From Khengsiong
at Goodwill 101
I was meditating with a group of people. Someone walked in, making quite a bit of noise. I lost my focus, and was irritated. "This is disturbing! Who's this guy?" I thought.
Then, I recalled something I read many years ago: Do not torture yourself for the wrongdoings of others.
Yes, that is right! Why should I torture myself? Quietly, I told myself to forgive that person and re-focused on my brea
Monday, January 7, 2008
Saturday, January 5, 2008
A Wounded Heart
Here's another beautiful GWIS from Bill Harryman at Integral Options Cafe. We have his permission to republish it here:
Opening a Wounded Heart
About two and half years ago, I received a card in the mail from an ex-girlfriend, the first woman I had ever really loved. We had spent six intense and challenging years together beginning in college -- when I was 23 and she was 19. At the time the card came, I wasn't prepared to open my heart to that period of my life, the pain seemed to intense to welcome back into my consciousness. I blogged about it at the time.
Even then, after all the time that had passed, I still blamed her for hurting me and couldn't really accept that she probably wasn't the same person she was when we were together (just as I am not the same person, either). Even more, however, I blamed myself for all the ways I hurt her and broke her young and tender heart.
But blame is destructive. Neither of us intended to hurt the other. We were young, wounded, and simply did the best we could at the time -- and no matter how much we wish it otherwise, it happened. It can't be undone. And there was nothing, in retrospect, that we could have done differently.
Looking back now, I think the experience, as painful and filled with regrets as it was, propelled each of us to become better, healthier people. This is one of those dharma gifts that comes wrapped in shit. So often in life, the painful experiences are the ones that help us grow, that force us beneath the wounding to discover the true compassionate nature of who we are -- if we are willing to face the pain.
Last week, I decided to reconnect with her, initially just to request a poetry submission for Elegant Thorn Review. She recently completed her master's degree in writing and has had a chapbook published. One of the things we shared was poetry, and I always knew she would become a successful poet.
Sometimes we make a choice without quite knowing what will come of it. She isn't the young woman I knew -- but it turns out that she is the adult woman I always thought she might become. Maybe being married has helped her find her way, or maybe she did it through her poetry, which like mine, is always a mirror to the content of her psyche. However she found her way, I'm so glad that she is happy.
Even in the brief exchange of emails we've had, the decision to contact her has opened a deep well of grief. I didn't expect that. I thought that I had moved through those feelings in therapy a few years ago. But still the waves wash over me. What has changed, though, is that I don't feel the need to escape them -- I can sit here in the surf and let the feelings come and go with whatever natural rhythm dictates these things.
Sitting with grief has always been hard for me, but the more I do so, the more I can literally feel my heart soften, open, return to its tender nature. I didn't expect this gift to come out my decision to know her again.
Opening a Wounded Heart
About two and half years ago, I received a card in the mail from an ex-girlfriend, the first woman I had ever really loved. We had spent six intense and challenging years together beginning in college -- when I was 23 and she was 19. At the time the card came, I wasn't prepared to open my heart to that period of my life, the pain seemed to intense to welcome back into my consciousness. I blogged about it at the time.
Even then, after all the time that had passed, I still blamed her for hurting me and couldn't really accept that she probably wasn't the same person she was when we were together (just as I am not the same person, either). Even more, however, I blamed myself for all the ways I hurt her and broke her young and tender heart.
But blame is destructive. Neither of us intended to hurt the other. We were young, wounded, and simply did the best we could at the time -- and no matter how much we wish it otherwise, it happened. It can't be undone. And there was nothing, in retrospect, that we could have done differently.
Looking back now, I think the experience, as painful and filled with regrets as it was, propelled each of us to become better, healthier people. This is one of those dharma gifts that comes wrapped in shit. So often in life, the painful experiences are the ones that help us grow, that force us beneath the wounding to discover the true compassionate nature of who we are -- if we are willing to face the pain.
Last week, I decided to reconnect with her, initially just to request a poetry submission for Elegant Thorn Review. She recently completed her master's degree in writing and has had a chapbook published. One of the things we shared was poetry, and I always knew she would become a successful poet.
Sometimes we make a choice without quite knowing what will come of it. She isn't the young woman I knew -- but it turns out that she is the adult woman I always thought she might become. Maybe being married has helped her find her way, or maybe she did it through her poetry, which like mine, is always a mirror to the content of her psyche. However she found her way, I'm so glad that she is happy.
Even in the brief exchange of emails we've had, the decision to contact her has opened a deep well of grief. I didn't expect that. I thought that I had moved through those feelings in therapy a few years ago. But still the waves wash over me. What has changed, though, is that I don't feel the need to escape them -- I can sit here in the surf and let the feelings come and go with whatever natural rhythm dictates these things.
Sitting with grief has always been hard for me, but the more I do so, the more I can literally feel my heart soften, open, return to its tender nature. I didn't expect this gift to come out my decision to know her again.
Harry
From Lindsey
Lindsey in Lawrence
My hamster Harry died this evening.
Yes I know, rodents die. However, you have to understand that the only pet I've ever lost was my schnauzer Bridget and we had to put her down shortly before her 16th birthday (though I was convinced she was going to live forever).
Harry took ill a few days ago, and thanks to some extensive Googling by my boyfriend Mark, we realized he must have contracted a strain of e. coli from the broccoli he enjoyed so very very much. By the time we realized what was going on it was really too late to do anything. His death wasn't particularly pretty for either of us, as I helplessly watched him get sicker and sicker and finally succumb to the illness this evening.
It's so hard for me to watch any living being suffer, yet alone my first hamster that was a birthday present from Mark. Perhaps what is plaguing me the most about this situation is that I gave him the broccoli that wound up making him so sick. As a pet owner I was responsible for his health and well-being and I feel like I failed.
As I was cleaning out his cage, crying and bleaching the hell out of anything he could have possibly come in contact with, I realized how poorly I was dealing with the perfect example of impermanence that had been presented to me. I'm not a stranger to change- moving all through my childhood, transferring colleges, moving to Lawrence, starting grad school…etc….but my life has been blissfully untouched by death.
My "gift wrapped in shit" (or in this case wrapped in a dead hamster) is twofold. First, Harry's death has reminded me of the impermanence of life, of everything. I'm going to get old and one-day die, and the same is going to happen to my loved ones. What is important is living fully in every moment, eating every piece of delicious broccoli mindfully, loving to my full capacity.
Secondly, I need to realize that what I think is "good" or "right" for an individual might not actually be in their best interest. My intention was not to kill Harry with the broccoli, but rather to try and make things a little happier for an adorable little rodent. In this case what I thought was so good turned out to be the exact opposite. I need to approach the people (and animals) in my life with deeper understanding and compassion instead of simply seeking to make them happy in the short term.
Who knew a hamster could teach me so much?
Lindsey in Lawrence
My hamster Harry died this evening.
Yes I know, rodents die. However, you have to understand that the only pet I've ever lost was my schnauzer Bridget and we had to put her down shortly before her 16th birthday (though I was convinced she was going to live forever).
Harry took ill a few days ago, and thanks to some extensive Googling by my boyfriend Mark, we realized he must have contracted a strain of e. coli from the broccoli he enjoyed so very very much. By the time we realized what was going on it was really too late to do anything. His death wasn't particularly pretty for either of us, as I helplessly watched him get sicker and sicker and finally succumb to the illness this evening.
It's so hard for me to watch any living being suffer, yet alone my first hamster that was a birthday present from Mark. Perhaps what is plaguing me the most about this situation is that I gave him the broccoli that wound up making him so sick. As a pet owner I was responsible for his health and well-being and I feel like I failed.
As I was cleaning out his cage, crying and bleaching the hell out of anything he could have possibly come in contact with, I realized how poorly I was dealing with the perfect example of impermanence that had been presented to me. I'm not a stranger to change- moving all through my childhood, transferring colleges, moving to Lawrence, starting grad school…etc….but my life has been blissfully untouched by death.
My "gift wrapped in shit" (or in this case wrapped in a dead hamster) is twofold. First, Harry's death has reminded me of the impermanence of life, of everything. I'm going to get old and one-day die, and the same is going to happen to my loved ones. What is important is living fully in every moment, eating every piece of delicious broccoli mindfully, loving to my full capacity.
Secondly, I need to realize that what I think is "good" or "right" for an individual might not actually be in their best interest. My intention was not to kill Harry with the broccoli, but rather to try and make things a little happier for an adorable little rodent. In this case what I thought was so good turned out to be the exact opposite. I need to approach the people (and animals) in my life with deeper understanding and compassion instead of simply seeking to make them happy in the short term.
Who knew a hamster could teach me so much?
Friday, January 4, 2008
A Gift from Illness
From William Harryman
Integral Options Cafe
Back in 2002, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Uterine cancer. Ninety percent fatal. She was 72 years old, tired, and ready to rest. She didn't want to fight it.
After I was about the age of five, she and I had not been close. She was the person who cooked, cleaned, and did laundry. Little more. For a variety of complicated reasons, I never expected anything more than that. She was my "mother," but I never really thought of her as a "real" person. The same way many children and parents never see each other as who they really are, but as the roles they play in the family dynamic.
I called her many times while she was in the hospital, since I was unable to get to where she lived. My partner at the time, Kira, also spoke with her. Somehow, during these conversations, she decided to live. And she did. The cancer was removed, the chemo and radiation worked, and she went into remission.
The realization of her impending death changed how I looked at her. I saw her as a person for the first time in my life, weird as that may sound. I thought about how she had become the person she was, the strength she must have needed to survive the life she experienced, the ways she had loved me when I didn't in any way deserve it.
She had three more years before the cancer returned and claimed her life in 2005. During that time I was gifted with the opportunity to know her, really know her, for the first time in my life. I can't imagine a better gift. Finally getting to know her changed me in profound ways. It's too bad that for so many of us, it takes a crisis to see things as they really are.
Integral Options Cafe
Back in 2002, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Uterine cancer. Ninety percent fatal. She was 72 years old, tired, and ready to rest. She didn't want to fight it.
After I was about the age of five, she and I had not been close. She was the person who cooked, cleaned, and did laundry. Little more. For a variety of complicated reasons, I never expected anything more than that. She was my "mother," but I never really thought of her as a "real" person. The same way many children and parents never see each other as who they really are, but as the roles they play in the family dynamic.
I called her many times while she was in the hospital, since I was unable to get to where she lived. My partner at the time, Kira, also spoke with her. Somehow, during these conversations, she decided to live. And she did. The cancer was removed, the chemo and radiation worked, and she went into remission.
The realization of her impending death changed how I looked at her. I saw her as a person for the first time in my life, weird as that may sound. I thought about how she had become the person she was, the strength she must have needed to survive the life she experienced, the ways she had loved me when I didn't in any way deserve it.
She had three more years before the cancer returned and claimed her life in 2005. During that time I was gifted with the opportunity to know her, really know her, for the first time in my life. I can't imagine a better gift. Finally getting to know her changed me in profound ways. It's too bad that for so many of us, it takes a crisis to see things as they really are.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Over Christmas, my ISP flaked. For one whole day, no access to the Web! No blogging! No email! Disaster! PANIC...!Ah, but...the gift: time NOT to write. Time to reflect. And the gift, via reflection: the understanding that I don't HAVE to write. The world doesn't end if I don't. I survive...
photo credit
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Fear
With thanks to Khengsiong at Goodwill101
I was overwhelmed with anxiety and depression when I heard the dreaded "C" word – my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer.
I realized that, even after years of meditation, I still couldn’t cope with fear, the fear of losing my loved ones.
It also shows that the practice of meditation alone is insufficient. We still need to have Right Understanding, the understanding of anicca (impermanence) and dukkha (unsatisfactory).
Fortunately, my mom was diagnosed at the early stage of cancer, and she is recovering after undergoing a surgery to remove the tumor.
I was overwhelmed with anxiety and depression when I heard the dreaded "C" word – my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer.
I realized that, even after years of meditation, I still couldn’t cope with fear, the fear of losing my loved ones.
It also shows that the practice of meditation alone is insufficient. We still need to have Right Understanding, the understanding of anicca (impermanence) and dukkha (unsatisfactory).
Fortunately, my mom was diagnosed at the early stage of cancer, and she is recovering after undergoing a surgery to remove the tumor.
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