Richmond, the city
not the district.
Robin, like the bird.
I often say these things
to provide clarity.
Can I clarify something?
I am not a writer.
I am not who I thought
I was. And yet,
I write and I think
that my place
on this earth is no
accident nor strange
coincidence.
(What I'm listening to right now: Alice Phoebe Lou - Fiery Heart, Fiery Mind)
I had assumed, with all the attention on introversion and the positive aspects of a quieter disposition these last few years, my life as an introvert (INFJ, baby!) would become more welcomed and understood in our crazy busy society.
Who was I kidding?
Since outing myself as an introvert several years ago (actually, no one was really all that surprised), it seems I am still expected to act like an extrovert. Awesome.
In light of this, I would like to highlight some of the positive qualities of introversion and remind folks that introverts have much to offer. Granted, I have my own flavor of introversion, but I think other introverts might recognize themselves here. After being told to just be more extroverted numerous times over the course of our lives, it is important to be reminded of our strengths as introverts.
Good listeners
Have you ever started chatting with someone and you just felt, heard? Like, really heard? That person was probably an introvert. Despite the common myth that introverts don’t like people, introverts care deeply about their fellow humans and want to connect with them. Just not all at once and at big social engagements. Introverts are curious about the inner lives of others and will often listen intently, if something meaningful is being shared. If, however, you’re just trying to one up them or sell them something? Good luck.
Picking up on social cues that others don’t see
Introverts absorb a lot of information around them. Our nervous systems are wired to take in all kinds of subtle and not so subtle cues around us. It’s one of the reasons introverts don’t need or want a lot of outside stimulation. There’s already a lot going on. This may be unsettling to people who can’t imagine there are things going on around them that they can’t pick up on. Surprise! There are. And introverts know about it.
Here’s the thing, though. Introverts often think that what they experience is obvious to everyone else. SO THEY DON’T SAY ANYTHING. Weird, right?
So, my fellow introverts, the next time you’re in that meeting and you want to say something but you think that it’s totally obvious and why would you speak up about something that’s totally obvious to everyone? Take a few moments to process the information (cause that's what we do) and then say it. It’s not always obvious. Really. And if it is, who cares? Trust that what you’re observing is totally worth speaking up about and you might just open other people to a new perspective. This is not about being extroverted. It’s about sharing your insights and giving voice to the questions that need to be asked.
Deep sense of morality and ethics
Introverts often have a lot of social rules that they abide by in their daily lives. Most introverts hate interrupting people. It feels extremely rude. Many introverts will do anything to avoid having to talk about their accomplishments and will usually downplay their successes. This is not because we don’t want to move forward in our careers, but simply because it feels really uncomfortable to put ourselves above others in a competitive environment. It feels downright wrong.
At the heart of this is a deep sense of right and wrong. Introverts care deeply about social harmony. This is a good thing! Want a trustworthy friend or employee? Look for an introvert. This is not to say that all introverts are perfect or that introverts won’t do bad things. We are only human, after all. But, for the most part, we have a finely tuned moral compass that can annoy the hell out of other people sometimes.
In Conclusion
Okay, I can hear the voices now…but what about us extroverts? We’re not bad people! We have these qualities sometimes, too! Yes, yes, we know. Relax little exies. Remember, this is not about you. Contributing our introverted voices and strengths does not mean extroverts are somehow cancelled out. This is not a zero-sum game. We can ALL contribute and enrich the conversation. We need each other. That is the point. And introverts need to know that they are needed and that what’s been wrongly attributed as weakness in our aggressive society is actually our deepest strength and offering.
For additional information, check out:
Caring for your introvert
How Introvert Can Survive as Project Manager
Quiet Revolution
Revenge of the Introvert
(What I'm listening to right now: Rosalía — De Plata)
I do not waste my time on resolutions anymore and quite frankly, I'm rather ambivalent about setting intentions these days. But I do like and value reflection. I was inspired by Sas Petherick's Top Nine and something she said recently:
"It is an act of revolution to ignore every single invitation to create a 'new you' this New Year."
So, in that spirit, I offer you my Top Nine of 2017. Happy New Year, friends and loved ones.
England: As a 14 year old, who had discovered and fallen in love with theater, Shakespeare and the band The Cure, all around the same time, I could often be found pretending I was British. So embarrassing. But, then again, being 14 was predominately embarrassing, so what can I say? Ever since then, it has been a dream of mine to visit the UK. For various reasons, though, I was never able to make this happen. Cue my late thirties and the realization that I really, really wanted to make this happen. And I did! I got to experience a little bit of London and a whole lot of the English countryside in Southwest Devon. It truly was one of the most nourishing trips I’ve ever taken. I hope to go back again.
Turning 40: It is such a milestone and there are so many expectations around turning 40. I felt almost ready to embrace the whole thing, when the power of turning 40 reached out and grabbed me. There was and is no turning back. I have been in awe of this number and this age. I have come into my own skin and found an unforeseen confidence in my own body and its wisdom. I wish I could say that turning 40 has been easy. It hasn’t. But with the struggle to come to terms with my age has come the inner power of self-knowledge and self-respect. Priceless rites of passage, I believe.
Leaving my teacher: In June, I decided to take a break from my Zen Teacher, and ultimately to no longer practice with him. For those who have never worked with a spiritual teacher, this may seem like no big deal, but for me, it was a turbulent and painful process. I found myself forced to face my own trauma and pain and to really and truly own it. It…has not been fun. I have struggled with many, many doubts. But in the struggle, I found my power. And it is a power that no one can take from me. It is a power that has been there all along and that I only thought I had given away. While I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone, I am grateful for the opportunity to realize my own agency and the opportunity for transformation. I do wish that for everyone.
Yoga & Craniosacral work: With my Zen practice in a kind of chaos last year, I found much healing and stability in my yoga practice and in Craniosacral therapy. I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to reconnect with our bodies. In our society, we tend to walk around like lollipops, with all of our attention in our heads. We have forgotten our bodies. It is amazing to discover how much wisdom already resides within us.
User Experience & Design: Upon completing an intense 90+ hour training in User Experience Design in 2016, I was reluctant to call myself a Designer. But my Design mentor, Sadok, did it for me and reminded me that when you practice Design, you are a Designer, even if its not your official job title. Okay then! But I might emphasize that I am a Designer in training and always will be. But that’s what I find so incredible about this path - there is so much to learn. A whole new world has opened up for me.
I saved a lot of plants: My back patio is rather packed at the moment. Mainly because I see people leaving perfectly wonderful potted plants by the dumpster and it horrifies me. So I take them in and do my best to take care of them. My favorite: a flowering maple that is now bursting with little red flowers.
Tassajara: In July, I took a short trip to Tassajara Zen Mountain Center for a yoga retreat. Tassajara is a powerful place. That’s the only way I can say it. I go there knowing that anything I am trying to hide from, will be revealed to me. And that was indeed my experience again there, although, this time around I felt tender enough to receive what Tassajara had to offer. I savored the delicious food and enjoyed soaking in the hot springs, staring up at the half moon and the night sky.
Baking: Baking is life! Just kidding. But in a way, I’m not. While I have to be careful and mindful about the food I eat, nothing brings me joy like baking for family and friends. And I did a lot of that this year. Even making baked goods and giving them as gifts for Christmas.
Hiking: I am a wee bit obsessed with the Marin Headlands. I could spend countless hours hiking the trails there. And I have. There is nothing quite like being out on a trail, breathing in the sea air and being calmed by a walk through a grove of Eucalyptus trees. It is not where I live, but oddly enough, it is where I feel most at home.
What I’m listening to: First Light by Balmorhea
It has hit me once again that Zen is not an improvement project. I so resist this. I really want to believe that Zen meditation and mindfulness will make me a happier and improved version of myself (don’t all the magazines say so?). I feel I’ve become less anxious, less hyper-vigilant and I’ve definitely matured. But am I a better person? I think, no. And I’ve been at this for like 8 years (baby years in the Zen world). So, there ya go. My full endorsement! Practice meditation. Accomplish nothing. Which, I just absolutely love, by the way. Because, accomplishing nothing, in a culture that is always trying to commodify your energy and attention, is radical and amazing.
And ok, there is some kind of accomplishment there. One could argue. After all, would I really keep coming back to staring at a wall over and over again, for…nothing? Maybe! There is something kind of hilarious about that… (Person of Interest: So, Robin, what were you up to for the last half hour? Me: I stared at a wall and attempted to follow the rising and passing of phenomena! Person of Interest: Slowly backs away.) But, ok, if I were forced to say that I’ve accomplished something, it would have to be the slow and gradual release of this very tight grip I’ve had on my life (a.k.a. this crazy and very delusional idea that I can control everything). Important to note - I still really haven’t accomplished this (see mention of resistance in first paragraph). I probably never will. So it’s a good thing I like this practice and I’m in it for the long haul.
(What I'm listening to right now: Washed Out: Floating By)
I’ve been intending to write a blog post about turning 40 for months now, but every time I sat down to write it, I cringed. I mean, what could I possibly say that hasn’t already been said? Many of the lovely folks who are older than me say, oh 40 is so young! And some of the lovely people in my life who are not yet 40 seem to get this funny look in their eyes like they want to run away immediately, change the subject or go jump off a cliff or something. Anything to avoid talking about turning 40 (because, many young people think it isn’t really going to happen to them. I know, because I clung to 39 like Kanye West clings to his own self-importance. Side note: did you know Kanye also turned 40 this year?).
At dinner a few months ago, some friends asked me what my intentions were for the next decade. What a question! I wasn’t sure I had any intentions, but I did offer a reflection. And that is, I’ve come to believe that marriage and children, while they are totally and completely wonderful and fine, are not necessary for a happy life. I realize that statement could very well sound hollow and trite. But, having already gone through some of the gut-wrenching grief of not getting married and not having children, I can say it with sincerity and without the least bit of cynicism. Because there is also room in my life for marriage and children, should that come to pass. It’s not like I’m taking on some new identity that I want to declare to the world and that be it. I don’t feel the need to hold this reflection up as some ideal way to live, because it’s not for everyone. I do feel the need to say it though, because there is this myth going around in our culture that marriage and children are the end all be all of a happy existence, especially if you’re a woman (and a woman of a certain age, at that), and it’s just not true.
What people don’t tell you: both can be true. Marriage and children can enrich your life. Not being married and not having children can also enrich your life. One way of living does not negate the other. Why some people still insist that it has to be one way is beyond me, but maybe they are only speaking out of fear. Trust me, there are worse things in life than being alone.
What I’m more interested in as I enter my fourth decade on this planet: Can I be a compassionate human being? Can I accept that I am capable of harming others and still cultivate peace, in all my actions, as best I can? I would sincerely like to do this. I would like to learn how to be a fiercely compassionate human being above all else.
Self Portrait
It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.
- David Whyte, Fire in the Earth
(What I'm listening to right now: Naaz - Words)
“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!)
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!)
“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)
Čzechs singing on a train, somewhere between Hustopeče and Brno, Czech Republic. Taken 2003.
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)
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.)
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)
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)
Since I don't really have an image that truly depicts the word no (or 'nope'), here's a beautiful photo of San Francisco I took on a hike recently. Isn't it lovely? Yeah...
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:
Be well, friends.
(What I’m listening to right now, besides the podcast, of course: Michael Kiwanuka - Black Man In A White World)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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 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)
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