incorrectly, is a source for my personal happiness.  I might attach to a relationship--be it my own mother or  perhaps a special man--because in it, I feel so much love that I associate my contentment, my inner peace with it.  Clearly, these relationships or other phenonmena such as joyous occasions can bring happiness or enrich my existence, but they are not its source.  Source is inside, deep, deep down where my soul and spirit meet.  Source (or God) lies within me and from only that place can peace come.  Source knows that in joy there must also be sorrow, for life is nothing if not a paradox.  Enlightenment and understanding, insight, wisdom, this is always the aim, not "happiness," anyway. 

So when things come up and when I find myself clinging to a thought, to an idea--real or imagined, to a person, to an experience, to an opinion, and yes, to even my dog, I hereby aspire to "let it go," that attachment.  As I'm so often reminded, attachment is not love.  It is based on fear.  There can never be pure love in a place where there is fear.  Letting go is love. 

I recently gave some time in thought to this fear I carry and the attachment I sometimes do.  It's a fear of abandonment.  A fear that if I "let go" or if I do not hold on tightly enough, the good feelings of love and happiness , and more specifically, the good people I love, will abandon me. Here I give someone outside of myself my power.  It's risky and almost always painful.  I specifically remember harboring this kind of fear when I was a child. I grew up very attached to my older brother, depending on him far too much for my safety, for my sense of security and place of peace.  I would weep at his return to college on Sunday nights, sometimes thinking that I would not be able to make it through the week until he came back home.  And sadly, I would pray with a kind of desperation, "Please God. Don't let anything happen to him."  He died when I was 15, so that abandonment came to fruition and it magnified the fear of losing others even more.  

Learning to let go of fears, worries, angst, and attachment is, for me, the beginning of true inner peace.  I have moments, even periods of sustained time, when I am free and flowing, but in the blink of an eye, I can feel my tentacles wrapped around an energetic field that eventually overheats and explodes.  Freedom and flow is essential, and I want to do my part in making it possible for anyone I love, but especially for myself. I will not judge or berate myself for being human.  Confusing attachment for love is something learned, and it can therefore, be unlearned. 

To be specific, in 2012, I would like to release:

Anger.  I have some.  Probably more than I'm willing to acknowledge.  I want to let it rise, let it sit, and then let it go. 

Worry.  Let. It. Go.  Release.  Be gone. 

Judgement. Nothing good comes from judgement--of self or others. I want to let go of any that finds its way into my experience. Whether it be against or by me, I release it.

All that I love.  When I feel the most love, I feel myself set apart from it.  Yet, I also feel "at one with it." How is this possible?  To feel separate, but as one?  It's the mystery of true, great love.  Unity in one, but with defined boundaries, too.  It's miraculous, really.  I release what and who I love--so that I can love them and love myself without conditions.

RELEASE.  Freedom and flight feel right this year. 

 

 

The Goodness of Buster

I recognize that I have a very clear and obvious bias when it comes to loving my dog.  I often will claim that he is quite possibly the best dog who ever lived.  That kind of exaggeration is allowed, I say, because right now, in this moment, well, he is number one in my animal loving life.  That's not to say that I haven't loved and will love other dogs, cats and maybe a rabbit or two, horses and even the fuzzy headed chubby groundhogs I watch from afar on the farm.  But when it comes to Buster Maupin, there's goodness there that I want to publish. 

Buster's disposition is the most docile and easy-going of any dog I've ever had.  He's never shown me anger, and the only time I've ever heard him growl is when he feels threatened by another dog.  I've held my little guy while his broken leg was being examined or a thermometer was being shoved up his butt. No growling.  I've had to chase him down to pull out of his mouth candy or bones or something he should not be eating.  No growling.  I've picked him up while he sleeps, moved him to another spot, tickled his belly, snuggled with him, cradled him and dressed him in some pretty obnoxious clothes.  No growling.  Buster just goes with the flow, rarely reacting to anything much at all. He does love being loved, though, and he savors a greenie every night.

One of the things I love the most about Buster is how easily he loves other people.  He's not just a "momma's dog."  While it might feel good to have a companion who is fervently loyal to just one human, I really do appreciate that my dog has enough love to go around.  He seems particularly fond of men; something about their voices, I guess, and when he finds someone playful and attentive, I'm quite certain he could go home with him and shed not any grief on my passing out of his life.  That's ok with me.  I learn from this dog's big love.  There's just always enough to go around.  It doesn't have to be contained to "just one" or for "either him or her."  I think we can confuse attachment for love if we're not careful, so I believe Buster's got the right idea.  Love everybody; attach to no one. 

My dog is also cute.  He's cuddly, warm and in his younger days, he was a typical Bichon blitzer.  In the blink of an eye, the white fuzz would pass by like a lightening bolt.  He also does that Bichon wave, pumping his paws in a frantic, "Hello, I want to get up in your lap and face and show you love."  He smiles, too. 

I got Buster when he was four months old from a family just north of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where I was living in 2000.  He's lived in three apartments with me and in my current home for the last six years.  He'll be 12 years old on April 19, 2012, and I intend to celebrate with him.  He's just good, my Buster.  He's just one good, fine dog. 

 

What I Said In 2011

On January 1, 2011, I declared my word for the year to be VOICE. I had plenty to say, and I set the intention to say it. As I wrap up the year, I've been wondering just what I did say in 2011. Here's what I remember "voicing."

I told somebody relatively new in my life that I loved him. I did, I do, and I always will.

I told some academics in Massachusetts that living authentically in the academy isn't easy for me. It's a breeze in the classroom, where I just breathe my spirit into all that I do, but in corridors and meeting rooms, I still stand afraid sometimes. I told this--out loud--about myself. It felt good. And authentic.

I told my mom just about everything. Always do. She is the only one in my life who wants to truly bear witness to what I live. Telling her that I was crying a lot felt relieving and healing on the one hand and painfully sad on the other. Hearing her concern and her own anguish for mine made my voice feel small and extra vulnerable. I'm so thankful for her strength.

I told Buster that he's the best little dog ever. EVER. And I told him this just about every day in one way or another.

I told some students to tread lightly when trying to sway me. I am flexible, caring and always an advocate for the student. But I will not be walked on or taken advantage of, and I was even more vocal about this in 2011.

I told myself that I am beautiful, good and worthy. I also told myself to learn to let go more easily, to be more patient, to trust, and to quit the fear. I told myself--often--that everything is impermanent.

I told my father that I think he's wrong about a thing or two. (THAT was a big deal, and I really need to be willing to do it more often--when it applies, of course.)

I told my mother than I think she's pretty much the best thing that ever walked on the earth. Something like that, anyway.

I told my heart to just feel the sadness. Fighting it only made it hurt more.

I told a public audience on campus that being mindful and contemplative at our college is worth every possible effort. I told them I will be moving more in that direction.

And, I told a negative voice inside my head to shut the hell up. (I'll have to keep telling him that when he comes around again.)

All in all, I used my voice this year. I still have more to say, and I'm even more inspired at year's end to get some words up and out of this throat. I'll be sharing my word for 2012 on the 1st.

A December Tradition

For as long as I can remember, every December, just a couple of days after Christmas, I have curled up on the couch with a blanket to watch the Kennedy Center Honors. Last night was no different. I settled in to see the homage paid to five more honorees. As usual, it didn't disappoint.

I've always felt a little uncomfortable, on behalf of those being honored, with the camera that zooms in on their every expression while their tribute is in progress. It's got to be humbling, if not also ego-boosting, to sit there and watch big names and lights put on a show "all about you." Yet, those cameras are dedicated to us viewers, and we all want to know, I suppose, what the artist is thinking and feeling as he/she takes it all in. Personally, I'm usually most interested in what expression the president wears. It's usually very telling, in my opinion.

I admit to studying the expressions. How people speak in nonverbal ways has always been of interest and importance to me. It's probably why I privilege the smile and the tap of the feet more so than the reverent stare of humble appreciation. I like to see someone having a great time, someone feeling the music, someone living the performance. That's probably why I secretly want to be a performer, too. To make people groove and move with a smile on their face. It's definitely why I loved watching Yo-Yo Ma the most last night.

I Don't THINK I'm a Narcissist . . .

I am one of those people on Facebook who posts her picture. Quite a bit, actually. Ever since I discovered the miracle of digital cameras and the delete function, I have been enamored with the idea of getting a decent picture of myself. Some may say, though, that I've simply become enamored with myself. (Insert "Laugh Out Loud" here). After all, anybody who puts up her mug for all to see, in various poses and angles, well, she must be a vain, egotistical, self-indulgent, conceited . . . narcissist, right? Is she in love with herself?

Well, yes. I am.

But I don't think I'm a narcissist. And like most love affairs, this one is quite the roller coaster ride.

First, let me be clear here in that this blog is for me and about me. (There's the narcissism again.) It's a public forum for me to share what it means to be human--from my perspective. I'm not writing with any particular purpose for a particular audience, other than myself. I'm aware of my readers, of course, and I am thankful for their interest, but what I put down here is mostly about my making meaning from my own lived experiences and my own big questions. Because "connection" is one of the driving forces for my source energy, however, I publish this reflective process occasionally because I love the flow of union and "fitting together." I am most alive when I am connecting with others, so blogging puts out there a chance for more unity. (I love it, for example, when a friend stops me on campus and says, "Gosh, what you wrote in your blog yesterday really resonated with me. I feel ....). When I get that kind of response, I get a greater grounding in my existence. I get proof that we're all in this together, and frankly, that just feels good. So, that's why I write about myself publically. But why do I post my pictures, too?

Like most adolescent girls, I had a very poor self-image. Using the Hollywood standard for female beauty, I grew up thinking that I was fat, ugly and undesirable. Translation: pathetic self-esteem. I walked into my twenties with that kind of thinking, and it took years of inner work to dig my way out of it. That's not to say that the old wiring has been completely rewired yet. It's an ongoing journey that has moments of success and moments of failure. Ups and downs. Rollercoaster, you know. But I can attest to much greater liberation and self-assurance in my 40's.

Learning to see one's holistic beauty, the inside and the outside, is just one step towards powerful self-love, which is, by the way, radically different from narcissism. I chuckle every time I type that word because I've heard a fair amount of Facebook criticism around it. There's some truth, there, of course, just as there is truth that we're all operating on a scale of sorts--some of us a little out of balance one way or another. Still, when I realized that I didn't have to practically gag upon seeing my photograph, it was as if chains had been broken. How in the world does one get such a sad perception of herself? That's another post, another day.

I think my picture posting is an expression of gratitude for who I am more than it is a conceited expression of vanity. Even if there is a smidgen of the latter, it's all about getting to the former. When I stand in deep gratefulness, I have far more to offer the world in which I live. I have more for my students; more for my colleagues; more for friends and family ; and more for strangers. Part of that thankfulness comes in the form of loving my whole self, even the parts that are visible. So putting it all out there--in pictures, in stories, in reflections, in questions--well, I think that's just what I want to do. I hope it's not offensive or a big "turn-off" to those who encounter it. But if it is or if it does, I'll just say that being a 40-something has given me the right to say, "I don't really give a flying fig newton if you don't like it--or like me. I'm not running for Homecoming Queen anymore."

Why I'd Like to Open a Blues Club

On a drive out-of-town a few months ago, I jokingly remarked to my friend Lori-Lyn that I would love to open my own blues club. Upon hearing such a fantasy, she slapped her leg with her hand and exclaimed, "YES! That is soooooo you!" For the next several minutes, the two of us brainstormed the possibilities with grandiose ideas of good music, good people and good times--all of which I tend to value a great deal. It didn't take me long, however, to dismiss the notion because 1) I do think that being a teacher is still part of my calling and 2) while hospitality is my thing, business probably isn't. I'd definitely need a cool, business-minded partner to help me out with an endeavor like this. There were other reasons, though, for abandoning the idea, and they're all reasonable and logical ones. But since I like to say "poo on reason" every now and then and dream big, let me lay out here a few reasons why I'd just love to "play the blues" in my own little venue.

When I say that I love people, I'm not exaggerating or trying to make myself out to be some big humanitarian. I got into teaching mostly because I love people. I studied English because in reading and writing, I get to meet characters, reflect upon my own, and ponder all things related to the human condition. People inspire me. It's their stories that give me pause and open new doors into my own journey. I get my fuel from people, and recently, I've discovered that my experience with people feels too limited. That's the big reason I want to jam in my own blues club: I want to share stories and swap tales; listen deeply; laugh and cry with the stranger. That, as they say, is how I roll.

It seems that the older I get, the more I realize that people from all walks have something to teach me. In fact, it's those who have walked a path most unlike mine that I want to engage with these days. I know the path I'm on; I've been on it for a great many years now. It's the road I've not traveled that strikes my curiosity. The places people have been and the lessons they have learned--these are the memoirs I want to read "live" in a blues pub. I recognized this hunger of mine this past summer when I hung around a musician for a bit. As he played in a couple of local bars, I got to sit, watch, and listen to music and to people. It was like pouring extra soul into my veins. It brought new life to my own experience, and it ignited a litte fire in my heart. Music and people. Song, dance and story. All is one. That's where I get my energy.

I never tire of music. Rhythm and blues, soul, funk, anything with some swagger and swing--it gets down into me. Makes my hips move without my even knowing it sometimes. I'd love the chance to create a space for local musicians to live out their purpose--and to let me live out mine. "Creating a space" is part of my calling in that I like to make hospitable places. Whether it's in the classroom where students show up, in my home where friends and family gather, or in a blues joint where strangers and friends meet, these spaces feel sacred to me. They are havens for joy, for learning, for laughter, for living life out loud. That's what I want to do. Create a space for story, for song, for dance. Create a space for wholeness. Create a space for strangers to become friends. The blues have a way of doing that, you know. They unite us. That's probably the core to my fantasy right there. Unity. We're all one in this world. Why not hum along together?

So what IS the "Sweet Life?"

The Italians say, "La Dolce Vita," which translates, of course, to what I'm calling my blog: "The Sweet Life." What, you may ask, is a "sweet life"--exactly? The answer may seem obvious and blissfully sentimental; you know, love, happiness, joy, laughter, peace, all those good things we hope for and talk about, particularly on a day like today. (It's Christmas, by the way.) I want to be clear, however, that what I aim to capture in my "dolce vita" is something much deeper than sentiment. It's a place, this blog, where I can be truthful with myself and with my readers. It's a place where I can gain clarity from my reflections. It's a place where I can raise interesting, often unanswerable questions. La Dolce Vita is a rich, complex, interwoven collection of thoughts, ideas, and experiences. And when I say "complex," I do not mean to suggest that what I write here will take on any form of significant complexity or intellectual power. That word is meant to imply the nature of being human--the fact that no life, least of all mine, is so simple as to be reduced to "feel-good" sentimentality. My "sweet life" is about authenticity. Being real, being myself, and being fully present in this journey, that's what I want to document here. I'll celebrate the simplicity that I do privilege and prefer, but I'll also wrestle with a few demons and big questions that keep me up at night.

If I were to list right now, in this moment, some of what constitutes my idea of la dolce vita, I would begin like this:

* truthfulness (with myself and consequently, with my readers and the people in my life)

* courage (little or no fear, or at the very least, the ability to conquer it)

* simplicity (a simple life is indeed a very sweet one; no big drama, thank you very much)

* music (gotta have it, y'all)

* Nature (it's like the music)

* friendships

* family

* reflection, solitude, silence, breathing, contemplation and mindfulness

* schooling and education (which just happens to be my vocation)

*Buster, my dog

In all of these sweet things there is also bitterness, for life is one big tapestry of par adox. But when I am able to move through the bittersweet, gaining clarity and purpose while celebrating mystery and ambiguity, la dolce vita is indeed realized.

Choosing the Light

I read this today, and I could have just as easily read something like it every other day this week.  In fact, the newsfeed on my Facebook account is filled with opinions about the state of our country.  There is a plethora of updates reflecting political ideology, and there is a lot of discontent in the way things are going these days.  I feel it, too. I can get blood-boiling angry if I think about injustice too much.  And, I think getting angry is mostly healthy in this context. 

If I sit with that anger awhile, allowing it to move inside of me, I discover other feelings and thoughts layered in the mix.  Sadness.  Plenty to be sad about when one considers how many people are struggling.  Envy and jealousy.  I envy the lucky soul who can afford to experience life in more diverse ways--like traveling to places and savoring the culture of others.  Fear.  Fear that it won't get any better and fear that my dreams will be smashed like those of others.  Guilt.  When I peel the layers, I find that I am guilty of not doing more to help the causes I care about.  I realize that I could make more sacrifices for the sake of others.  In the end, I think that my anger is fueled with a host of other feelings.  I believe in sitting with them, owning them, and then letting them go.  Only then is there room for the love.  And it's the love that feels most right with me.

I make few public statements about the demise of our country and the ignorance of our policies, but I do make them.  And I definitely think them.  I very much applaud the courage of those who speak out, who shout from the rooftops that something has got to be done.  I especially admire the person whose compassion is so great and so deep that he or she finds tangible ways to help the downtrodden.  I am challenged and inspired by empathy because in my core, it's what makes the most sense to me.  It's a reflection of love, and any way you look at it, that's always just good.   I choose, however, to publish more hope and trust because, for me, latching on to that is strengthening.  I feel more power in hope and possibility than I do in dread and doom.  It doesn't mean that I deny the reality of heinous injustice, nor does it mean that I don't get mad as hell at some of the insidious dogma I encounter.  It just means that I choose to work in it differently, and I want to explain--if only to myself--why I make this choice.  I don't always like being perceived as "Pollyanna" or Miss Blind to Reality because it implies that I might be ignorant, apathetic or scared to death.  Not saying that I might not be some of those things (probably am), but I'm rather intentional about my choice to spin the hope. 

The more I learn about contemplative spirituality--the sitting with it and the letting go of it--the more I see and experience hope.  As I work with this model and learn about its process, there's one piece that gives me the most trouble, that challenges my usual approach.  Judgement.  It's coming, no doubt, from the ego, and, well, I'm just gonna have to admit that I have a great big fat one.  Releasing the judgement takes practice.  Greeting that negative thought, saying "hello, how do you do, now be gone" requires effort because it's counter to the conditioning I've had and the habits of mind I have, unfortunately, nurtured most of my life.  I am amazed by the power of judgement and how it can interfere with love.  Whenever I want to be love, I recognize that it's almost impossible to do so in a place of judgement.  Love does not judge. 

I am trying to reconcile my deep compassion for those who suffer and for the beautiful Earth on which we live with my judgement of those who appear to be inflicting the pain.  I am choosing to trust something much bigger than the lawmakers and politicians.  I am choosing to sit myself down in this mess and say, "Be angry.  Be afraid. Be all the feelings you feel, but then let them go.  Do not radiate hopelessness. It's just not who you are meant to be."  That's the voice I am hearing. I sometimes like it and embrace it, and I sometimes tell it to take a hike.  This is obviously about balance and paradox and all the juxtaposition that life really is.  In the end, though, I would rather tip the scale toward trust, hope and light and leave the fear, despair and darkness stranded in the night.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."          ~ Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Two Years

I remember dates.  And sometimes I remember the day and the time, too.  For example, on Friday afternoon, July 27, 1984, sometime between 3:00 and 3:30, I learned that my brother Mike just died of cancer.  That hour, that day, that month--it's as much a part of my day to day experience as my two legs and feet.  You just don't forget the details of something like that.

Late Wednesday afternoon, along about 5:00 PM, on March 18, 2009, I got an email from a very special friend. He gave me news that shook my grounding and my sense of hope and longing.  He hurt my feelings in a profound, lasting way (not meaning to, of course),  and I started then and there the process of inexhaustible healing.  Whew.  We've all been there.  That place of heartache.  It's just part of the human experience.

That was two years ago, and I can distinctly remember thinking back then, "This will be so much better in a couple of years, but that seems so far away now." 

Well, it's here.  It's now.  It's two years later.   I am whole.  I am well.  And I am thankful for the wounds that broke me open.  For it's in that vast spill of deep love that I see a more lucid reflection of my true self. 

Time and space are illusory, but I am real. I am right here, right now, and it's a good place to be.

 

 

Coming Out of Hiding

It's been a whopping two months since I posted anything on my blog.  My negligence hasn't been all that intentional or accidental--just a habit I have not cultivated or pressed myself to see to.  I decided a long time ago that redefining "productivity" isn't such a bad idea.  I know my life is full, including true bouts of "nothingness," so I no longer require myself to show evidence of what I'm doing. I have to do enough of that in the "real world," where yardsticks and measurements live aplenty.  Still, I miss the clarity I get from writing here, so I thought it time to give it a whirl again--even if I disappear again after this post. 

I chose a word for the year on January 1. My word was VOICE. I have things to say this year, and thus far, I'm off to a pretty good start. A few weeks ago I went to the annual conference for this organization and delivered a paper that I wrote about authenticity in teaching.  To further my argument for cultivating one's authentic self, I took a risk and revealed a fair portion of my own.  My own self, that is.  I used my words and made a point.  Publically.  I let my voice be heard, and it felt good.  It also inspired me to stir in those ideas some more and get my words out in another forum.  I look forward to finding some time to work on this.

I was in a small "break-out" session recently at my church. We were to respond, in our small groups, to something we had heard in a kind of plenary session.  I didn't  hold back. I opened my comments with, "Well, I take issue with what we just heard, so let me explain."  And so I did.  I put it out there again, this voice.  No holding back. 

While my voice is gaining strength, I am not forgetting my responsibility to listen.  And lately, I have been hearing a lot.  I hear the typical messages from media:  be afraid, very afraid; you're not good enough, so be like this; buy this....and that....and more of that..consume all you can. I also hear messages of anger, frustration and desperation, as best illustrated in the Wisconsin capitol  building.  I hear the aching voices of the Japanese people in my heart whenever I see the footage and the horrific reports coming from their shaken country.   I am listening.  I also hear hope and joy and the movement of Spirit.  When my students speak, for example, I hear the promise of  amazing teachers in our classrooms.  I hear music all the time, and even the tunes of loneliness sound good to me.  I, therefore,  hear joyous messages, too, when I listen openly and honestly. 

Right now, though,  in this very moment, I am thinking about my voice and what I should say about what I am hearing.  Do I have something to say about fear?  When haven't I had something to say about that?! Do I have something to say about insecurities and being "good enough?"  Please.  Consumerism?  I think Wendell Berry should be required reading for every student in America.  Injustice?  Natural disasters?  I have plenty to say about plenty of topics.  My voice feels muddled though, as if cobwebs are nesting in my throat.  I don't what to say, and if I did, I don't know how to say it.  I'm listening and speaking at the same time, it seems, and that's just going to have to be OK for now. 

Neutral Feelings

A few minutes ago I was glancing at a post on Facebook from Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh.  Thay, as he is often called, was speaking at a winter retreat at Plum Village on the subject of feelings. His lecture was posted in video, but I did not take the time to listen to all of it.  I read and watched enough to receive something good.  The power and significance of neutral feelings.

I've been an emotional, feeling person my whole life.  Even in childhood, I had a deep, deep capacity to feel.  My extreme sensitivity has been difficult at times because it's hard to swallow hurtful experiences.  Yet because I do feel so much, I am quick to identify with others' feelings, and this is not always a bad thing--having compassion and empathy for others.  The challenge I've been working with most recently is neutrality.  Easing out of the extreme ends of the spectrum--joy on one and sorrow on the other.  Sitting with neutral feelings and just observing them and honoring them is actually quite pleasant. 

What do I mean by "neutral feelings?"  I'm not sure that my interpretation is in line with Thay's, but I'm thinking about a state that just is.  I'm neither sad nor happy.  But I'm not numb either. I don't think of it as just contentment or satisfaction, but something a little richer.  It's being fully present in the moment and not really feeling much more than a solid awareness that I am.  This is an interesting place to be.

As I read through Facebook status updates, I always see a range of emotions being expressed.  I see a fair amount of anger, some joy, and definitely some sadness.  I read statements of disgust, fear, and frustration. I see expressions of pride (as in children's accomplishments) and sentiments of sympathy (as in the recent tragedy in Arizona).  I occasionally will read a note of regret or guilt and often a post about good times to be had at some upcoming social event. In all cases, the feelings seem to be emphasized and noticeable.  That seems to be the point, actually--to say how one feels at any given time.  Are we restless if we do not have a strong feeling to feel?  And while we all might not be especially good at expressing feelings or coping with them, I do believe that we crave them.  Being still in "nothingness" or just neutrality seems a little ominous perhaps. 

If I am to understand the monk's teaching (or the Buddha's), I believe that we can find actual happiness in the neutral.  We can observe the "middle-of-the-road" as a good place, a calm, easy place.  And actually, the  more I practice this kind of mindfulness toward feelings, the easier it becomes to handle the difficult ones.  The fear, the panic, and the deep, deep sadness--those feelings that feel so badly--well, they're NOT that bad when I have embraced neutrality.  If I teach my brain to slow its reactions, then the emotions lose some intensity or some power. Please understand that I never want to silence my emotions or even lighten them.  I believe that they are absolutely essential to intellectual stamina.  But what I find intriguing and rather new to me is that the place of neutrality is beautiful and worthy of contemplation. 

The Sanctity of My Home

 
 
I bought (ok, mortgaged) my house 5 1/2 years ago.   It is not my "dream home," and I can think of several things I would change about it if I could--like add a basement and create more closet space.  If I had more resources, I would defintely spruce up my lawn and yard with  more landscaping and good grass, and I would probably redo my bathroom in that nice tile everybody has now and update other physical features--like light fixtures, door knobs and new windows.  But these are all surface needs or wishes, and I can do without.

Lately, I have been feeling rather "home bound."  I'm confident this is the winter's seasonal affect, and I am perfectly comfortable with my desire to stay put on these cold nights.  My hunger for home, though, seems a little different and in some ways, kind of mystical and magical.  How could such a familiar place suddenly become so enchanting? 

One of the things I learned in  my mindfulness class this fall was how to observe and experience with "fresh eyes."  To treat every session of practice with a sense of wonder and "newness."  This notion really resonated with me. To be able to continuously see something beautiful in what seems like every day, ordinary events is a gift to myself.  It makes the experience of living untouched.  It encourages inventiveness, creativity and innovation.  It offers possibility--in every little thing, place or relationship.  And in the case of my dwelling, seeing it new and novel has filled me with overflowing gratitude.  I just love the comfort of my home.

The Year That Was

The obvious highlight of 2010 for me was the sabbatical.  The very fact that I didn't return to school--a school, any school--in the fall of the year was very significant for me.  Having days and nights to just read and relax and ponder new ideas for courses and life in general was one of the best experiences I have ever had in my life.  I'm eternally grateful for the break.  But there was one part of that time period that left a deeper mark, and while it led to some clarity and personal growth, it was definitely not enjoyable.  In fact, it was painful. 

Along about mid-August, my mom had a routine physical exam that eventually led to an ultrasound and a visit to a gynecological oncologist.  A mass on the ovary.  Better see what that's all about.  My anxiety shot through the roof.  Mass on ovary.  Oncologist.  More tests.  I felt my entire sense of being shake.  It was hard to eat, and at times, the fear was paralyzing. I managed to hold it together for the sake of my parents, especially Mom, of course, but there was that time I lost my breath in the doctor's office and felt faint.  That kind of fear is the worst kind because it immediately affects the body's functionality.  Sometimes even taking small steps forward felt awkward and unbalanced.  Panic.  It's my worst nightmare.

The doctor's appointments and the testing went on for several weeks before we finally got a firm "NO" to cancer and a simple diagnosis.  A fibroid tumor is not threatening, and Mom's other minor symptoms went away.  Unfortunately, her arthritis got worse, and she's still fighting pain in her hips and knees. But the big "C?"  None.  The relief was just as overwhelming as the fear that started the whole process. 

I am still processing the lessons from Mom's ordeal,  but I believe that they are as valuable and significant for my life as any I have ever learned.  For the sake of my year-end closure and new year beginnings, I want to make a note here regarding those lessons.

First and foremost, I learned that my love for my mother is every bit as BIG and POWERFUL as I thought it to be all these years. I adore this woman for reasons that would take days and days to explain.  That kind of love is beautiful. 

I also learned that I am too attached to my mom.  I know the boundaries, of course, but I don't always respect them. I sometimes confuse my own happiness with that of my mom's.  I sometimes allow myself to believe that without my mom, I am less than whole or complete or fully capable of living a fulfilling life.  This is attachment, not love.  I learned from this scary experience that I need to practice some detachment (without neglecting or loving any less). And more than that, I realized that I have to really come to terms with my mother's mortality.  Intellectually, I am 100% in line with this truth.  Emotionally, I have a little tinkering to do.

Finally, this journey with my mom--into the office of several physicians and riding the car together and having quite a few lunches as a pair--this journey forced me to recognize my own strength.  I asked the doctors questions. I talked as positively as possible to and around my mom.  I escorted her to every single test and appointment. I sat with her for hours in waiting rooms and examination rooms.  I laughed with her and even held her hand when we sat on the couch waiting for the oncologist to come in with the results.  I found strength I never dreamed I had.  And if that were not enough, I rediscovered the source of that strength--a spirit buried inside of me that can only be Divine.  My God and all of God's support staff held me closely and reminded me of the power of faith.  Faith and Trust.  Believing that, NO MATTER WHAT, all will be well. 

I don't pretend to think that I would see cancer as an "all is well" situation. I know the reality of that diagnosis because I watched my brother die from it 15 days after it was diagnosed.  I do think, though, that my walk alongside of Mom this past fall opened me up.  It broke me open to the magnificence of faith, courage and love.  It showed me my weaknesses, and it showed me my strengths.  It was as raw and real as it gets. 

I still talk to my mom on the phone every single night, and I still consider her the very best friend I have on this earth.  And, truth be known, I'm probably still a little too attached to her role in my life.  But I am so grateful for her, and I am thankful for the opportunity I had--the freedom I had--to stand beside her during a very frightening time in her life.  Her faith, her trust, and her amazingly positive spirit prevailed again.  What a gift to have a role model like that in a mother.

 

January 1, 2011: Hear Me Now

The sabbatical is over. I was actually in my office today. New Year's Day.  While football played on the tube and people ate black-eyed peas, I sat in my office.  I did there what I have been doing here (in my home) for the last several months. I cleared.  I purged.  I piled.  I began the process of cleansing and clearing my office space by sifting through very old files and notebooks. By sorting and shuffling the articles, the syllabi, the class hand-outs, the student work, and even the notes and assignments from my own graduate studies, I was able to see the years of my academic life flash before my eyes. After about three hours of sacking up stuff to burn, stuff to recycle and stuff to give away, I called it a day.  With hours of cleaning still left to do, I felt good about today's eradication.  Wiping the slate clean.  Starting fresh.  This is what I love about a New Year.

I have been away from my blog for nearly two months now, and even then, back in the fall, I was very infrequent with my posts.  I'd like to say that I had some important, intentional reason to refrain from my personal writing, but I think the truth of it is that I was just tired--in every sense of the word. I was tired of thinking about topics to write about, and I was tired of just thinking. Period.  I wasn't aware of my exhaustion until I was fully immersed in the sabbatical experience.  And every day seemed like a gift of respite.  Relief. And release.  A semester long project of letting go.  I let go of the hurriedness first and felt the beauty of slowness flow in.  I released the work worry, too.  That nagging voice that asks me all the time if I am enough.  Am I doing enough?  Am I smart enough? Am I good enough--at this work?  Gone.  I gave myself perfect permission to just be.  And it was glorious.

I have things to say about my time off campus, and I have things to say about going back.  In fact, I just have things to say.

My good friend Lori-Lyn revealed her word for 2011 here.  I like what she has done with her annual words and how they provide her with a focus for the year.  I like how her words speak to her and how they define where she is and where she intends to go.  Choosing a word holds possibility and sets intention. And it does it without prescription and a list of resolutions.  So I've decided to choose a word, too.

I knew my word as soon as I decided that I wanted one.  It's not a particularly pretty or poetic word, and it's not descriptive or colorful.  But it's exactly the word that has been cooking inside of me as I have read, reflected and rested these last few months.  It's all about my having something to say. My word for 2011 is VOICE.

In the coming year, I need to be heard.  I need to speak.  I need to reveal the stuff that is stirring inside.  I need to voice the position I have.  It matters.  Even if it only matters to me, it matters.

Speaking my truth might seem relatively ordinary on the one hand, or extremely precarious, if not bigheaded, on the other.  For me, though, it's something that feels obligatory.  The obligation is not coming from my job's requirements or what others might expect of me.  It's coming from my desire to remain authentic.   I need to exercise my VOICE.  

I have something to say.  Stay tuned. 

 

Before and After

 
Take a good look at this cabinet.  In these pictures it looks just like it did when I found it in my uncle's house.  Following his untimely death, nearly two years ago, my family and I had the colossal task of clearing and cleaning his home.  We found this piece filled with dusty books and magazines, rolls of gauze, syringes and other veterinarian supplies.  Having absorbed the water from a flooded basement, the old piece had many flaws to be sure.  When deciding what to do with it, we came up with just two options:  sell it to the junk dealer or send it home with me.  I envisioned a cleaned up cabinet for my cookbooks in the kitchen. 

 
I intend to ask my aunts soon where the cabinet originated.  I know that it belonged to my great-aunts before my uncle owned it, and I suspect it was either a kitchen or backporch piece for them, as well.  I do know that each of those little ladies would be happy with my efforts to restore it and use it. 

I have a great streak of sentimentality when it comes to furnishings or belongings, though sometimes my taste strays from the original piece, making it difficult to find a place for some things.  Mostly, though, for some strange reason, I feel connected to the old stuff and consider it meaningful to have it in my home.  This cabinet is a perfect example.  I have it filled with my cookbooks and my things, but it will always serve as a reminder of my uncle and his aunts. 

Autumn's Finery

I have long said that autumn is my favorite season.  It still is.  The cool, crisp air, the Indian summer, the rich, earthy colors, and that oh so magnificent harvest moon--these are my joys for fall.  I bake more in the autumn months, too, like the pumpkin bread and carrot cupcakes seen below.   And, I make soups.  Lots and lots of soups and stews. 

 

I also find myself not only wanting to get outside more, but feeling compelled to do so.  It's a force, really, the beauty of Nature and it's autumn cycle.  It draws me into the warmth of the sunshine and under the light of the moon.  I go outside at night in the fall, despite the cooler temps, just to look at the sky.  I take much longer, slower walks (sometimes with Buster) to savor the season. 

 

Autumn brings my favorite holidays, as well.  Halloween is the greatest excuse in the world to play dress-up, something I think I like doing more now than I did when I was a child. I can get by with false eyelashes, flashy wigs, and glittery, sparkly adornments without any second thoughts or hesitations. 

Breaking Through

Yesterday in my mindfulness meditation class, I fessed up to my struggles with the process.  I told the group that I am having a very difficult time being still with the intent to meditate, and when we did 20 minutes of mediation in class yesterday, I felt anger rise and almost a sense of panic.  How long are they going to make us sit here and breathe?  Something is going on, something is bubbling up to the surface.  I am open to it, though, if not a wee bit afraid of it. 

I'm learning a lot about myself through this process, and from all that I am reading, that's the whole point.  I find it almost humorous to realize that I thought I knew myself well, but really, I don't.  The layers are many, and I'm peeling back one at a time.  A fascinating process, it is, but one that comes with a lot trepidation. 

So here's what I learned this past week:

Sabbatical Notes: From Fragmentation to Wholeness

As I continue with my reading on contemplative education (see sabbatical proposal here), it occurred to me that my favorite way of notetaking is actually blogging.  I'm not very good about just jotting down notes on separate paper (or screens, as it were), because I need to synthesize my ideas or reactions to what I am reading or studying.  I definitely like lists and writing down "things to remember," but it's in the narrative that I start to connect the dots.  So here's what will probably be one of several installments on my meaning-making with regard to contemplative teaching and learning.

The reason that there actually is a contemplative movement in educational circles should be relatively clear.  It's a response to what Jennifer Gidley describes as our obsession (in universities and in our culture) "with methodological issues and technical detail." She  explains in her essay, "Spiritual Epistemologies and Integral Cosmologies:  Transforming Thinking and Culture"  that traditional Western culture and schooling has become so fragmented with categories and labels that the wholeness of being human is not in the least bit cultivated in places of learning.  To put it in my own terms, I think that we operate in measurements, rankings, lists, divisions and parts so much that coming to know anything about the world, particularly ourselves and how we relate to people, places, and problems of our communities is reduced to the technicality of methods and "how-to's."  We have oversimplified what it means to be a member of our global community by learning how to take tests, follow directions and "play the game" of life (or school).  Believe me, I can attest to the game of school, as I not only played it myself, but I bear witness to it as a professor regularly).   Academic institutions teach us how to know and how to do, but they don't teach us how to live together or just be.  It's the "just being" that brings about imaginative, creative thinking.  We continually hear the educational rhetoric of how we want to teach our students to be higher order, critical thinkers, yet on we go with the same practices and traditions that foster an indifference to a more purpose-filled life. In other words, unless we begin to shift the way we think, teach and learn in places of schooling, we will continue to privilege the parts to the whole, creating more of the division and brokeness that is pervasive in our culture now. 

Places on the Farm: The "Home Place"

 

This is where I grew up.  Our house sits on a beautiful hill, overlooking the field that we call the "bottom."  Because it is "bottomland," where this round bale of hay sits, there is a lovely creek that runs through it.  The creek is known as Meadowbrook, and it's a branch of sorts, running off of the larger Muddy Creek.

Before our home was built (in 1971), my father's birthplace stood in the same spot. The lovely old, two story, white planked farmhouse was too dilapidated to restore.  I sometimes think about that old house that I never knew. I have heard enough stories about it to see it in my mind, the tall ceilings, the walnut staircase and doors, many of which are in our house now.  There was a front porch with a swing, and my grandfather napped there at lunch time after a morning of labor in the fields. 

We named our farm "The SugarTree Farm" because there are so many sugar maple trees in our yard and among the fields surrounding it.  They are especially beautiful in the autumn, with their fiery red, orange and yellow hues. 

Harvest Moon: Oh So Beautiful

Me and My Mindfulness

As part of my sabbatical, I have enrolled in a class titled "Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction."  This eight-week course is framed around the work of Jon Kabat-Zinn of the University of Massachusetts Medical Center.  Kabat-Zinn's research has been widely publicized and well received because it offers people a simple means for reducing stress in their lives.  By practicing mindfulness meditation, we can actually rewire our brains to respond to stressful situations  rather than react to them. There's a big difference.

Having only met with my class twice, I am already absorbing a great deal of information.  I have practiced the body scan, some mindful yoga, mindful eating, and the mindful breath.  While all such practices seem almost ridiculously simple--just being acutely aware of the very present moment--I am amazed by what I believe is resistance to this way of living in our society.  I do not think that we are "taught" to be present, and consequently, we live in a state of distress or anxiety or fear far too often.  While it may not always be heightened and/or physically manifested in our bodies (though I would argue that we do carry around a lot of angst in ourselves), there is a fair amount of regret and guilt regarding the past and worry and apprehension about the future.  Why did I say that in the meeting?  Am I a good enough teacher, parent, friend, child, partner, spouse?  Will I have enough money for retirement?  Will I have enough money to pay this month's bills?  Learning to shut down thoughts that are out of the present realm is what mindfulness is all about.  Fortunately, what makes it all the more appealing is that you can only do mindfulness meditation without judgement. So when you do stray into thoughts of all kinds, this is all part of the experience.  No judgement, no blame.  Just pure awareness of what you're doing and then springing back to your current place.  Beautiful.

Fear, continued . . .

First, read this.  Rick Hanson spells out beautifully what it is I'm thinking about these days.  I am really looking forward to his follow-up pieces and locating his book titled Buddha's Brain: The Practical Neuroscience of Happiness, Love, and Wisdom.  When he explains that solution is "to have the courage to see real tigers clearly and to deal with them effectively - and to refuse to be frightened and cowed by boys and girls crying tiger," Hanson gives me my thesis for this post.  That is exactly where my inner work is focused right now: dealing effectively with real tigers and laughing off the paper ones. 

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about the things that make me afraid.  And I don't mean haunted houses, reptiles and heights.  I am most of afraid of losing loved ones, facing hostile conflicts, disappointing people, and making some kind of big, catastrophic mistake.  True to the Buddha's wisdom, the more time I spend worrying about these things, the farther away from the present, the here and now and all that is good--I roam.  I get that.  I know what I'm supposed to do, and I know that worrying or living afraid is counter-productive and causes more suffering.  I also know that Rick Hanson is correct about our brain's wiring and the "negativity bias" we deal with.  My sabbatical study is taking me into this kind of work--mindfulness meditation--and ways of rewiring the brain for better living (and teaching and learning).  And dealing with the fear is paramount.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I have lived with anxiety since childhood, having episodes through the years that have, at times, crippled me with fear. Once I became aware of the fact that it is anxiety and not me (and some inherent flaw to my character ) that brings me such suffering, I commited myself to more education and more means for coping.  I also began to realize that I am not the only one treading in a pool of fear; it seems to be all around me.  It's in the airports, for sure. But it's also in the classrooms and the halls of the academy.  Fear is getting us, I tell you.  It's pumping through our veins.  And even if it's all about the "negativity bias" we are wired to have, I am 100% convinced that a "positivity bias" can be ours for the taking, ours for the living.  A transfusion of sorts?

F.E.A.R.

Thom Rutledge, in his book titled Embracing Fear and Finding the Courage to Live Your Life, uses the acronym F-E-A-R to offer those of us who live with it a way of coping:  Face it, Explore it, Accept it, Respond to it.  I haven't read all of the book, but given some events in my life recently, it might be a good idea. 

I've dealt with anxiety since childhood. Over the years, I have found various ways of coping--some more successful than others.  It usually depends on the severity of the particular episode.  Depending on what is causing the angst, I can often times crawl out of the tension by talking to friends or family members, exercising, or engaging in some positive self-talk.  I've learned how to take long, slow, deep breaths.  And I have a few books readily available that can soothe me.  A good movie or t.v. show provides positive distraction.  If possible, I'll make some room for dancing or high energy music, but these joys seem to work against sadness better than fear, though.  I am still learning how to cope with worry and anxiety, and when panic strikes, I'm all too aware of how much work I have yet to do.  It's a good thing I'm studying mindfulness meditation right now.  It's one heck of a strategy for calming the nerves.