Ask your inner critic if laziness is right for you!

Tags

laziness, life, meditation, mental health, mindfulness, self criticism

I experience such a deep sorrow when I can’t get to everything on my to-do list in the time in which a much less exhausted version of me drew it up. I hate to cancel or postpone anything, especially creative projects. I figure I’m gonna be dead a long time, so why not fill up every hour of every day on my calendar now with all those things I want to do?

Sounds… not so great, doesn’t it?

Oh, if only we could come up with a way to not need so much sleep…

I had to cancel a studio session last week, and I really hated to. I am always up for everything – until I burn myself out and I’m not. My mind was and is always eager, and my body was saying, ‘You’ve got a hell of a busy weekend coming up – you need to be fully rested for it.’

So, instead of going to the studio last Thursday, I sat in the front yard for a while, staring at the bird feeder. Nuthatches, chickadees, titmice, and goldfinches, all in near constant motion preparing for the coming cold. I was really enjoying the peace and ease and calm, feeling gravity settle me into the chair, noticing the regeneration of stamina moving through my mind and body – and of course, I started thinking, Hmm, I’m feeling better. I could’ve gone to the studio today after all…

Shawn came out to chat at one point, and I told him what I was thinking.

He smiled at me and said, ‘Everyone needs medicinal laziness from time to time.’

Medicinal laziness! I love that.

And there’s that word I use to criticize my need for stillness and rest – ‘lazy’. Why do I so often, in my own case, frame the act of taking time out as ‘laziness’? Even in my daily meditation practice, I view it in part as working on something, working on the project of being more present and aware. I’m very often creating more work for myself, even when I’m sitting still and literally doing nothing!!

I do enjoy staying busy.

How many times have I supported the choice of others to take that same time out, but then criticize my own need for that same restoration? I gotta keep a little bit of that care and compassion for myself.

(More work on self to do, haha)

The birds are busy as hell these days, and I have been too. And it’s okay, like them, to rest on a branch for a bit, taking stock of what’s happening and what’s to come, and show up as fully to this body and mind as I always hope to for anyone else’s.

Small moments, many times.

Tags

meditation, mindfulness, touring

This past weekend was another one filled with traveling and live performances, this time with the Acoustic Trio. Shawn, Davy, and I zigged and zagged across upstate NY and NJ to bring our songs and stories to folks in three different communities, each one hungry for live music, each one warm and sweet and open.

As I continue to weave myself back into the 3D world of touring, I find that my practices of all sorts have become even more important. One of my favorite phrases in meditation practice is: small moments, many times. The idea here is to erase the boundary between formal practice and the rest of life, and cultivate a life that is itself the practice. Bringing one’s attention back to the present moment, again and again, whether it’s always to an anchor like the breath or the body, or in a choiceless awareness of whatever bubbles up – the idea is to keep punctuating one’s day – one’s life – with these small moments of awareness.

The cardinal calling from across the road.

The aroma of this cup of coffee.

The delight and gratitude at seeing two friends who drove nearly two hours to see us.

The tiny spider crawling up my arm.

The steepness of this spiral staircase.

The smile on the woman’s face when I sang that one line.

The beauty of the storm clouds letting go of their rain.

The sweetness of these fresh strawberries.

And while I do appreciate, and will continue on with, my extended daily formal practice ‘on the cushion’, I was and am thankful for the opportunities this past weekend to bring the ‘small moments’ practice into focus, all of which helps illuminate my path, my heart, and my life.

Always arriving precisely on time.

Tags

meditation, mindfulness, nature, spring

The early spring window that delights me so much every year slammed shut this week with the arrival of those most unwelcome of guests – the black flies.

And they really like me, always have.

Black flies don’t bite, they suck! So goes the old joke.

Because of these tiny hungry pests, I’ve quickened my steps on our recent evening walks, which can still be so thoroughly enjoyed for their exquisite, kinda-feels-like-summer stillness, and for the salmon colored brush that washes over the sky.

I was so thrilled to hear my first hermit thrush of the year this week, too, with its otherworldly trilling echoing through the woods. And we finally spotted a pair of loons on the pond, and I watched them through my binoculars diving for fish again and again as we swatted at the bugs.

And wow, did it get hot this week. In the 80s with hot dry sun. The high fire danger was finally quenched this weekend with some much needed rain, and the green that was just beginning to bud out is now exploding vibrantly into view.

Everything is always arriving – black flies, birds, leaves, rain, sun – and though my personal clock says, ‘Okay, no thanks on the black flies, and I’ll take the rain at night and sun during the day, please,’ nature gives no damn about that. It just shows up precisely on time, all the time.

I’m trying to be a little more like that, too – showing up precisely on time for everything. And I don’t mean being punctual (although that matters a lot to me, too). I mean in the sense of being present to what’s happening – being reflective rather than reactive. I keep remembering, again and again, to practice zooming out at the beauty of the whole scene, rather than in on each annoyance that distracts me from the larger view.

And I’ll be getting lots of practice as the mosquitos arrive… and that means the dragonflies and bats will soon be doing their zigging and zagging across that same peachy sunset sky looking for their supper.

One bird at a time.

Tags

birding, birds, meditation, mindfulness

I heard someone remark recently that, instead of January 1, she thinks of the first day of spring as the first day of the new year, and I immediately resonated with this. Noticing a group of robins landing in the yard in the late afternoon of the last full day of winter this year seemed to affirm this – a group of red breasted birds gathering like revelers in Times Square, waiting for the equinox ball to drop.

One of my pandemic proclivities has been bird watching, and the last couple of weeks have been a flurry of activity here. The chickadees that survived the winter with us have in recent days been joined by the aforementioned robins, plus a family of goldfinches, and a number of pine siskins, nuthatches, titmice, and an occasional downy woodpecker. Just this past week we heard, then finally saw, the first pair of mourning doves of the year, as well as a single red-winged blackbird.

With practice, the bird visits are becoming the perfect way to punctuate my work hours – and all hours – with moments of mindfulness. One bird at a time, I notice their arrival, notice their beauty, notice my excitement, and willingness and even longing at times to be distracted from whatever I’m working on, notice my joy at their arrival, notice the occasional brief glimpse of disappointment when they fly away.

Happy New Year, everyone!

What now?

Tags

meditation, mindfulness

After spending the last ten weeks writing about my experience on retreat, I have arrived at an interesting moment in which I find myself asking: Do I have anything left to say about anything?

I know that sounds hyperbolic, but in so many ways, the retreat experience pares life down to the absolute essentials:

There is just this.

It’s just a thought.

Be here now.

Seems like a wrapped kind of deal, huh?

Well, there is theory, and then there is application.

At some point, the retreat metabolizes in some way, and then you find yourself angry at someone tailgating you, or annoyed that you can’t find the packing tape, or a thousand other tiny grievances that can seem as large as the world itself.

I am lost in thought most of the time. Hell, even as I’m typing these words, I am thinking things like Who gives a damn other than you about your navel gazing? and It’s just about time to make breakfast and holy shit am I hungry and Oh yeah I gotta pay my cell phone bill.

Yeah I know, it’s just a thought. Yeah I know, there is just this, blah blah blah.

So, what now?

Everything is humming along. The news from the wider world is distressing and overwhelming. And I still have my work to do.

I learn this week about a dear friend whose sister is dying. Suddenly, the world seemed a narrower, darker, more immediate place. My heart aches for him, for his whole family. I picked up the phone and left him a voicemail that may seem trite, and I mean every word. I love and care about and miss and feel sad for him. I started thinking about the family I still have left – people I love, and with whom I connect far less often than I do.

Again – life being pared down to the essentials.

Yes indeed, there is just this – the world as it is, and the story I tell myself about it. My friend and his sister. The beautiful sunset at the pond the other night. The war in Ukraine. The first purple finch of the season. There is this never-ending flow of thoughts, and the follow up intentions and motivations, that all appear out of nowhere, vying for position in the front of the queue. And here ‘I’ am – whatever that means, right? – making choices about how and where to spend my time and attention.

None of us is alone in this wondering, in this strange place between wanting to communicate and wanting to hide. And I sure as hell ain’t no life coach – I’m just a wondering, wandering soul too, doing the best I can to cultivate peace and connection in my own moment to moment experience. And I have found that sharing helps. Even when I’m feeling afraid and vulnerable. Especially so, in fact.

So, what now?

Publish this post, finish my coffee, eat breakfast, work on my various creative projects, go for a walk, play with the neighbors’ dogs, watch the bird feeder, continue to find those delicate balances between wisdom and trust, openness and resistance, gratitude and desire, truth and illusion.

And linger at the pond, and squeal with excitement at that first purple finch.

Day 9: Give it one more day.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

On the morning of day 9, I could hear one of my favorite refrains ear-worming through my mind:

Give it one more day
One more day
Just when your faith is gone
Give it one more day

Throughout day 9, the last full day of the retreat, the anticipation of post-retreat life was starting to flood my mind with so many ideas for songs and people I wanted to reach out to and plans I needed to make… so many trains of association, whisking me away from my final day on retreat.

I was looking back and ahead – back at a beautiful, and sometimes harrowing, retreat experience; ahead to what would no doubt also be a beautiful and harrowing post-retreat experience!

I noticed lots of emotions bubbling up and falling away – sadness about leaving the tranquility of this place; excitement about reconnecting with Shawn; anxiety about the barrage of emails and messages I’d be juggling in the coming days; inspiration to write and create and think about this whole experience.

And then I would remember, in the voice of one of my favorite YouTubers: ‘It’s just a thought.’

And then, I would walk to the main hall, or fill my lunch bowl with soup, or take a sip of my tea, or tie my boots for my afternoon walk, and remember: There is just this.

I even jotted down these words in my notebook:

Maybe I’m crazy, but I think I’m ready for what the world has in store.

And maybe I *am* crazy, but I still feel ready.

Day 8: There is just this.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

On day 8, Yanai asked us to imagine being a wave on the ocean. You are made of, and surrounded by, water, moving along, compelled by the moon—by outside forces beyond your control. Then you just barely start to notice something on the horizon.

Hmm. What is that?

Oh shit it’s the shore!

*crash*

And now you’re no longer a wave… but you are still water.

This is not forever — but this is for now.

Something about the simplicity of this image really moved me. And when he later said, ‘There is just this,’ I felt the truth of that so deeply that it I find I am still metabolizing it, two months later.

This cup of tea. There is just this.

Titmice at the feeder! There is just this.

I’m walking down the hallway. There is just this.

The car won’t start. There is just this.

I’m worried about getting to the gig on time. There is just this.

This wrap tastes delicious! There is just this.

My friend is really disappointed about what happened at her work. There is just this.

Am I able to access this clarity at all times? Um… no, of course not! I still have lots of moments throughout the day when I lose contact entirely with the present moment. In those moments, I’m usually planning or worrying about the future (I need to remember to email so-and-so back, oh shit, I hope she’s not upset with me) or ruminating about or relishing in the past (things were so much easier yesterday when I wasn’t dealing with my sore shoulder).

Then I will remember to find my feet, or my hands, or my breath, and remind myself: There is just this.

I am feeling worried because I really need to honor agreements.

There is pain behind my shoulder blade.

So simple, and not easy.

Practice makes… easier, not perfect.

‘Time past and time future / What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present.’ -T.S. Eliot

Day 7: That’s how the light gets in.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

Down the hall from my dorm room on the way to the bathrooms, there was an empty dorm room whose door was slightly ajar when I first arrived, and each day of the retreat, I noticed that the door was a little more open than it had been previously.

I looked upon this daily scene as a metaphor for my experience – slowly opening to what is.

Day 7 started as an itchy eye morning. I’d slept poorly the night before, and there was a weariness clouding around me that I was noticing – and also an eagerness to rid myself of it. My body and mind were feeling so tense and exhausted. I really yearned for rest – or so I thought.

I had a brief one-on-one meeting with one of the teachers that morning, and afterwards I was planning to join the sitting that was already in progress in the main meditation hall. In order to do this in the least disruptive way possible, I needed to walk through the lower walking hall and come up the back stairs to take my seat in the back of the meditation hall. So, I made my way down the stairs from the lobby area to the lower walking hall, and as I walked across this giant room, with its high ceilings and linoleum floor, I stopped in my tracks and looked around.

Holy shit, I’ve got this whole room to myself!

Suddenly, I was no longer tired. With my favorite wool socks on, I began skating around the linoleum floor like the kids at the beginning of the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Back and forth, round and round, spinning and swinging my arms around, smiling widely and wildly, giggling with delight.

FUN! I realized. I’ve been longing for some FUN and laughter and play!

Retreat life is so SERIOUS!

I probably spent a good ten minutes doing this – swishing my feet around this big room, the sounds of the furnace rumbling in the background, reflecting on the hush of the hall full of folks above me who were, well, not doing what I was doing at the moment. I giggled a little more.

I had a BLAST!

Then, I was really tired, again, haha!

I slowed myself and caught my breath, feeling completely energized again, and made my way up to the meditation hall.

Naturally, the fun and excitement of having that whole lower hall to myself for those few minutes faded away, and I found myself again feeling exhausted and weary.

I began to take particular notice of the statue of Quan Yin (pictured above) that lives in the back of the main meditation hall, especially in the evenings when the light in the hall was just so.

Cracked down the middle, ravaged by time and entropy, and still she sits.

By the late evening of this day, even in the midst of so many people so dedicated to their practice, I was feeling very lonely. I didn’t want to eat another meal or have another cup of tea or take another walk in the beautiful woods by myself. I wanted to get back to actively sharing my life and my joy and gratitude! As much as I appreciated (and still do appreciate) the experience I was having on retreat, I was giving in to all my longings for home and non-retreat life.

Just before the last sitting, I was in the upper hall with a few others practicing my walking meditation, and as I approached the wall, I let go of whatever thoughts were troubling me and simply looked at what was in front of me. What I saw was my shadow on the wall, and running down through the center of the shadow was a crack in the paint.

The statue of Quan Yin, cracked and resolute.

This image of me, cracked and resolute.

And then I remembered one of my favorite Leonard Cohen lyrics: There is a crack / a crack in everything / that’s how the light gets in.’

And then I thought, I can do this.

A relief washed over me. Every muscle relaxed. Levity returned to take its place alongside my weariness, and I slept better that night than I had since I’d left home.

Day 6: An expression of the earth.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

At some point on the morning of the sixth day, after a night of very little sleep, I jotted down these words in my notebook:

Everything hurts right now.

Cara said to us in the morning instruction, ‘You are an expression of the earth.’

To which I thought, Well, sometimes that expression is a tsunami.

After that instruction, I found myself alone in one of the walking halls (pictured above) and I decided to take a different instruction to heart – the one that invited us to walk precisely how we felt. So, instead of the slow and careful steps I’d been making in my walking meditation practice all week, I picked up the pace a little. I was walking as if to run an errand, and then I was pacing, and then nearly stomping. Back and forth, back and forth. No stopping to pause at the end of the line. No regard for the amount of noise I was making – no need to. I was alone in this room with at least a dozen well cared for plants and a view of the gray sky, which seemed to reflect precisely the doubt and storminess I was feeling.

Wave after wave of doubt-filled thoughts filled my mind:

I did what I came here to do. I slowed myself down. I got away from work and screens and stimulus for a while. Alright that’s it. I miss Shawn and my bed and my instruments and writing and reading and creating. What the hell am I still doing here? Tears of frustration and sadness streamed down my face. Back and forth, back and forth.

And eventually, my pacing slowed, all on its own. My tears dried, all on their own. My breathing slowed, all on its own.

What finally stopped me in my tracks was the sight of a single birch tree out the window, weighed down dramatically by ice and by winter itself, its branches nearly touching the dirt road below – and yet there it was, still rooted, still standing, still reaching for the sunlight.

Later that night during the dharma talk, Catherine talked about our ‘precious flaws’, and I was immediately reminded of the Japanese art form of kintsugi. I imagined my being as a fragile vessel that had been shattered that morning by attachment to the imagined future and then gilded back together by awareness of the present moment.

Sadness, grief, anger – these each rise up and pass away.

The end of sadness, grief, anger – these too rise up and pass away.

That’s what I was there to do – yes, to remember that I’m an expression of the earth – wild and tame, calm and chaotic, tranquil and torrential – and to notice and pay attention to every gust of wind that howled through me and then set me safely back down.

Day 5: Feeling grateful for gratitude.

Tags

gratitude, meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

At the halfway point of the retreat, I had surrendered entirely to the whole experience. I was feeling light and relaxed, and the nature of the things I jotted down in my notebook that day (and there were only a few throughout the whole retreat) were reflections upon specific people at specific moments in my life – people that I wanted to thank, either with a phone call or a letter.

I was, in short, awash in gratitude. Gratitude for the kindness or the friendship or the lesson that one or another person or experience had shown me or taught me at some point in the past.

And then I noticed something else – that I was grateful for the feeling of gratitude itself. It was a very freeing sensation, similar to the experience that is possible when you simply turn your attention upon itself. This deepening of practice invites more curious questions:

Who or where is the one who is thinking/asking/feeling/remembering?

What or where are the thoughts/questions/experiences/memories?

Everywhere and nowhere.

Simply put, there is only now.

That’s it.

That’s always been true, and will always be.

Letting go and remembering this simple fact was and is a revelation, the importance and preciousness of which cannot be overstated.

That’s it.

And I’m grateful to you for reading this and giving these ideas a chance to germinate in the soil of your awareness.