Tara Brach & Radical Acceptance

I listen to a lot of podcasts. For a lot of different reasons. I listen to Savage Love and Guys We Fucked to lightly entertain myself while walking dogs, I listen to This American Life, Radiolab and Snap Judgement when taking a migraine nap or screen break and want to hear a beautifully told story.  I listen to Tara Brach's meditation talks in two instances: 1. To help me sleep (honesty is the best policy, right?) 2. When I feel like punching someone/thing because I have so many feelings that I don't know what to do with. 

A recent peaceful moment, provided by Lubber Run & Lucy, the bulldog. 

She's a Buddhist teacher of meditation, "emotional healing" and "spiritual awakening". I put those terms in quotes not to make fun of them, but because I recognize that they are very subjective concepts that may seem wishy washy at first glance. I don't meditate, yoga is the most spiritual activity I've ever been involved in, but somehow her teachings click with me.

This evening I read this quote at the end of my yoga class:

“The emotion of fear often works overtime. Even when there is no immediate threat, our body may remain tight and on guard, our mind narrowed to focus on what might go wrong. When this happens, fear is no longer functioning to secure our survival. We are caught in the trance of fear and our moment-to-moment experience becomes bound in reactivity. We spend our time and energy defending our life rather than living it fully.” From Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With the Heart of a Buddha 

I realize that it seems like a pretty negative quote. It points out an emotional pattern that can be damaging and articulates how that damage is embodied. But for me, reading that passage was a happy surprise because it describes my emotional experience in a very simple way.

Fear or anxiety, has been an actor in my life for a long time, with varying degrees of power over my mental state at any given time. It's helped me in some ways, pushing me to work hard in school, to keep my room clean, to do X or Y menial task as soon as possible because of my fear of failure. But that fearful energy has also kept me from actually experiencing much of the beauty in my life. Because I was so addicted to my quest for achievement, I didn't take the time to breathe and see the wonderful things/people in front of me.

In my case, the fear-motivated achievement rampage ended in a screeching halt when my body decided to revolt and trap me in a year-long migraine that sent me back to my hometown to try to sort things out. One of the things I learned in that time away from normalcy was that anxiety & fear inhabit my body, and the resultant stress had built up so much that I cornered myself into sickness.

Because I found myself so abruptly halted in my path to adulthood, I was forced to look around a little.  It turns out, it's pretty easy to live in the moment when your future is a giant question mark. The life I found when forced to step out of my fear-driven rat race grew into a pretty sweet setup, rich with friends, yoga, dogs and family.  When I let go of the fight-or-flight impulses that led me to push myself so hard, I could breathe and take pleasure in simple things.

Tara Brach has another quote that describes the emotional growth I've experienced in the last few years:

"When we put down ideas of what life should be like, we are free to wholeheartedly say yes to our life as it is." - Tara Brach

Once I abandoned the lofty expectations I had set for myself, I was much more able to enjoy things for what they were and experience my emotions in a much fuller way. It was easier for me to simply know how I felt about something when I let go of how I thought I was supposed to feel. My meta-feelings (feelings about feelings) had generally been negative and self-deprecating. Now, thanks to yoga, Tara Brach and some hard knocks, my internal critic has quieted down a lot.

For example: I used to get anxious when sitting quietly with people, scared that if I didn't fill the dead air with some chatter or activity that people wouldn't enjoy being around me.  Now, some of my favorite moments are the quiet ones, spent with someone I care about, enjoying a warm night or lovely view. The silence gives us license to speak only when we have something worth saying, so it has lead me to much deeper (and more memorable) conversations than I may have had before.

Perhaps this is all an overly complicated way to say that I am growing up. Either way, I think that Tara Brach's teachings can be a wonderful tool when trying to avoid the vicious cycle that can be caused by an overactive mind. I'll close on a positive note:

"There is something wonderfully bold and liberating about saying yes to our entire imperfect and messy life." - Tara Brach 

XO,
KCZ

Let's tell the truth.

Maya Angelou and her friend Harry. 

“Let's tell the truth to people. When people ask, 'How are you?' have the nerve sometimes to answer truthfully. You must know, however, that people will start avoiding you because, they, too, have knees that pain them and heads that hurt and they don't want to know about yours. But think of it this way: If people avoid you, you will have more time to meditate and do fine research on a cure for whatever truly afflicts you.”   

― Maya Angelou, Letter to My Daughter

I just finished reading I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou (I can finally give it back to you, Abbi!). I loved her voice, so I looked at a list of her famous quotations to see if any of them spoke to me. This one did.

For the last few years, I've struggled with what to say when people ask me how I am. I aspire to be genuine, open and honest but I'm also aware of the fact that not everyone actually wants to hear that you've been an 8/10 on the pain scale for the last 3 days. "How are you?" is the kind of question many people simply toss into empty conversational airspace, only prepared to respond to "great! and you?", as opposed to a genuinely considered answer.

I used to instinctively respond with something positive when someone popped the question. I couldn't fully articulate it then, but that was because I believed that no one really wanted to know my pain, anger, annoyances or whatever else was truly going on in my head. This instinct, and the belief behind it led to a lot shallow friendships based on empty chatter, but few deep connections. It also meant that I suppressed my feelings/struggles in public, believing that I was only allowed to be sick or upset behind closed doors.

I'm such a big fan of Angelou's quote because my experience has led me to see how unhealthy it is to hide ourselves from the people around us. Years of claiming to be "great" when I wasn't meant a whole lot of swallowed tears, clenched fists and words unspoken. I believe you carry these unexpressed feelings with you, that they stay in your body, unprocessed because we fear there is no socially acceptable way to articulate them. They can harden like a brick, causing you to sink into depression. They can cause clenched teeth (TMJ disorders woo!), huddled shoulders, or crinkled spines because we train ourselves to hide our hearts. I still wear a night guard to protect my teeth from grinding the tension of my day out as I sleep (get in line, gentlemen).

I think we can do better, and I've been trying to do better myself. It's been awkward; led to a handful of weird conversations because I have answered a question too honestly or someone learned something they weren't expecting. Some people in my life find it exhausting, some call it selfish. They've learned not to ask me questions they don't want answered truthfully.

But it has helped me tremendously, in ways I never would have expected. Blessings that have come from my experiment in social psychology:

1. I've built significantly deeper friendships. One of my closest friends, Abbi, and I originally bonded because when she asked why I moved back home, I answered honestly (health issues).  In turn, she shared details of her situation that she usually waits awhile before dropping on someone she hasn't seen in years. Immediately, walls between us fell and we were able to simply be ourselves and support each other through our respective struggles. As part of that support, Abbi brought me to my first class at Tranquil Space, my yoga home. 
2. I'm less anxious in social situations. Instead of worrying about how I'm going to answer this question in a way that won't be "weird' or over-sharing, I just say what makes sense to me.  Sometimes it's the truth, sometimes it's a less intense version of it. Sometimes, I'll tell a white lie (like saying I'm "great" on days where I truly feel the opposite). Either way, I'm able to enjoy conversations as they unfold instead of fearing the inevitable questions.
3. I'm more comfortable in my truth. If I'm feeling angry, I accept that. If my head is killing me, I accept that too. Instead of suppressing my anger or carrying the weight of my pain in secret, I actually process how I'm feeling. I'm not perfect and there's certainly plenty of room for improvement, but my inner voice has definitely gotten louder. 
4. The bad ones, the ones who don't really want to know how my day went, the ones who aren't interested in a genuine conversation, don't waste my time anymore. I make them uncomfortable, or sad, or something else that they'd prefer not to experience. Either way, it's a natural weeding-out process that saves me a lot of time and allows me to focus on relationships that actually matter.

So, I'd like to join Maya Angelou in encouraging everyone to be more honest with the people around them. I think you'll be surprised with what happens.

XO,
KCZ

A History of Everything, Including You

Tennessee Valley Trail, Marin Headlands, CA

A History of Everything, Including You

by Jenny Hollowell

First there was god, or gods, or nothing. Then synthesis, space, the expansion, explosions, implosions, particles, objects, combustion, and fusion. Out of the chaos came order, stars were born and shown and died. Planets rolled across their galaxies on invisible ellipses and the elements combined and became.  

Life evolved or was created. Cells trembled, and divided, and gasped and found dry land. Soon they grew legs, and fins, and hands, and antenna, and mouths, and ears, and wings, and eyes. Eyes that opened wide to take all of it in, the creeping, growing, soaring, swimming, crawling, stampeding universe.  

Eyes opened and closed and opened again, we called it blinking. Above us shown a star that we called the sun. And we called the ground the earth. So we named everything including ourselves. We were man and woman and when we got lonely we figured out a way to make more of us. We called it sex, and most people enjoyed it. We fell in love. We talked about god and banged stones together, made sparks and called them fire, we got warmer and the food got better.  

We got married, we had some children, they cried, and crawled, and grew. One dissected flowers, sometimes eating the petals. Another liked to chase squirrels. We fought wars over money, and honor, and women. We starved ourselves, we hired prostitutes, we purified our water. We compromised, decorated, and became esoteric. One of us stopped breathing and turned blue. Then others. First we covered them with leaves and then we buried them in the ground. We remembered them. We forgot them. We aged.  

Our buildings kept getting taller. We hired lawyers and formed councils and left paper trails, we negotiated, we admitted, we got sick, and searched for cures. We invented lipstick, vaccines, pilates, solar panels, interventions, table manners, firearms, window treatments, therapy, birth control, tailgating, status symbols, palimony, sportsmanship, focus groups, zoloft, sunscreen, landscaping, cessnas, fortune cookies, chemotherapy, convenience foods, and computers. We angered militants, and our mothers.  

You were born. You learned to walk, and went to school, and played sports, and lost your virginity, and got into a decent college, and majored in psychology, and went to rock shows, and became political, and got drunk, and changed your major to marketing, and wore turtleneck sweaters, and read novels, and volunteered, and went to movies, and developed a taste for blue cheese dressing.  

I met you through friends, and didn’t like you at first. The feeling was mutual, but we got used to each other. We had sex for the first time behind an art gallery, standing up and slightly drunk. You held my face in your hands and said that I was beautiful. And you were too. Tall with a streetlight behind you. We went back to your place and listened to the White Album. We ordered in. We fought and made up and got good jobs and got married and bought an apartment and worked out and ate more and talked less. I got depressed. You ignored me. I was sick of you. You drank too much and got careless with money. I slept with my boss. We went into counseling and got a dog. I bought a book of sex positions and we tried the least degrading one, the wheelbarrow. You took flight lessons and subscribed to Rolling Stone. I learned Spanish and started gardening.  

We had some children who more or less disappointed us but it might have been our fault. You were too indulgent and I was too critical. We loved them anyway. One of them died before we did, stabbed on the subway. We grieved. We moved. We adopted a cat. The world seemed uncertain, we lived beyond our means. I got judgmental and belligerent, you got confused and easily tired. You ignored me, I was sick of you. We forgave. We remembered. We made cocktails. We got tender. There was that time on the porch when you said, can you believe it?  

This was near the end and your hands were trembling. I think you were talking about everything, including us. Did you want me to say it? So it would not be lost? It was too much for me to think about. I could not go back to the beginning. I said, not really. And we watched the sun go down. A dog kept barking in the distance, and you were tired but you smiled and you said, hear that? It’s rough, rough. And we laughed. You were like that.  

Now, your question is my project and our house is full of clues. I’m reading old letters and turning over rocks. I burry my face in your sweaters. I study a photograph taken at the beach, the sun in our eyes, and the water behind us. It’s a victory to remember the forgotten picnic basket and your striped beach blanket. It’s a victory to remember how the jellyfish stung you and you ran screaming from the water. It’s a victory to remember treating the wound with meat tenderizer, and you saying, I made it better. I will tell you this, standing on our hill this morning I looked at the land we chose for ourselves, I saw a few green patches, and our sweet little shed, that same dog was barking, a storm was moving in. I did not think of heaven, but I saw that the clouds were beautiful and I watched them cover the sun.

Holowell reads this short story in a Radiolab Short, titled "The Trouble with Everything". It's also available in New Sudden Fiction: Short-Short Stories from America and Beyond. 

Every time I read or listen to this story I notice something new, something great. 

XO,

KCZ

A Great Quote

The view from the top of Tibbet Knob Hike, Aug 14th 2013 (my 25th birthday).

This is the quote that Alli (my co-teacher) used at the end of our class at The Bike Rack. I'm a big fan.

"It is a conquest when we can lift ourselves above the annoyances of circumstances over which we have no control; but it is a greater victory when we can make those circumstances our helpers,—when we can appreciate the good there is in them. It has often seemed to me as if Life stood beside me, looking me in the face, and saying, "Child, you must learn to like me in the form in which you see me, before I can offer myself to you in any other aspect."  

- Lucy Larcom

XO,
KCZ