​On a walk at Calaveras Big Trees National Park, the park ranger paused to pay homage to two giant sequoias that shared the same trunk. The trunks were originally separate, and fused together after a fire for mutual benefit and survival.

I thought of my mother and daughter, how the umbilical connection was severed between us at birth, how the sacral, sacred burning in my body was a sign.

I reflected on all the beings I have pushed away on this camping trip and beyond, the yearning to share the same base, something tender beyond ideas of a separate self.

In meditation, the image of the conjoined sequoias arose, inspiring metta for my teachers, for me, for my mother and daughter, for all the beings at camp, and beyond. It wasn’t my body-heart-mind responsible for such vivid and vast imagination, but tapping into a larger, loving life force inherent in all things.

Listening to the bell resound at the end of the sit, I was clinging- to the bell, the sequoias, the feeling, fearful that I would walk back into a black and white world where beings scurried frantically around like mice to make meaning.

I will continue to disagree with others and feel the pain of separation. I will also persevere in tenderness, beauty, and Soulmaking.

It’s what I was born to ‘do’, and who i already am.

(Listen to audio version here)

(If you would like to listen to the audio version of this talk, click on the link above.)
​
​The picture changes. Have you noticed this? People, places, things I’ve loved and wanted to hold on to are no longer the same. Family pictures that we took when my daughter was a baby are different now. She’s no longer a cute little cherub, but a tall, lanky teenager complete with acne and attitude.

The picture of who I wanted to be as a mother was so radically different than who I actually was. Instead of having my shit together and nursing my daughter lovingly, I looked like I hadn’t slept for days, felt irritable all the time, blamed anyone and anything in my way (especially myself), and couldn’t breastfeed beyond about 6 weeks.

For those of you who have ever been first time parents, you know it’s challenging. Even if you haven’t been a parent, anything you take on that is new and unfamiliar can be difficult: adopting a pet, starting a new job or school, caring for an aging family member, losing a job, moving to a new place, a new medical or psychological diagnosis in you or a loved one, and so on.

But stress, discomfort, dis-ease, is not just about meeting moments of difficulty in life. We all face challenges. What makes certain ones more stressful than others? 

2600 years ago, the Buddha had a word for stress. In Pali, the language spoken by the Buddha in India at the time, the word is dukkha. Just living this human life, we know that pain is inevitable.  But the added stress is optional. There’s a saying that illustrates this point well: pain x resistance = stress. If pain is inevitable, then what adds to the stress?

It’s our resistance to what’s happening moment to moment. The desire to hold on to the way my body used to be in less discomfort and able to do certain yoga poses, the aversion to burning, searing, aching, throbbing sensations in my left gluteal muscles, sacroiliac joint and right shoulder, the delusion that none of this should be happening, that I should be able to fix it, that this experience of pain is unique to Moi and no one else has ever felt this way.

What are you currently holding on to in your life? What are you pushing away? How are you daydreaming or misunderstanding a current situation? It may help to place a hand on your heart or a part of the body that is hurting, breathing into any discomfort with as much tenderness and compassion as you can muster. If that feels awkward, then imagine a comforting presence here with you now, breathing with you, understanding you, loving you just as you are. 

With our body’s, our circumstances, the people and things in our lives ‘forever’ rotating through like a slideshow, what can we come to rely on that is real, that will provide some measure of robust comfort when the picture is always changing? How can mindful awareness frame the experience in curiosity, kindness, and remain intimately connected regardless of whether we like, dislike, or believe what we are seeing?

There’s a song that I love from high school called ‘Pictures of You’ by an 80’s band called The Cure. The lyrics start out:

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures
Are all I can feel
 
I realize now that expectations I had of myself as a new mother, as a person with this current body, even of my daughter as they are now, are all rooted in past or future stories of what could have been, what should have been.

This moment, right here, right now can be so exquisite, unburdened by past blame or future worry. For me, The Cure for stress is to identify more with the picture frame, and not the changing picture. Easier said than done, right? It’s hard to believe this when there are constant messages and advertising of the perfect picture, the perfect body, the perfect life on Facebook, Instagram, the media and beyond.

Mindfulness practice trains us to notice when we are lost in a story that isn’t true, when emotions feel like weather systems that will last forever and are actually changing all the time, when sensations define who we are and don’t need to be taken so personally. 

Learning to identify more with the picture frame, the frame of mindful loving awareness rather than the picture of changing circumstances takes time. If you are fairly new to mindfulness practice, you may uncover thought patterns and old habits you haven’t seen before. Things can feel worse before they feel better.

Know that you aren’t crazy or doing anything wrong. This is completely normal. In firefighting, the term backdraft is used to describe the sudden introduction of air into a fire that has depleted most of the available oxygen in a room or building. Similarly, when you bring attention to patterns of desire, aversion, and delusion, they can initially feel more intense.

This is when it’s helpful to practice with the support of others- a trusted teacher or therapists, wise, loving spiritual community. I’ve also found it useful to bring a spirit of creativity, adventure, and play to these practices. Like learning to cook a dish, play an instrument, grasp a new language, ride a bike, or train yourself in any unfamiliar skill, it can feel so cumbersome if approached with rigidity or expectations of immediate results. Yuck! Who wants to do that?

And, it takes a certain amount of gentle discipline, curiosity, kindness, patience, trust, determination, care, compassion, joy, beauty, resilience, and forgivingness to keep practicing, at least in my recipe book. Your healing journey may need similar or different ingredients. You won’t know till you try, keep showing up, adding a little more of this, taking out a little bit of that.

After 15 years of practice, I still identify with the picture, and sometimes forget about the picture frame. What’s changing is the capacity of this heart-mind to notice sooner, rather than later what’s needed to frame every experience in some aspect of love. It doesn’t matter how long it takes me. What matters most is my willingness to try. I’d like to share a poem that I think speaks to this "Cure for It All" by Julia Fehrenbacher.
 
This life isn’t what I expected. This practice isn’t what I expected. And it’s inspired such a radical honesty in me to try and see things as they are. Nothing more. Nothing less.  Anything else just doesn’t make sense.

dangling from the tip
of a question mark
the sea of fear below me
is only a point

With anxiety, I’ve found a certain pattern of questioning in patients and myself. Why is this happening? How long will it last or when will it end? How can I get rid of it permanently?

These questions come from a tender place. I want to feel safe, to know that others and I will be ok, that it won’t end in disaster. I want some assurance that the perceived earthquakes and large tidal waves will have moments of calm and ease between them, that I won’t always feel crappy physically and/or emotionally.

The stress reaction is useful when my life is in danger (imminent car accident, being held at gunpoint, etc.). Stress hormones like epinephrine and cortisol are released to increase heart rate, blood pressure, sense acuity, nutrient mobility and availability. I need to fight, flee, or freeze because my life depends on it. Chronic low level stress can damage blood vessels, increasing blood pressure, raising the risk of heart attacks and strokes, buildup of fat tissue, weight gain, and contribute to brain changes that may cause anxiety, depression, and addiction.

The root cause of anxiety (and it’s close cousin depression) is believing a thought. Instead of asking, why is this happening, how long will it last, or can I get rid of it permanently, I ask different questions with mindfulness practice. What’s happening now, and how I’m relating to it? I allow thought clouds to pass through the spacious sky of mind, connect with emotions beneath the thoughts, feel earthquakes and tidal waves as physical sensations within the body, remembering compassionate presence and common humanity.

I’ve experiences strange back spasms since June/July of 2020. They attack in the early morning hours, and by the time I wake up, it feels like I’ve done hours of back breaking work. The initial pattern of questioning led to a trial of many different healing modalities. A few were effective, while others looked like a mirage in a dry desert of yearning. None of the solutions were permanent.

Mindfulness is like a best friend when everyone else has left, when life fails to keep its promise of perfection. It’s a happiness independent of external circumstance, very much dependent on internal grounding, spaciousness, warmth and flow.

The practice of mindfulness is not a quick fix. Like other things you may have learned (playing an instrument, learning a new recipe, language, or subject, training the body physically for a sport or marathon) this process takes time. It is not meant to replace medications or counseling therapy, and can complement them well. The remedy must be tailored to each individual’s needs and preferences.

dangling from the tip
of a question mark
the sea of fear below me
is only a point

a wave returning
to the heart’s ocean
mindful compassion
replacing all the old questions

It’s helpful to heal a problem when the answer is simple. When it isn’t, may mindful compassion be part of the cure.

​

“The path unfolds in two dimensions: horizontal and vertical. The horizontal path spreads forward and back across chronos, tic-toc, sequential time: minutes that flow like sand through our fingers. Here and then gone. The vertical path extends as kairos, deep time. The fullness of ripening moments swell and then narrow, like heartbeats, thumping out their fleshy rhythm. Horizontal time propels us. Deep time nourishes and sustains us.”

After reading these words by Pamela Weiss, something shifts inside me. It feels like the missing link, the connection I’ve been looking for to understand the relationship between fear and faith. Fear is a contracted state, a constant push-pull dynamic between what’s here, what’s missing from the past, and what’s needed for the future. Fear is judgmental, blaming anyone who cannot guarantee its safety. And, it is just one breath, one heartbeat away from faith waiting to surround it, to hold it in a steady, tender embrace.

One week ago, I had the joyful privilege of joining Jackie Long and circles of women for yoga on the beach in Half Moon Bay to raise funds in memory of loved ones who passed from cancer. Moving through sun salutations in praise of our star humbly hiding behind clouds, surrendering to sandy earth in child’s pose as vibrations of pounding surf were felt beneath us, it was an exhilarating experience.

Though I was aware of the sacroiliac joints and gluteal muscles previously re-injured by certain yoga poses, I believed it could be different this time. Sacred cause, sacred place, sacred instructor, sacred people, sacred body…there was no need to be scared. It would be different this time.

As the week and my body unfolded from the yoga experience, I began to feel twinges of discomfort. Prior experience, body wisdom, patience, compassion, and determination helped me tend to the pain lovingly with modalities that would promote healing.

Fear has not vanished. There are still whispers of judgment from time to time— the horizontal path conjuring flashbacks of past painful outcomes, predicting future catastrophes, each choice I make flowing like sand through my fingers. Where can I find true refuge? Where can I feel safe?

Today, the sensations are the loudest they have been throughout this week. What does it mean to lovingly embrace fear, to surround it with faith? Faith is expansive. It does not judge, but speaks with wisdom, sensitivity, patience, curiosity. I don’t know what will happen, and I’m with you every step of the way. Loving attention heals no matter what. Like a mighty grandmother oak, faith roots in vertical time, each moment while simultaneously reaching up and out for connection.

rooted in this moment
branches reaching out
cultivating a deeper faith
to surround fear and doubt

​As I learn to take refuge in this abiding faith, may it serve as refuge for others. May I trust what I cannot see, yet feel growing deep within, reaching up and out for connection.

​rocks polished
with the soft cloth
of loving attention
the gems are emerging
 
Have you ever had one of those days where it feels like you got up on the wrong side of the bed, and you want to go back to sleep?
 
I recently had one of those days.
 
Words were hit like racquet balls in conversation with family members instead of catching them, holding them for a while, and then playfully tossing them back. My low back, sacroiliac joints, and gluteal muscles were starting to complain again, as if I wasn’t taking good care of them. I was hungry and nauseous from the Suprep Bowel Kit solution in preparation for a colonoscopy.
 
Instead of stringing undesirable events together on a continuous chain of aversion, I was surprised by the care that showed up between and around these events.
 
Bathing the body in compassionate breath, I also took a breath for others in similar situations. There was awareness of imperfection, impermanence, and the impersonal nature of it all. I noticed the way my partner and mom would check up on me periodically to see how I was doing. I pictured loved ones saying the exact metta words I needed to hear, wrapping me in a warm blanket of love and understanding.
 
May you polish these rocks of aversion with the soft cloth of loving attention.
 
May you stay in the present moment and notice the care around you.
 
Don’t misunderstand me. I didn’t like any of the confusion in conversations, the physical discomfort, or the unsettling gastrointestinal sensations. (I won’t even go into the bowel details!) If I had gone back to sleep, I would have missed out on the gems emerging with practice, with time.
 
****
 
Waiting in the pre-op room, I answer the nurse’s questions about my medical history, medications taken, and sign all the necessary consent forms. When it’s time to find a vein suitable for IV access, the nurse comments that I’m a ‘hard stick’ (venous access will be difficult due to small, less prominent veins and some degree of dehydration from the bowel prep).
 
Hard stick.
 
The words pierce a hole in the bubble of equinimity I’ve created in preparation for this procedure. Or is it a bubble of resistance?
 
The nurse attempts to find IV access in my right arm, ‘threading’ the needle to reach a vein. When this is unsuccessful, she tries again with my right hand, again ‘threading’ the needle to contact a vein. After the second failed attempt, two more nurses are called in to try.
 
Each nurse takes an upper extremity searching for a suitable vein, a way to pop the bubble of resistance and access vulnerability. I feel like a pin cushion as tears begin to fall for the sharp, lancinating sensations felt in my right arm and hand.
 
I didn’t sign up for this. This wasn’t even on the consent form. This isn’t supposed to happen!!!
 
Allowing the tears to flow, the irritation at the first nurse for poking me twice and all the nurses for asking me repeatedly if I’m ok (do I look ok to you?), and the unpleasant physical sensations to be here just as they are, I’m asked to befriend another round of aversion.
 
Breathing in self-compassion, breathing out compassion for other patients who have felt like pincushions, I notice that there is a little compassion for the nurse as well. I have also asked colleagues for help when faced with certain challenging procedures in patient care.
 
Thank you asking for help when you did.
 
The nurse looks at me with genuine care.
 
Of course. I wasn’t going to stick you again. I usually don’t have trouble with IV access. You were a hard stick.
 
The words don’t feel as sharp as they did before. Rocks polished with the soft cloth of loving attention, the gems are emerging.
 
****
 
It doesn’t matter how many times aversion arises, because it will, again and again. It’s how I relate to it that matters most.

The serene smile on his face softens the limp in his gait, the cane transformed from a resented crutch to welcome companion. Hiking with my own SI joints and gluteal muscles on fire, I’m curious how this fellow hiker (at least two to three decades older) can embody such joy and ease in the midst of an imperfect body.

As we approach one another, I pause to find out.
How do you make this look so easy?

His smile widens, his eyes beam against the backdrop of the sun’s radiance. Flanked on either side by guardian coast live oak and madrone trees, the scent of forest infusing the air between us, I sense that I am in the presence of a mysterious messenger.

I just keep walking till I can walk no more.

****
​
Do you have any meditation and writing classes going on? I’m really struggling with several things.

The tone of her email concerns me, as if she is barely hanging on by a thread, searching for a lifeline to strengthen her tenuous connection to what matters most.

As we begin the mindfulness consult, I can tell she is testing the waters. Will she drown in the revelation of her story, her tears, or will the exchange offer some insight to guide her back to safe harbors?

Nearing the end of our session, she is very clear about what would be helpful in a guided meditation.

In addition to recognizing, allowing, and investigating the uncomfortable thoughts, feelings, and sensations, I need to remember gratitude, joy, and trust my capacity to be with this.

****

I stopped the Ultram, doc. It just caused constipation, and didn’t do anything for my knee pain.

The patient proceeds to share what he is learning after a few sessions of physical therapy. And suddenly, there’s a clarity that could not have come any sooner till now, because the ignorance of separation was always clouding my perception.

Can I watch you walk from this chair to the door and back?

Like an infant curious to explore a new dimension of movement, he rises slowly from the chair without his cane. Placing the right foot forward, he leads with the trusted leg, and pauses. I sense the anticipatory anxiety, the concentration, the yearning to heal as he lifts the left leg and places the left heel on the ground, doing his best not to let the left knee buckle under him.
​
I feel like a proud parent watching her child take those precious, memorable first steps. As if the patient can read my mind, he grins and ambulates to the best of his ability.

Baby steps, doc. Baby steps.

****

The resistance and resentment I’ve carried for years against chronic pain is slowly starting to dissipate. From the hiker, I’m inspired to keep living, keep persevering till I can walk no more. From the mindfulness consult, I’m learning that this heart-mind-body can open to unpleasant circumstances with compassion, patience, and trust, balancing the scale weighed down by difficulties with appreciation and joy for what often gets overlooked. From the patient, I’m motivated to take bold baby steps in the midst of burning pain without needing to be a strenuous hiker or yoga practitioner who can perform all poses perfectly.

Be on the lookout for mysterious messengers in your life. They are what make this life worth living, and the learning never stops…

2020 has been a year of many things. I won’t pretend to know what it has been like for you. I have heard from many that they wish to have a different 2021. But what does this mean exactly? Less suffering with no COVID, police brutality, political division, physical, emotional, social, and economic stress? More joy in gathering with others to commemorate the beginning and ending of life (and everything in between), travel, return to school and work, seeing the smiles of others?

I also wish for a different 2021. And I’m paying attention to where I plant seeds of loving intentions- where I’m forcing something to grow/change, where I’m slowly letting go, patiently waiting for something to take root.

On December 24, I received my first COVID vaccine with a mixture of dread and hope. Dread that I’d be one of the few cases who developed a serious adverse reaction.  Hope that this would be a positive step in the fight against COVID. I’m relieved that the only nuisance was a sore arm for a few days, and I’m still diligently tracking symptoms through Vsafe.

I realize that there is still so much uncertainty. Will I build immunity to COVID? How long will the antibodies last? Am I safe to be around patients? Are they safe with me? What does this vaccine mean for us all heading into 2021?

Recognizing the fear and doubt in these questions, I’m aware that these thoughts, emotions and the physical manifestations of uncertainty within are not alone. There is also awe at the timeline and sound scientific data supporting the vaccine’s efficacy, gratitude for meaningful work, incredible colleagues, loving family, health, abundant food, shelter, and so much more.

Most of all, there is a deep bow of reverence to the practices of mindfulness, lovingkindness, compassion, joy, and equanimity with meditation and writing carrying me through some of the darkest times of post-partum depression and anxiety, losing my aunt-mom to cancer, chronic sacro-iliac, gluteal muscle pain, and COVID-19. Though Western medicine and other modalities have been supportive, it is these practices that saved me from sacrificing this heart-mind-body to fear and doubt.

To this end, I’d like to support others in planting loving intentions for 2021. Will you join me here? However you choose to heal and support yourself in 2021, may you remember that love and wisdom are so much larger than fear and doubt. What you plant now affects everyone and everything around you for days, weeks, months, and years to come.

Nisargadatta Maharaj  said, “Wisdom tells me I am nothing. Love tells me I am everything. And between the two my life flows.”

May the idea of a separate self dissolve with the wisdom of shared journeys. May love connect you to all.

There is a key that I’ve found through these practices, unlocking mysteries, answering questions I’ve had over lifetimes. I’m so afraid to lose this key, guarding it sometimes to the detriment of my relationships with loved ones. What if I forget? What if I’m not perfect in practices, in life? Will I spiral down into the womb of bloody postpartum darkness where thoughts threaten connection and unwanted emotions signal abandonment? Who will love me then? Will I be strong enough alone? Can I remember these practices without the key?

Menstrual cycles are irregular. Moods shift like unpredictable weather patterns. Gripping the key tightly- identities of a meditator, writer, physician, healer, mother, wife, daughter, family member and friend, I don’t want the life I’ve so carefully constructed over the last fourteen years to change. If it does, I only want it to change for the better (whatever that means).

In meditation this morning, I heard the following words. Awareness that this practice is not about perfection or self-improvement, but trusting the heart without expectation. What if I toss the key into the ocean, allow the waves to swallow this house of sand?

Loving awareness is everywhere. It’s time to let go of the key…

(Inspired by “Small Kindness” by Danusha Laméris)


It’s relatively quiet on the hike-
minimal sounds of birds chirping,
lizards scurrying across the path,
footsteps against dry leaves and dirt.
The few hikers I meet have
facial expressions masked.
I can’t tell if they are smiling,
frowning, or the lips are flat-lined.
Out of nowhere comes this silent scream.
When will this all end? 
When can I see your face again?
Like a mother holding the frustrations 
of an impatient child,
I try and open to what’s here-
uncertainty, the wish for things to be different.
All I can do is thank a hiker
for stepping aside so I can pass,
wave to another hiker,
Enjoy your hike.
When I can’t see your face,
words and hand gestures 
will have to be enough.
I still miss the smiles.