Mindfulness in everyday life.
It's an interesting human habit: when we most need a pause—a little room to breathe—we're hesitant to take it; we keep pushing forward in a haze of busyness and distraction. A cycle that's magnified during the holidays, as we're encouraged to celebrate, spend, and consume. Yet what we really crave is space, ease, and connection.
When I teach mindfulness courses, my students often say, “I feel present and aware when I’m here with you, but I lose myself at work. How can I stay mindful in a busy work environment?” This is a great question, whether our work is done in cubicles, at home, inside classrooms, a studio, or within volunteer organizations.
Life is complex. It's not just one thing; it's many things all at once. Part of my meditation practice is making room for everything. I've noticed how opposites arise together: love and sadness; fear and freedom; grief and wonder. When I love from an unguarded heart, I open myself to loss. When I experience fear but move through it, I feel freedom and ease. When I'm cracked open with grief, I see the world anew.
Yesterday, I spent two hours in my yard. I made new flower beds last fall, using compost and cardboard. I worked in one bed: digging out dandelions (how do they still exist in no-light conditions?), cleaning grass from edges, and loosening soil. It felt good to place my hands in dirt; to connect with the earth. It also felt good to be outside: to hear birdsong and talk with neighbors.
Earlier this month, Mark and I traveled to the Porcupine Mountains where we spent 3 nights in a rustic yurt on the Lake Superior shore. We hoped to snowshoe during the day, but the conditions changed rapidly. During our long hikes through the woods, the ground was unsteady: snow then ice then slush then flowing water then snow. This kept us focused on each step. When we reached solid ground, I noticed palpable relief: Ahh, I can walk naturally and easily. Immediately, I saw this as a metaphor for life. We seek solid ground; we crave certainty.
