Breathing and Smiling

Remember that old joke?

The one about how you shouldn't judge a person until you've walked a mile in their shoes?

Because that way, when you judge them anyway, you'll be a mile away and you'll have their shoes.

I've been thinking about that old chestnut a lot lately in connection with my further experiments with a meditation practice I mentioned in an earlier post.

I picked the technique up from the book Reconciliation by Thich Nhat Hanh. (A dear friend sent me the book this winter, when she knew I was really struggling with depression.)

The meditation is simple:

Breathing in, I am aware of _______________________.
Breathing out, I smile at _______________________.

It can be used for mindfulness around anything – addictive behaviours, obsessive thoughts, one's mind and body.

It is a way of cultivating friendliness and joy, or, if that is a bit much to shoot for, acceptance and tolerance.

Some examples:

Breathing in, I am aware of my toes.
Breathing out, I smile at my toes.

Breathing in, I am aware of my hurt.
Breathing out, I smile at my hurt.

Breathing in, I am aware of my craving for sugar.
Breathing out, I smile at my craving for sugar.

Breathing in, I am aware of the sky.
Breathing out, I smile at the sky.

One of the most interesting things I am finding in this experiment is the large range of smiles I have inside of me: rueful, wistful, kind, bitter, fake, angry, hollow, joyful, giddy, pure, shaky, twisted, hopeful, hesitant, longing, passionate, contented, uncertain, wounded, smart-arsed, disappointed, smug, sleepy, hostile, gentle, sweet, down-to-earth and wholehearted smiles. I can feel their nuances playing across my face as I try smiling at many different thoughts, body parts, behaviours, things in the world around me.

Perhaps, if I get very brave, I will try doing this exercise in front of a mirror. 

I do this meditation as often as I remember to throughout the day. It doesn't take very long. Although the feelings it stirs up can be a bit overwhelming.

But I am full of those feelings anyway. And, in parallel with that old joke at the beginning of this post, now I'm also breathing and smiling.

Fear or Love? (A Tiny Home Dilemma)

I don't know if you've already seen this amazing convocation speech that Jim Carrey made at Maharishi University. I know it's been making the rounds on the interwebs.

Here's the clip that's inspiring today's blog post:

I saw this for the first time a few months ago and I'm slowly realizing that this clip sums up the dilemma with which I've been grappling over the past several months.

If you've been reading my blog over the past year or so, you'll know that I bought a Tiny Home in December 2013. I set it up on some friends' land last spring and lived in it through the summer. Then, as winter approached, I realized that winterizing it was going to be a pretty big task. I had gotten depressed and all of the things I needed to do felt like too much work. I could barely put one foot in front of the other, let alone figure out and manifest all the things I needed to make my house work over the winter. The prospect of living in a draughty, small, thin-shelled structure for the winter felt out-of-control, risky and unsafe.

Running scared

So, I decided to abandon my tiny house for the winter. I found a house that I could rent – a place with central heating, electricity and running water. And I set myself the task of deciding what I wanted to do about my living arrangements going forward.

I was full of doubts – I doubted that I could handle the challenges of Tiny, (semi) off-grid Living; I doubted that I was living in the right place. Part of me wanted to bug out, move to Montreal, Ireland, South America – to get away from everything. I batted around a half-a-dozen locations and ideas. Everywhere from West Dublin to Québec City to Galway to Buenos Aires.

I weighed many pros and cons.

Fear had me in its clutches. Every option I considered felt scary, unsatisfactory and just plain wrong.

Embracing love

While some of my fear is perfectly rational, the worst of it was probably a by-product of my depression. When we feel like we are all alone in the darkness, of course we are afraid. Nothing feels possible – to stay, to go, there is no good option.

Finally, I am coming out of my depression and starting to feel more like myself. Love is starting to raise her voice again. I love my friends and my community on the west bank of the LaHave. I love the beaches, the quiet, the sky. I love my house. It is adorable! Every time I go to check on it, it glows its warm heart at me. It hugs me. I feel absolutely at home.

As usual, it's not Either/Or – it's Both

I'm still scared. I'm not a particularly handy person nor, frankly, am I that interested in becoming one. This is a hard challenge to take on as a single person. I need help, and asking for help is not always my forte. And, at the same time, I want to embrace this challenge and see if I can make it work. I want to engage in the experiment of winterizing my home and living in it through an entire year.

I don't know exactly how I'm going to acheive this. I have some ideas. More will come to me. But I don't know if I will succeed. Maybe it will work for me and maybe it will not. Time will reveal the answers, but only if I try. If I don't try, I will never know.

And while fear is still a factor, I know that this decision is being made from a place of love.

PS: Jim Carey's convocation speach is worth watching in its entirety.

There is something in the autumn... Let's call it wisdom

A Vagabond Song

THERE is something in the autumn that is native to my blood—
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

–Bliss Carman

This is one of the many poems that I associate with my grandmother. She would recite it often in the fall and to this day, when the asters are out in full force along the sides of the road in Nova Scotia, fragments of this poem run through my head anytime I go anywhere.

I am missing my grandmother quite a lot lately. A friend posted this link on Facebook this week, a video interview about how to design a good life for oneself. In it Debbie Millman talks about how most of her design contemporaries feel like frauds who are always striving to do work of which they can feel proud. She says the only designers she's spoken with who don't seem to feel that way are mentors of hers who are in their 80s. They seem to know who they are and to feel confident and competent in their work, their choices, their lives.

In the wake of the turmoil and upset of the past year, I suppose I'm feeling a longing for the equanimity of age. I had the great benefit of my grandmother's company into her late 90s, and she could always be counted on for perspective and wisdom (along with a pot of tea and a hand of cards). I know if Nana were here she would reassure me that next year will be better than this year. Or if not next year, the year after. Having lived through many challenges herself, I know what she would say of my recent struggles with heartbreak and with peri-menopausal symptoms: "The wounds we get leave scars that we can see for the rest of our lives, but after a while, they don't hurt anymore. Don't pick at it – it will heal faster."

She said that to me more than once while she was alive. I didn't always agree with her: at times in my life I've needed to pick the scabs off things and let them bleed clean. But this time, I think her words are right on the money – I need to stop picking over my hurts and stop dwelling on feeling bad. There is nothing I can do to change what has happened. And while I do feel bad right now, I think I'll feel better faster if I don't indulge those feelings. What is done is done and the best thing I can do is accept it and let it go.

I am very grateful that I listened to my Nana while she was alive.

I am grateful I stored her wisdom in my heart against the current need, since she isn't here to tell me herself:

It will be better in time.

Don't pick at it.

Thanks, Nana.