I write short posts on Facebook. During this difficult time of pandemic, I’m writing more —trying to be a light in the darkness. Yet I realize many people are refraining from social media, so I include a few posts here on my blog. Take very good care of your precious selves.
Tuesday, May 5
This weekend, I heard Jack Kornfield—a wise, kind meditation teacher—call this pandemic an “initiation.” Every one of us will be changed by it. How we respond makes a difference. Not just in the short term but for our long-term health, healing, growth, and awakening.
I notice how I meet my edge—the edge of impatience, grief, vulnerability, anger, or blahness—and that edge lets me know myself better. This is the full range of human experience—I can’t leap over it or ignore it. I don’t get to control the circumstances or the teacher (the “initiation”). I only have a choice about how I respond. I’m trying to respond with kindness, love, and gratitude.
When I lose my s**t, I apologize (even to—especially to—myself), make changes, and begin again. When I feel an energy surge, I let it dance and flow with creativity and doing. When I feel low energy, like a slug, I let that happen, too. I see my neighbors (and their beautiful doings) and recognize that home projects might not be “my thing” for quarantine.
I weed my garden and watch my plants (the growth in a single day is amazing!). We walk the neighborhood and say “hi” to everyone we see. We walk in nature preserves and listen to the birds. I sit in meditation, just like every other day. On my sidewalk, I write inspiring chalk messages. I record videos for prison, lead a Zoom meditation class, and expand mindfulness resources on my website.
When I feel disconnected—grieving my in-person teaching—I take a break and watch squirrels play in the backyard. I experience both the vastness and intimacy of nature. I remember we’re all deeply interconnected. And I feel amazingly grateful for this one precious, complicated, messy, beautiful life I’ve been given.
Thursday, May 7
Last night, during our neighborhood walk, I found these flowers in an overgrown yard. The lawn was messy, imperfect, and absolutely beautiful. The scene, in it's real yet rich messiness, made me reflect on life: we never “wrap everything up” with a tidy bow. Things fall apart and come back together, and the cycle continues.
Life feels especially difficult right now, for thousands of reasons, but there’s beauty in the messy, real, tender, raw places. If we pause, breathe, and notice, we see each other differently. We see that everyone is vulnerable (even if they express this as anger or fear). We’re rattled to our core. And we’re open (anew!) to the vividness of this precious life.
Each day, we can honor the grit, gratitude, and grace we experience. All of this belongs. The messiness accompanies the awakening.
