03/13 2013 Posted In Difficulties & Loss, Family, Friends & Community, Mindful, Non-attachment/Letting go, Thoughts From Annie

Where do we go when we die?

Dear Friends,

I spent a full day this week at the hospital with a dear 82-year-old friend and her family.  What I thought was going to be a one hour conference with the doctor, her family and myself, turned into eight hours of meditation and discussion about whether to resuscitate our friend should she stop breathing again.  She had been resuscitated two times earlier in the week, and was being kept alive by the combination of breathing apparatus and feeding tube connected directly into her intestines.

In the end her sons made the final call.  They decided to have her resuscitated if her breathing or heart failed again, and to keep her on the life support even while three different “super bugs” chewed through her body. For them they had to make a decision that would allow them to sleep at night. And not resuscitating her would have been tantamount to “giving up” in their minds. They weren’t ready to let go of their beloved mother.

This is a decision process that many of us will have to go through at some point with a loved one.  We want to keep them with us as long as possible.  And we also don’t want them to suffer.  My friend’s son put it this way, “I am sure that ma doesn’t want to die, that I know. And I know that she doesn’t want to keep suffering like this.” Wouldn’t we all say that about ourselves and our loved ones.  It’s human nature that we don’t want to die and we don’t want to suffer. So it’s hard to make decisions about when someone has had enough suffering and is ready to go.

The Buddha never commented on whether there was another life after this one.  When asked, he kept silent.  What he did say was, “I teach only suffering and the end of suffering.”  And for the Buddha it was clear that clinging to anything in the realm of form, including our body or our loved one’s body, was a source suffering. And at the same time he taught that we don’t have a completely separate self or soul that continues intact.  Form is Emptiness and Emptiness is Form.  We are not this body and we are also not something other than this body.

So where does that leave us in making end of life decisions?   I can see that my friend is not this deteriorating body full of bedsores, MRSA, and failing digestive system. That is clear.  So if she’s not in that body, then where can I find my friend?

Because she spent so much time with us and my kids while they were young, I find my friend in the twinkle in my kids’ eyes when then talk about how silly and feisty she was.  I find her in my own resilience to difficulties as I watched her facing the psychiatric breakdown of one daughter and the homelessness of another.  One of my go-to stories that makes me laugh and cry at the same time is this one:  She was walking down the street one evening and heard a crack and felt wetness flowing down her neck.  Realizing that she had been hit over the head by a would-be assailant and was bleeding, she kept her head up and continued to walk briskly to her destination.  The attacker, who must have been shocked by the strength and stamina of this petite woman, fled.  Even though it happened to her, it has given me courage through the years.

“You are like a candle. Imagine you are sending light out all around you. All your words, thoughts and actions are going in many directions. If you say something kind, your kind words go in many directions, and you yourself go with them. We are …transforming and continuing in a different form at every moment.”  – Thich Nhat Hanh, from No Death, No Fear

I also find my friend in the eyes and manners of her sons and her nieces.  Sitting with them in the hospital for so many hours, there was no doubt in my mind that she was right there with us.  The stories we told and the ways that we were changed by our interactions with her are permanent and will continue on through our own lives and through the energies and memories that we pass along to future generations. Even though we are empty we exist and we inter-are with and influence everything around us.

“If our boats are empty, though there is still a vessel carried by the prevailing winds and currents there is not ‘someone’ in it to be misunderstood…Everything is in perfect harmony.  Nothing is pulling against the natural flow.  No one in the boat: no one to suffer”  – Stephen Levine, from Who Dies?

Seeing all of this, I know that I never have to let go of my friend.  The outcome for all of us is the same.  We will leave this fathom-long body at some point in the not so distant future. But because there is no “me” or “her” to let go of, there is no letting go.  We are transforming and sending ourselves out in every moment of our lives. And the last moment, when we lose this body, is just another moment of transformation.

with love, annie
02/04 2013 Posted In Family, Love & Compassion, Meditation, Mindful, Presence/Showing up, Self-care, Thoughts From Annie

Finding Comfort in Our Own Presence

Dear Friends,

The other evening I had an argument with my husband.  The argument itself wasn’t profound, but the topic raised some sadness in me about my life and forced me to confront change.  At that moment I felt sad about moving on from my role as caregiver to my four, now grown, children.  And I began to cry.

The history of crying in my life is a bit uneven.  As a young child I am pretty sure I cried the typical amount.  Because crying was about as popular as the plague in our household, I created a technique for myself that would prevent me from shedding a single tear in front of my family members.  I would repeat a mantra over and over in my head to keep me from crying.  I can only imagine what my face looked like in those moments — I’m guessing it wasn’t very pretty.  But it was damned effective.  The only time I cried was alone in my room, and mostly under the covers with a pillow over my head.

I wanted confort, but didn’t know where to find it.  When we were given an adorable cockapoo dog, Jocko, he became my crying buddy. Whenever possible, I would cry to Jocko, telling him about all my woes.  He seemed to listen with great care and tenderness.  The perfect comforter!  He would gaze at me with compassionate eyes, listen to every word, and never try to talk me out of my sadness.

As a young adult, I often shared a bedroom with others, so I developed the habit of hiding in the bathroom to cry.  Bathrooms are not the comfiest of rooms, but they were safe and I could run water to cover sobs when needed. At times I had a cat, but most of time he would flee at the first sign of tears.

As soon as I could, I brought dogs back into my life and continued to cry either to the dog, or if s/he wasn’t available, then alone in the bathroom. Being comforted by a dog isn’t exactly the same as being understood by a human, but it was the next best thing.

Last August, our oldest dog passed away.  For a few months we had our daughter’s small Havanese with us (who sadly wasn’t much more of a comfort than a cat), but of late we have been dogless.  So when I needed to cry the other night, I wasn’t sure where to go.  The bathroom I would normally use was too close to where my husband was sleeping. I started crying in my office, but that just didn’t feel right.  Then I remembered that my meditation cushion was quite comfortable and, though the room was cold, there was a space heater nearby.   So I wrapped up in a blanket, went into my meditation space, lit the candles on my altar, and lay down on my meditation cushion to cry.

As I lay there, I was reminded of the many times that I had sat on that cushion. I sat on that cushion when I was concentrated and I sat there when my mind wandered non-stop (which was much more common.)  I sat on that cushion when I was exhausted and dozing off, and I sat on that cushion when I was raging angry with myself or someone else.  And every time I sat I tried my best to stay present for the benefit of myself and all beings.  It wasn’t that I had been mindful all those sitting times — far from it — but I had been trying to be mindful and awake and compassionate.  It was my intention that I remembered and felt at that moment.

Curled up on the cushion crying, I began to feel held by that energy of intention which felt very much like the compassionate care of a dog or another being.  But because it was coming from me, that energy also had the ability to truly understand the sadness that I was feeling.  For one of the first times in my life I truly felt comforted and held in my tears.

To love, in the context of Buddhism, is above all to be there. But being there is not an easy thing. Some training is necessary, some practice. If you are not there, how can you love?  – Thich Nhat Hanh

As a result of this experience, I realized that we all have the ability to comfort ourselves.   When we sit still and really look into our deepest intentions for caring, we can see that we have the desire to care for ourselves and all beings.   Our deepest intentions might not always be obvious, but they are there.  We might have the intention to bring health to our lives, or to work in a vocation that helps others, to teach, or to be an example of mindful living through our own practice.   Marshall Rosenberg calls these intentions “universal needs.”  We all have them.     In Buddhism, this part of ourselves is called our Buddha Nature.  It’s the part that is already awake.  In other traditions it has other names.  Getting familiar with this part of ourselves can be a benefit to ourselves and those around us.  Because when we know this part, we know that even when those around us aren’t able to give us the comfort we need, we can always find it right here within ourselves.

with love, annie
11/06 2012 Posted In Contentment/Happiness, Family, Friends & Community, Love & Compassion, Meditation, Mindful, Presence/Showing up, Simple Living, Thoughts From Annie

Like a Tree.

linden tree at plum village

Dear Friends,

Since my dog Gus died this past August, I have become more aware of our two fluffy cats.  One of them, Addie, is quite the princess (her kindest nickname) and doesn’t seem to care if we are nearby, or even whether we exist.

The early morning used to be the one time that she engaged me, loudly, because she knew that I was going to be serving her canned food.  But a few weeks ago I switched to canned vegan cat food (a macrobiotic mix of veggies and whole grains) and so now she generally ignores me 24/7.

One chilly morning this week, I went into my meditation room to practice and I closed the door behind me to keep in the heat.  A few minutes into my sitting, I heard someone pawing the door.  When she got no answer (I was trying to meditate) she upped the banging.  Pretty soon she was meowing, screeching, and finally resorted to swiping her paw back and forth under the door to get my attention.

addie with attitude

Since this was so out of character for her, I got up and let her into the room.  I assumed that she wanted me to get up and get her breakfast or fill the sink with water for her to drink.  I worried that she might disturb my practice by continuing to harass me once I let her in.  But she didn’t.  Instead she curled up quietly behind me, indulged in some badly needed fur cleaning, and just chilled with me.   I was surprised and delighted to have her sitting in the room with me.

That episode reminded me of something that Thich Nhat Hanh said when I was in Plum Village this past June.  He said that sometimes we can be there for someone without doing a thing.  Like when we sit near a tree and we feel that the tree is there for even though it doesn’t say or do anything at all.

When we sit down under a tree, we aren’t expecting the tree to do anything, but yet we still feel comforted just being there in its shade.  It’s the same with all of us.  It can be truly comforting and joyful to be with another being, in silence, with no agenda.

It’s a teaching that I try to remind myself when someone shares their difficulties with me.  I often feel like I have to say something or do something or even be something in order to help them.  But then I remember how comforting a tree can be, and I let myself off the hook.  Very often, being present for the other person (or cat) is enough.

The quieter you become, the more you can hear.  – Ram Dass

Some of you may have lost trees in this last storm.  And even though the tree didn’t make you dinner, didn’t help you move, or give you any good advice, you probably felt a loss.  That tree just stood by, and by just standing by, it provided some comfort.  Heck, the Buddha became enlightened while sitting under a tree is silence.

And when Addie curled up in the room with me, I realized that she was looking for that same kind of tree love and offering it to me as well.  She didn’t want water or petting and she definitely didn’t want her vegan breakfast, she just wanted to sit under my tree.  I know how she feels.   I love to sit near my friends and loved ones (even cats), and quietly relax.  Especially in the darker, wintery months, it sure is nice to curl up together with nothing to do and just be there for each other.  And in some ways, our quiet presence is the most precious gift we can give each other.

with love, annie
10/27 2012 Posted In Family, Friends & Community, Perceptions & Thoughts, Thoughts From Annie

How could you say that about me?!

Dear Friends,

A few weeks ago someone gave me some feedback about me from their perspective.  In what I believe was a sincere attempt to support me, they said that they perceived me as someone who considers myself more enlightened than others and who pushes my agenda on everyone else. That’s not everything that they said, but those were two of the most triggering points for me.  Upon hearing his negative perception, I was initially shocked (How could you think this about me!), and then saddened (Could I really be doing that?)  Over these last few weeks as I have sat with everything that was stirred up in me, I have begun to appreciate the way that this person “shined the light” on parts of me that may be operating out of my conscious awareness.

I remember another time when I felt a similar sense of shock, sadness, and then appreciation for a critique.  When I was in graduate school at Howard Divinity I was usually the only white identified person in my classes.  In my Womanist Theory class, which looked at the perspectives and experiences of women of color, I listened to a classmate share her experience.  When she was finished, I raised my hand and made a comment about how I could understand what she was saying because of a similar situation that I had experienced.  The instructor interrupted me and very bluntly told me that I did notunderstand this woman’s experience, and that I needed to break my habit of trying to co-opt other people’s experiences by likening them to my own.  This calling out, like the one earlier this month, rocked my inner sense of who I was and how I was living in the world.

In my tradition of mindfulness, there is a practice called Shining the Light. In Buddhist monasteries it is a formal ceremony in which each monk or nun asks his/her sisters and brothers to share the places they believe need more practice. If the information is shared compassionately, it can really help our practice of self-awareness, because other people can often see things in us that we are not able to see.

Listen carefully to what the people say who shine light on your practice. It doesn’t matter whether you agree or disagree with them; pay attention to everything exactly as they say it. It takes time to look deeply into what they have said. Perhaps those people have seen something you haven’t been able to see about yourself. If you think that maybe your brother has a wrong perception of you, you can go to him and say, “Please tell me, why do you think this about me?” Each person you ask will have some wrong perceptions, that is true. But the guidance that you receive will make your understanding of yourself more correct, and the fruit of your practice will be greater.  –Thich Nhat Hanh

Because only other people can help us see our blind spots, we cannot grow without a sangha, or community of practice.  When we sit in a community circle, sharing our own experiences from our hearts, we can’t help but shine the light on each other’s blind spots.  Of course there will be times when we aren’t able to see or hear our blind spot, even when someone else tells us about it.  Often it’s because we aren’t ready to hear it.  Timing is everything in shining the light.  When we ask for help, directly or indirectly, in shining the light on our practice, we are much more likely to be able to hear it.  It is more difficult to take in when someone offers criticism to us unexpectedly. Hearing something inconsistent with our view of ourselves when we aren’t ready for it may cause our nervous systems to over-react, making it difficult for our brains to process what we are hearing.  When we are open and ready to hear it, we are more likely to be able to use that information to help us grow.

Even if we are ready to hear about our blind spots, if the information is shared with us in a negative, abusive, or dismissive way, we can also become triggered and unable to process what we are hearing.  It is almost always more effective if information is given in a caring, compassionate way so that the receiver can truly hear the intended message. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always happen so nicely.

In our daily lives we can practice being open to random acts of shining the light from others – friends, teachers, children – even if it feels shocking or painful at first.  If the information comes in a jarring way, we can settle ourselves down by caring for our strong feelings with a lot of self compassion and care.  If we heard something that doesn’t jive with our own beliefs about ourselves, we can turn inward and see whether there is any truth to what we have heard.  In my case, I asked myself: Is there any way in which I believe I am more enlightened or push my agenda on others?  Do I really try to neutralize other’s experiences by co-oping them into my own?  And yes, I can see where I have behaved in all these ways at different times.

When we hear difficult things about ourselves, we can ask the person shining the light to offer specific examples of our behavior.  Examples will help us learn how our conditioning creates actions that may not be aligned with our intentions.  If, after much reflection, we still don’t see any truth in what we heard, then we simply let it go.  Even if we don’t see that this is something we do, we might at least recognize that this one person had this perception of us, and we might learn something about the other person or our relationship with them as a result.

One of the most important parts of this practice is to see that all of those parts of us – in my case the part that acts more-enlightened than-thou, the part that pushes my agenda on others, and the part that co-opts others’ experiences – are all important and worthwhile.  They are each there to help me meet a universal need, although I may not always be skilled in knowing the best actions to get my needs met.  For example, the part of me that tried to connect my classmates’ experiences to my own was trying to fit in and belong in a group where I felt like an outsider much of the time.  Once I could see that, I realized that particular strategy actually wasn’t the best way to get my need for belonging met, so I could try to meet that need another way.

This is the gift of shining the light - it directs us closer and closer to living in ways that reduce suffering in ourselves and in others.  And we clearly need each other to help us do that.

 

with love, annie
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