Hello, Goodbye

“Good morning!” the young man said to me as I rubbed my eyes and made my way around Paddington Station. He obviously worked there. I was caught off guard by his warm greeting. I was also slightly embarrassed. I must have looked quite sleepy.

I had just returned from five days in the English countryside, walking 8 to 9 miles every day. Readjusting to the frenetic energy of London, especially the day after the horrific terrorist attack on London Bridge, was difficult and jarring. I had barely scratched the surface of this mysterious city and already I was going home.

***

Trying to go to sleep, I kept hearing the birds chirping. But I couldn’t tell if they were actually chirping or if it was only in my mind. I had heard the birds - so many of them - chirping all day, every day on my walks throughout South West Devon. I suspected they had made an impression on me. Or, there were just a hell of a lot of birds chirping in the middle of the night for no reason at all.

Despite being physically exhausted every evening, walking extensively each day activated my mind and I found it difficult to fall asleep. There was so much to take in, on top of navigating the trails and roads so that I didn’t get too lost. Out in the open, the air was filled with the smell of wet hay and cow pastures. In the woods, wild garlic intermingled with the sweet fragrance of unknown flowers. My boots got caked in mud and sand. Stinging nettle taunted me on almost every foot path and though I did my best to avoid it, I ended up getting stung anyway while pressing myself up against a tall hedge to let a car pass.

I went from village to village but most of my time was spent out in the elements on my own. I had a lot of time to think. Questions kept popping up in my mind. Do I spend too much time alone? Do other women do stuff like this? I felt privileged to be able to do all of this exploring. I did feel lonely at times. Who wouldn’t? But I loved navigating alone. It felt very rewarding. There are some advantages to being a single woman alone. People are generally not threatened by you and they are more trusting. They also seem to enjoy helping.

***

In my London hotel room I had to force myself to turn the tv off. Watching the news was not helping. I walked out onto the busy streets and made my way to Marcs & Spencer to buy tea and biscuits to take back home. There was a scuffle. Someone yelled. Someone was accused of stealing items from someone else’s basket. The cashiers were amazed. I walked outside and gave change to a young homeless woman. I gave away all of my change, to any homeless person I came across. I had dinner in a small cafe overlooking the canal in Little Venice and treated myself to a glass of Prosecco to honor my last day in England.

I walked and walked until my eyes could no longer withstand the dust being blown into them on each corner. On the way back to the hotel, I walked by the famous Abbey Road Studios and came across the words, “All you need is love” scribbled on the wall and I felt strange. I walked by a large sign lit up to warn drivers that London Bridge was closed off. I noticed a post office and remembered that I wanted to send some postcards.

Finally seeing the hotel in front of me, I thought about going home the next day. My mind lingered on the word home.

***

I booked this trip to England as a birthday present to myself. I figured turning 40 merited a short overseas adventure. Something I haven’t done in years. The surprise and pain of the terrorist attack shook me. It wasn’t how I imagined my trip to England ending. The subsequent resilience I witnessed in London, though, filled me with awe and respect. If there were anything I could possibly contribute to America right now, it I wish it could be that.

(What I'm listening to right now: The Beatles - Hello, Goodbye, because, yes. Soundtrack of my childhood right here people!)

Muddy Boots

I almost always leave Green Gulch Farm with a tug in my heart. As I make my way out and up the long dirt road to Highway 1 the usual thought arises: I don’t want to leave.

I’m reluctant to get too sentimental about Green Gulch, though. After all, I don’t live there. I am keenly aware that living there and visiting are two vastly different experiences. Green Gulch is an intentional community. I’ve been living on my own for the past ten years with my lovely little cat and my own washer and dryer (seriously, having my own washer and dryer is just…a blessing. I do not take this lightly.).

In trying to explain my affinity for the place, I recently told a friend of mine that the land there speaks to me. I was kind of embarrassed to admit this. Even saying it out loud felt strange. But it’s true, despite my not really understanding it. When I step onto the pedestrian path and begin my descent into the heart of Green Gulch, the eucalyptus trees, the flowers, the redwoods, all the little grasses and the insects and the birds and the wind, rise up to greet me with an unspoken language. It is a silent expression of welcoming and belonging that I still can’t quite bring myself to fully believe, though I feel it overwhelmingly each time I’m there.

On my way into San Francisco recently, I found myself standing on MUNI, looking down at other people’s shoes. They were nice. I mean, they were spotless and expertly coordinated with their outfits and everything. And then I looked down at my own shoes: heel-worn, black booties still caked with dirt and mud from traipsing around Green Gulch almost every weekend. At first I felt a flush of embarrassment. Why oh why hadn’t I made time to clean my shoes?? But then, I thought, no, this is perfect. This is my life right now. I’ll take it.

(What I'm listening to: Alicia Keys - The Gospel.)
(What I'm reading: The Nature Fix by Florence Williams. Highly recommend!)

When I go running

“Hello. You’re a pretty lady! You should be careful walking out here all by yourself. Someone might want to kidnap you,” he said as he rode past me on his bicycle.

My first thought was, “What the fuck?”

My second thought was, “I need to write about this.”

I’m very particular about when and where I go running. I never go running at night. When I see a group of men ahead of me on the trail hanging out, I don’t walk, I run or jog past them. I often wear sunglasses and though I actually like to look people in the eye, I make an extra effort not to do this when I’m out, in order to avoid any misinterpretation of my intentions.

I do all of this. On a trail where I feel “safe.” To have some asshole tell me to be careful is laughable and infuriating. As if, despite all the things I already do to protect myself, I would be to blame should someone decide to “kidnap me.”

Running and walking and being outside are when I feel the most free. When I’m out for a run, it’s not uncommon for me to breathe a sigh of relief as I enjoy the wind and the sun on my face. Being by the water, smiling at people’s dogs and dodging little children playing on the trail are all part of the experience of running (and walking) that I find so enjoyable.

Which is why this man’s comment stunned me. And then angered me.

For most women, this kind of situation is shocking but not surprising. I would argue that most women live with and tolerate some kind of violence on a daily basis. At the very least, women live with and are aware of the potential for violence towards their bodies every single day, even if they haven’t consciously acknowledged it. And most women are keenly aware of the harm that could come to them at any moment, even while carrying out the most mundane activities like putting groceries in their car or simply waiting at a bus stop.

So, what to do? Get back into martial arts? Adopt a large dog? Start carrying mace? Run down the street and wave my hands in the air like a crazy person?

Those things might be appropriate, but what I really want to do is educate and make people, especially men, aware of women’s experiences. But not even just aware, I am asking for men (and the women who choose to remain in denial) to really listen to women when they say they feel harassed or when they say they feel unsafe or when they confess that they’ve been abused or assaulted.

Listen to them. Believe them. Because, WOMEN ARE NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP.

I do not plan on stopping running anytime soon. I’ll be damned if some man’s comment is going to stop me from doing what I love, in a public space where I have every right to be and feel safe.

Things do not have to be this way. Let’s change this.

(What I'm listening to right now: Work by Charlotte Day Wilson)

A Short Break From Polemics

I met Václav Havel at a nightclub in Washington, DC. Former Secretary of State, Madeleine Albright was there, too. They were simply hoping to enjoy the music of the Czech band, Plastic People of the Universe, but a small line had begun forming at the edge of their table. A line of people wishing to say hello and receive an autograph.

My friend Suzy and I waited in that line. I don’t remember for how long. But when it was finally my turn to greet them, my mind went blank. After a moment of just smiling and staring at Václav Havel (pronounced Vaht-slav), I managed to say thank you and thrust a copy of an article he wrote on the human rights situation in Cuba in front of him. He looked at it and Madeleine Albright confirmed in Czech, what he recognized as his own words translated into English. He signed it almost buoyantly and handed it back to me with a smile. I want to believe we shook hands, but I don’t actually remember if that happened.

I hadn’t intended to write about this. When I sat down, my intention was to write something heartfelt about our current political situation. Something that would address the anger and chaos. Something that would soothe the wounds currently being ripped open. Something that would awaken people to the love within them, goddammit.

I know. What was I thinking? No pressure or anything, dear self.

To this day, I don’t know why I became so drawn to Czech dissidents, like Václav Havel. Maybe it was because they asked questions I’d never heard anyone ask before (hello, Phenomenology). Or because their literature was like no other literature I’d ever read. And a lot of them went to jail for what they wrote. To jail. For writing. I was impressed. And moved.

So maybe it’s appropriate that rather than a lofty blog post, which would probably have just driven me nuts (and possibly you) anyway, Václav Havel came tumbling out of my memories today instead. Reminding me that the simple (but not always easy) acts of writing and asking questions are powerful and necessary. Asking questions, being the most essential, I think.

Keep asking questions. For the love all that is holy. For the love of humanity. For all of us.

“Foreigners are sometimes amazed at the suffering that we are willing to undergo here, and at the same time they are amazed at the things we are still able to laugh at. It’s difficult to explain, but without the laughter we would simply be unable to do the serious things.”

Václav Havel, Disturbing the Peace

(What I'm listening to right now: The Avalanches - Because I'm Me)

Into the Green Dragon

When a friend of mine loaned me a book about gardening at Green Gulch Farm Zen Center, I thought it would be interesting. I had no idea I would fall in love with it nor that it would spark such a fiery curiosity in me.

Let me be clear: I am no gardener. I have killed more plants than I’d like to admit. I’ve killed rosemary (rosemary) and even succulents (!). And although I grew up in the country, the wheat fields next to our house were tended by farmers who knew what they were doing. I had no clue (or interest).

But something has been gently shifting in me. I look at soil differently. I hug trees (my mom laughed recently as I hugged the three large cottonwoods in her backyard - which I affectionately refer to as The Three Sisters). I have successfully brought back to life an Autumn Joy, a Japanese Anemone and a small palm after nearly killing them out of sheer ignorance.

When it comes to plants and trees, I am like a child again. Wide-eyed and in awe of the growth around me that I’ve known so little about.

One of my fondest memories of the past year was planting a small tree in the rain back in April. I was feeling quiet and somber and digging my hands into the dirt felt satisfyingly gritty and nourishing. Far from separating me from earthly things (as some might mistakenly assume), my meditation practice seems to have flung me head (& hands & heart) first into the ground. In a very good way.

Some of my favorite things from 2016:

Favorite music: Novo Amour, Austin Basham, Odesza
Favorite song: Novo Amour - Anchor
Favorite video: The Chemical Brothers - Wide Open (feat Beck)
Favorite movie: Arrival
Favorite nonprofits: New York Peace Institute and YES Nature to Neighborhoods
Favorite book (memoir): Let’s Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson
Favorite nonfiction book: Gardening at the Dragon’s Gate by Wendy Johnson

What I'm listening to right now: DJ Shadow ft. Run The Jewels - Nobody Speak (be warned - this may press and offend your political buttons, but the very last scene...priceless. And pretty much sums up how I feel about this election year.)

In the Garden

I saw him out of the corner of my eye. A little boy, munching on the leaves of the nearby kale crop. Not wanting to alarm him but also hoping to entice him away from terrorizing the fields, I went up to him and asked him his name, how he liked Green Gulch and how his morning was going. He seemed to welcome the conversation and I breathed a sigh of relief as I managed to preserve both the fields and this child’s love of the garden.

I’ve been volunteering with the Youth & Family Program at Green Gulch Farm Zen Center for several months now. I was nervous at first. I mean, what do I know about kids? But there is something about seeing kids laughing and squirming in the meditation hall that delights me to no end. And seeing kids learning about gardening, as well as, their own hearts and minds, inspires me.

The first Sunday of November, we planted cover crop for the winter in the Children’s Garden, a small plot of land set aside just for kids. The kids LOVED it. They dug their hands into the inoculated seedy mix and threw them all over the soil in the way that only kids can. After Thanksgiving, I returned to see the cover crops bursting through their cloth covers and was thrilled. I hoped that some of the kids had also since returned and seen the progress of their messy fun.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that being around these kids didn’t tug at my own sense of loss at not having children. A few years ago, volunteering with children probably would have been too painful for me to bear. But these days, I find myself moving into a different phase of my life. And I find that I really want children to be a part of it, in fun and creative ways. It seems clear to me that children need community to help them grow. And now more than ever, I see a need for children to feel close to nature. Whether that means nibbling on a kale leaf straight from the field or throwing seeds in the tilled soil of a small garden.

We have a special closing chant to help kids develop a kinship with both the land and their own hearts. It comes straight from Zen Master Eihei Dogen, the founder of Soto Zen and author of some of the most brilliant but densest Zen texts in existence. This one, however, is pretty accessible, to both kids and parents alike (it seems to really touch the parents, but maybe that's just me). It goes something like this:

Body like the mountain.
Heart like the ocean.
Mind like the sky.

(What I'm watching right now: Why children's drawings matter)

Birthday

There’s nothing quite like being carded on the eve of your 39th birthday. The champagne on the counter stood at attention as I announced the year of my birth: 1977! I handed over my id to the cashier gleefully. She seemed only mildly amused and reminded me that I should live it up while I still can.

Thanks?

I’m not usually one to get hung up on age, but 39 feels…different. Definite. Definitely older. Older in a “yes, you really are an adult now” kind of way.

Am I an adult?

Hmmm…

Yes, but adults like me know that the word “adult” never actually turns out to mean what you thought it meant when you were, say, 20.  How do you even fathom being 39 when you are 20? You don’t. You just don’t. And why would you?

Lest I give the impression that I am unhappy about getting older, let me just say that I am more confident, more comfortable in my own skin, more assertive, more creative and more fulfilled than I ever was when I was younger. I could still use a little improvement, no doubt, but I have developed a compassion and warmth towards myself that I didn’t know existed.  The older I get the more I listen to my heart and the less I listen to fear.

I’m one incredibly lucky 39 year old.

(What I'm watching right now: Shandi Kano // Be Bold)

Nope

My birthday is coming up soon and I am feeling turtle-like. Words are not coming easily to me this week and it doesn’t seem right to subject you, dear reader, to a half-hearted post.

So, maybe instead of written words, I can share my actual voice with you (what?! yeah!!). Not too long ago I did an interview for a podcast run by my friend and colleague, Danielle Johnson-Vermenton. In it, I talk about setting boundaries, practicing mindfulness and becoming aware of your limitations. It was A LOT of fun. Perhaps you might find it helpful? Okay, here ya go:

The Power of ‘No’ at Work

Be well, friends.

(What I’m listening to right now, besides the podcast, of course: Michael Kiwanuka - Black Man In A White World)

Transitioning

Ever since the seven day meditation retreat I completed a week and half ago, I’ve felt quiet. Upon leaving, I did not rush to listen to music like I usually do. I did not rush to do much of anything.

Last Saturday, I attended the monthly day-long retreat at No Abode and discovered that I really, really did not want to sit in meditation. Lucky me, I ended up planting a Buckeye (the state tree of California!) with another practitioner for a good chunk of the afternoon. My feet got soaked in the wet grass and my hands were caked with dirt by the time we finished. I loved it. Though it was foggy and rainy, I reveled in being outside. During the official work period after lunch, several people had cut back an overgrown rosemary bush and the air was sweet with the smell of it.

Transitioning from the seven day retreat has been a little more difficult than I expected. The first couple of days back, I found myself flustered and easily frustrated. After making it through traffic last Monday evening, I arrived at my drawing class wide-eyed and frazzled. I even found myself forgetting people’s names, which really bothered me. Maybe needless to say, this retreat has left me feeling a bit raw.

So, I am taking my time and trying to honor this by being quiet, going outside and doing things like planting a tree, appreciating the smell of rosemary and listening to the rain. It almost feels like healing.

(What I'm listening to right now: Balmorhea in Shanghai)

Seven Days

The seven day meditation retreat I attended last week at Green Gulch Farm Zen Center was hard, but gentler than I expected. Which surprised me. And worried me - will other retreats (in zen, sesshins) be as gentle?

On the first day, there is orientation in the afternoon, a bountiful dinner and a short sit in the evening. Admonitions are recited and silence is requested for the remainder of the week. Insomnia cuts my sleep in half the first night.

The second day, which is the first full day, I find myself really resisting, which makes it more difficult. I feel clumsy and unsure of myself.

The third day, I awake to my alarm at 4:15am with a big “NOOOOOO” into my pillow. I get up anyway.

The fourth day, a dharma talk that cracks me open. Tears in zazen and the strong urge to run outside and throw up.

On the fifth day, I have dokusan (a private meeting with the teacher) and I begin to notice feelings of settling - into the schedule, my body and whatever is coming up.

On the sixth day, the early morning is so quiet that waves can be heard crashing onto Muir Beach in the distance. I experience worries about transitioning and leaving. There is strong discursive thought during zazen, but it is slower than usual. My knees have adjusted and while still painful, I find it is not unbearable.

Seventh day - a very settled feeling. Discursive thought continues but is like a chatty friend who says all the wrong things at all the wrong times, but means well. By the end of the day, my knees feel wobbly and I can’t tell if the floor is moving or if I am. My feet feel very sensitive. I can feel every floorboard when I walk and when I put my shoes on to leave the zendo, I feel the softness of the shoes and the ground beneath them. I find it a little difficult to walk but, again, not unbearable.

Eighth day. Leaving day. Excitement arises. And uncertainty. Discursive thought becomes a little concerned. How will things change? Will they change? I want to feel joy and connect with those around me once we’re finally able to talk to each other, but I feel a strong urge to be alone. I also don’t want to be asked what I do for a living or ask anyone what they do. I don’t want to measure anyone, but inevitably this comes up in conversation. I eat a few cookies and take a short walk outside.

On my walk, I encounter one of the wild turkeys who has decided to call Green Gulch home. I watch crows circle and chase each other in the sky. They are very large here. I caught one crow in particular watching me as I was walking back to my room one morning. I paused, took a step back and gazed back at him (her?) briefly before moving on. I watch a bee investigate a flower. I see a dragonfly. At one point, I reach out and touch a calla lily because I want to know what it feels like.

I will miss drying my hair in the sunshine, the hot salty showers and Earl Grey tea after lunch. Resting some days and exploring a little during others. Not doing. Only being.

There’s so much I’m leaving out. Writing about it helps me make sense of it, but it doesn’t even begin to touch the experience. There was no big breakdown or enlightenment experience (not that I expected one!). Only the steady hum of the schedule and the ebb and flow of thoughts and emotions. Lots of space and just enough time between sittings to rest but not too much.

(What I'm watching right now: From US Marine to Zen Monk)

Names

Last Saturday, I attended a talk at the San Francisco Zen Center, where the speaker talked about her experience attempting to use technology mindfully. Which was strangely appropriate as most of this week I have been attending the Nonprofit Technology Conference in San Jose and doing my best to do just that. Problem is, when I try to be mindful about technology, I feel like I'm not doing a good job of keeping up with everyone. I see tweets and posts about this and that seminar, encouraging words, funny photos, people connecting and I think, that's so great! But I also find it incredibly overwhelming. Maybe one day I will be better about posting and keeping up on social media. Until then... nonprofit tech peeps...know that I love you and appreciate you, even though I don't tweet about you.

I also remember the speaker at Zen Center talking about names, which I always find fascinating. What we choose to call ourselves and who and what we identify with. A name is a powerful thing. Or, it can be.

I recently attended afternoon meditation at the Berkeley Zen Center and was delighted to finally be sitting in the afternoon again. I think the last time I sat in the afternoon was when I was living in Austin, a year and a half ago.

Anyway, when I realized we were going to have a short service at the end of meditation, I got really excited. I used to feel so uncomfortable with ceremonies. Now, I absolutely love them. The doan (the person who strikes the bells) was just lovely and the kokyo (the person who leads the chants) did such a wonderful job. I remember the role of kokyo at Austin Zen Center well and remember my nerves and always wondering what my voice sounded like to other people. During one ceremony, years ago, I offered to say the name of a friend of a friend who had died on that day years before (the evening ceremony at zen centers often involves saying aloud the names of people who are ill, struggling or in some cases, deceased, as a way of honoring them and offering well wishes). I didn't even know this person, but I knew how much she meant to my friend. When it came time to say her name, my voice stopped. I couldn't get her name out and my heart started pounding. Something about saying her name felt powerful and I felt overcome with sadness. After a few moments of silence and me struggling to compose myself, I managed to say her name and close the ceremony.

Afterwards, people consoled me and I felt embarrassed. I tried to explain that I didn't know her and couldn't understand my own reaction.

What's in a name? So much.

(What I'm listening to right now: Georgia by Vance Joy)

Thoughts about thoughts

It rained all day during the March day-long retreat at No Abode. We had no work period because it was so windy and wet. All day we heard the rain fall flat and heavy on the roof. It was quite lovely.

I had a busy mind, like usual, and I kept asking myself, is this okay? Am I okay? Seeing myself drift from thoughts to awareness to thoughts again, I wondered if that was okay.

It's hard to change the internal conversation. I think maybe everyone knows this and experiences this. Transforming karma is a slow process. Maybe it has to be. Gentleness and kindness cannot be forced. Maybe only given and received, over and over again.

(What I'm listening to right now: I Will For Love by Rudimental)

Perfuctionism

I hesitated.

“Don’t hesitate,” my Drawing teacher said.

I grabbed my pencil and started making lines on the paper, unsure of myself, but doing it anyway. Eventually, the lines started to make shapes and before I knew it, I had the beginnings of a drawing. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

I’ve been wrestling with perfectionism a lot lately.

“Feck perfuction!” the designer, James Victore, says.

It's what keeps me from saying what I really want to say. It's what stifles my creativity and makes me hesitate. It’s what keeps me from drawing, from taking that photograph, from writing that poem, reaching out, speaking up, making one beautiful mistake after another.

I have been amassing “Perfection Coins,” as Rachel Cole so elegantly puts it.

“You should be erasing as much as you are drawing,” my Drawing teacher says to us.

Here’s to erasing a lot of lines. And making new ones.

(What I'm listening to right now: Empty Threat by Chvrches)

Tassajara

In a few months, I’m heading back to Tassajara Zen Monastery for a few days. “Why?” I keep asking myself. “Why, why, why?!”

It is not an easy place for me to be. The first time I visited back in 2010, I couldn’t wait to leave. But, despite this, I decided to go back last year for a short hiking trip to celebrate my birthday. It had been a few years and I felt I had matured some and maybe it wasn’t as bad as I remembered…

As soon as I stepped through the gate, I knew I was in for it.

There is something about Tassajara that leaves me feeling raw and exposed. It is not a pleasant feeling. But I was buoyed by the realization that I would be outside hiking for most of my stay. In all my worry, I did not anticipate how much fun the hiking would be. Or how much I would enjoy the people. Or how fabulous my roommate would be. Or how grateful I would feel for our gentle and fearless leader in the wilderness, Steve Harper.

So. This year. Another trip. This time for poetry. The thought of which fills me with both anxiety and excitement. What will I write about? Do I still have it in me? What will my roommate be like? What effect will Tassajara have on me this year?

Ah, delicious worries...

Cabins

The garden and yurt

Steve Harper

(What I'm listening to right now: Ophelia by The Lumineers)

The ocean

The ocean. The Pacific Ocean, to be specific. As someone who grew up surrounded by wheat fields and cow pastures, the ocean feels like an entirely different planet.

Not that I have anything against wheat fields and cow pastures. Wheat, if I do say so myself, is the best kind of field to get lost in. Especially when the wheat is young and dark green and you can poke your sister in the arm with the prickly edges.

Don’t even get me started on cows. They are the sweetest creatures you’ll ever meet, with unique and often times quirky personalities.

But back to the ocean. It’s New Years Eve. I’m at Green Gulch Farm Zen Center, meditating with 50 or more other people. During the break between sits, we head into the garden and place tea lights, set in glass votives and colored paper, around the tree in the center. It’s cold - I can see my breath. I look up at the stars and I hear something. It’s the ocean, I realize. In the distance, waves are crashing onto Muir Beach. Though it feels absurd, considering I grew up in Texas, it reminds me of home. The silence, the stars, the fields nearby.

The ocean, though. That is different. It is larger and more powerful than my nostalgia and it is fierce. Fierce! I like this fierceness. Like being on another planet. Home and not home.  

(What I'm listening to right now: It’s Only by Odesza)

On forgetting

Each time my Drawing teacher assigns us a “task” I immediately think, “how am I going to do that?!” But somehow, I figure it out. I noticed something similar in my yoga class recently. I was trying to move into a modified hand stand and I was convinced I couldn’t straighten my legs. I even said, “I can’t!” At which point my yoga teacher came over and gently straightened my legs. I then laughed at myself and thought, “okay, maybe I can!”

When I taught meditation in Austin, I would frequently tell students, “you are not your thoughts.” The first time someone said this to me, I was stunned. It hadn’t really occurred to me that I might have a choice - whether or not to identify with the thoughts in my head. After years of meditation and witnessing all of the mundane, crazy, funny, absurd, boring, aggressive, and ridiculous thoughts that have gone in and out of my head, it is quite clear to me that I am not defined by my thoughts. Or at the very least, I don’t have to be.

But, it’s funny. Even after years of meditation, I forget this. Fortunately, I have teachers in my life who kindly and gently remind me.

(What I’m listening to right now: Novo Amor - Anchor)

Drawing

I recently started a drawing class at the California College of the Arts (yay!). Here are 10 things I've learned so far:

1. Charcoal gets everywhere.
2. Be honest and admit when you don't know something.
3. It's fun being on a college campus again.
4. Drawing makes me feel young.
5. Never center.
6. Go off the page.
7. Don't give it all away.
8. Be patient. Especially with yourself.
9. Don't worry about what other people are drawing.
10. Charcoal. Charcoal everywhere.

(What I'm loving right now: Black Cat Tips (I want a biscuit house, too!))

Awakened Writing

“As I write I create myself again and again.” - Joy Harjo

At first, I was curious what all the whispering and smiling was about. Then, I felt my blood run cold as the leaders of the writing workshop I was attending turned and asked each of us to say our name and then the phrase, “and I’m a great writer!”

Oh boy.

I had signed up for a writing workshop at the San Francisco Zen Center where the lovely Ivory Madison and Do-On Robert Thomas were guiding and supporting a group of us through meditation, discussion and silent writing. The room swelled with an immense amount of love for the art of writing and an acute appreciation for the psychological torture we writers and scribblers put ourselves through (man, do we ever - at least I wasn’t alone!).

As the workshop progressed I could feel my initial self-consciousness gently subsiding. So much that has held me back from writing has been my own self-censorship. Somehow in this workshop this was being unlocked as I gave myself permission to make mistakes and write whatever the hell I wanted. Sounds so easy, I know, but self-acceptance can be a slow process, let me tell you…

What I learned: there are three steps to writing anything.

1) Write. That’s it. Start writing and do nothing else for a specific amount of time (like 30 minutes or an hour). Do not reread what you are writing and do not edit one single word. Just write, write, write.

2) Edit. When you’ve finished writing, then edit. This means if you’re working on a larger piece, say a short story, an essay or a novel, edit only when you’ve finished writing it. That means, you no edit in-between! Just write the heck out of that sucker and say everything you want to say before you even begin the editing phase. Got that? Okay, cool.

3) Marketing and publishing. If you’re going that route. This is the part where you fantasize about becoming a famous author and making lots of money (hahahahaha).

As the workshop came to a close, everyone in the room was clapping and laughing. We were each taking turns saying our names and declaring ourselves great writers. When it became my turn, I paused, squeezed my eyes shut and blurted out, “I’m Robin and I’m a great writer!” It was kind of liberating and only slightly terrifying. I normally wouldn’t dare call myself a great writer, but ya know, why not?

If you write, I highly recommend you say it out loud, too.

Some writing resources:

Writing Begins With Forgiveness: Why One of the Most Common Pieces of Writing Advice Is Wrong

Avoiding what you most love

iA Writer

(What I’m listening to right now: The Chemical Brothers (feat. Beck) - Wide Open)

Belonging

For the new year, I was asked to write a letter to my Zen teacher, requesting him to continue teaching for another year. I’ve never done anything like this, so I copied the suggested wording (which I actually really liked, formal though it was) and signed it with my given name and dharma name (in badly calligraphed kanji, I must add, but hey I tried!).

When I arrived for the first day-long meditation retreat of the year, and looked for where to place my letter, I was taken aback by the large basket in the foyer stuffed with ribbons, gifts and fancy paper. I may have gasped. I looked down and immediately felt embarrassment at the plain and basic little letter in my hands. Nonetheless, I didn’t want to not submit a letter, so I gulped and gently placed it in the basket.

Someone asked me a few months ago, why do I come here, to No Abode, every month? I replied, "because I feel a sense of belonging - I feel like I belong here." Well, okay, first I made a joke about coming only for the tea and cookies, but when I got serious it came down to this one thing: belonging.

Almost every time I meet with my teacher he welcomes me - literally saying to me, “Welcome,” each time. He says this so much that I’m finally starting to believe it. Maybe I really am welcome here and maybe he really does mean it (I sincerely think he does - I truly believe he welcomes everyone and everything).

This was a particularly difficult Christmas for me this year and after thinking about why I found it so difficult, I realized that a feeling (and belief) of not belonging was at the heart of it. It is this sense of belonging I most want to explore. When did this belonging become severed and why? What people, places and activities give me a sense of belonging? And why?

Buddhism teaches that all of us already belong and that we always have. Our belief that we are separate - from nature, from each other - is at the root of our suffering. We’ve just forgotten.

In the coming year, and for many years to come, I would sincerely like to remember.

Where do you feel a sense of belonging?

(What I'm listening to: Imogen Heap, The Listening Chair)

Kindness is not a four letter word

“What are you working with right now?” he asked me.

(This is something Buddhists sometimes ask each other.)

“Kindness,” I responded. “I find that I can always be a little kinder to myself.”

“Oh, that’s a great place to start.”

I smiled inwardly. I wasn’t surprised by his reaction. Kindness is one of those overused words like "love" or "mindfulness." Oh yes, kindness. How cute.

But I’d like to boldly proclaim, nay, shout from the rooftops (!!!), that our lives begin and end with kindness. It’s not just something you learn in kindergarten and give up to become an adult (although some people really believe this). It is the lifeblood of human connection and belonging.

The Dalai Lama once said, “Kindness is society.”

As I turn 38 today, kindness seems more important than ever. I’ve spent the majority of my life wrestling with an over-achieving inner critic (maybe you can relate?) who takes herself entirely too seriously. Kindness is not in her lexicon. Protecting “me” at all costs is. Any step outside the lines warrants an inner critical remark or put down. It’s in my best interest. For my safety. So I don't embarrass myself. So she thinks.

I’ve been tangled up in these lines for so long, it’s been an uphill battle just to find my way out of them and see them for what they really are. Lines created out of fear. And a young, unkind and immature way of relating to myself and the world.

The only way out is kindness. The only way in is kindness.

But don’t take my word for it. Investigate it for yourself. I've had to (a younger and more cynical me would have laughed at anyone who told me kindness was the key to opening my heart). What does kindness mean to you?

(What I'm listening to right now: Majid Jordan - Forever)