The Stories We Tell

For R

I was talking to a friend yesterday. She was psychologically and financially abused by her husband, and is currently separated. For a long time she suffered from depression.

“He abused me, attacked me, defeated me, robbed me. For those carrying on like this, hatred does not end. She abused me, attacked me, defeated me, robbed me. For those not carrying on like this, hatred ends. Hatred never ends through hatred. By non-hate alone does it end. This is an ancient truth.”
(The Dhammapada)

She used to tell herself stories where she was a victim. She used to live in hell, until she began to see her obstacles as a path to freedom.

I tell myself similar stories. She left me. He hasn’t forgiven me. They don’t understand me. I’m not good enough. I’ve suffered several spiritual heart attacks. I’ve locked myself up and refused to acknowledge that the key was never held by anyone else.

One of my patients is in her 70’s, but you would never know this by her appearance and demeanor. I asked her, “What’s your secret?” She looked at me with a vision unclouded by delusion and smiled. “Honey, I’ve made space for everyone, including myself.”

In that moment, I understood the meaning of heaven.

Heaven is not just a sunny day, a cherished gift received from a friend or relative, an orgasm. It is the distance we stretch our hearts to include everyone and everything in our daily experience. It is a river opening her arms to hug a boulder, thanking him for his teachings, and flowing on. It is the stories of our healing, where love is not something we buy from others, but learn to grow ourselves.

A Letter to Truth

Dear Truth,

You have unveiled me. I see that fear and trust are two sides of the same coin. In a world of daggers, petals are also possible. I cannot contain my bliss any longer.

Let me open to the world. Let my own suffering be a story, an ear to receive their stories, a space for their emotions and thoughts to travel far and wide as they must to find you.

Let me love them as you have loved me.

Buddha Nature

In nature, there is no heaven or hell.

The tree does not complain about losing her leaves in order to carry snow in her bare arms. The flower does not bend toward the lake to reflect on her beauty, or stand taller than the other flowers to be noticed by the sun.

In nature, there is simple understanding.

Blossom

Learning to bloom again. Is it spring or my heart that is opening?

Life just seems to continue revealing such wondrous gifts when I am open to all possibilities. I am currently in the process of starting a mindfulness support group at my workplace for mothers who struggle postpartum. This group is born out of my own womb, my own experience with my beautiful daughter. I did not always see her this way, but this babe is truly sacred. She swam in the Amniotic Sea of my womb for 9 plus months, and was first a shark who threatened to devour me whole. Now, after 2 and 1/2 years of being with her, she is a little mermaid with her own ocean of secrets and hidden wisdom she slowly reveals through laughter and tears.

I may also be part of a small meditational writing group, which I know will ultimately help me dive into those dark places I have previously been too terrified to explore. I feel extremely blessed to be able to give and receive in this world.

Learning to bloom again. Is it spring or my heart that is opening?

Someone is Dying

Someone is dying.

That someone is me.

Not a 6 month to one year prognosis from a terminal illness, but a letting go of all I have ever known.

I used to believe that fear would save me. Worry just enough, and maybe even sprinkle just a little extra anxiety to convince myself I can control future events.

I know nothing. Except for this moment. Beginner’s Mind, my mind is like an empty page. The words cannot be written, the colors cannot be painted until the moment arrives.

And when it does, I will know who to be, what to say, what to do. I am on the right path. I wish to let go of all my preconceived notions of what will happen. The only thing I wish to hold onto is trust in this practice.

Good bye old mind. I do not hate you. I do not wish for you to die sooner than you must. You brought me here. I will collect ashes from your pyre, let them scatter with the wind and float on the river.

You will join the earth, as I am born again.

Going Deeper

I.

i am not sitting at the edge
of a cliff, but sliding into this world
where dead birds are as beautiful
as sunsets, the passing of moments
of life, each kaleidoscope turn
glass beings circling one another
forsaking or embracing the design
and i am the space between them
making the connections

II.

give me my daughter’s fear
give me my husband’s anger
give me my sadness
i may lose hair
i may lose sleep
but i am a river
meeting their turbulent edges
vibrations transmitted to the deepest
part of me, my family trembling
‘please make it stop’
and i meet them again
with love for their pain
and space for my own heart
to be cut and washed again
the edges no longer sharp
but soft with understanding

Stillness Evolution

in this breath
there is no tomorrow
no trapping of seconds,

minutes, hours, or days
in muscle tension
but a river of blood

from head to toe
oxygen flowing freely
no dam to obstruct

its natural rhythm
like rain to leaves
to trunk to roots

a tree growing blossoms
or losing leaves
breathing acceptance

Rain

Rain can be a sudden inconvenience – a ruined hairdo or wet clothes. It can also be one of life’s gifts, washing away the dirt that distorts our perceptions.

A few days ago, my family attended the wedding and reception of my husband’s high school friend. A sudden loud noise through the speakers both at the wedding and reception frightened our 2.5 year old daughter. She released her fear in monsoon wails, “Home, home! Go HOME!”

A similar thing occurred at my cousin’s wedding a few weeks ago. At that time, her tears had overwhelmed me, drowned me in dissatisfaction. I was not going to be able to dance or enjoy my cousin’s wedding.

A similar weight of displeasure began to burden my mind and body as I watched by daughter cry in my husband’s arms at the second wedding. I would not be able to take part in the karaoke fun.

But something happened.

I realized I was inside myself, and I was dry. I was not drowning in my daughter’s tears. I was swimming in them. I was holding a little girl (my own inner child) who had been raised to stifle emotions, to leave them as quickly as possible in search of fairer weather, of happiness. The rain had cracked my own heart open, and I was grateful for my daughter’s fear bathing us both in this healing moment.

My husband and I decided to leave the reception for our daughter. I know now more than ever that this child will learn to embrace everything, both joy and pain in equal measure.

Sometimes we will be dry. Sometimes we will not be able to find shelter from the deluge of our overwhelming emotions. Sometimes our children will bring rain, and we will heal together.