Archives for posts with tag: mindfulness

Getting sufficient healthy rest remains an ongoing challenge for me. The connection between PTSD and sleep disturbances is well-documented, and most definitely part of my own experience. I’ve at least gotten to a point where being wakeful doesn’t cause me additional separate stress of its own to compound the stress of whatever woke me, or the impending potential stress of the fatigue that results from inadequate rest. Progress.

Last night I was awakened from a deep sound sleep sometime after 2 am. I didn’t bother to check the clock to verify it, my traveling partner told me the time when he woke me (not realizing the noisy new neighbors who woke him hadn’t yet woken me). I was awake, physically comfortable but sleepless, for the rest of the night. “Sleep maintenance insomnia” is what that one is. I feel a moment of irritation when I notice that the article I linked manages to ‘place blame’ for poor sleep almost entirely on the sleeper, pointing out problem scenarios like women trying to get more/better sleep by going to bed ‘too early’ and waking in the wee hours. Yes, good sleep hygiene and good sleep practices are important, and for some of us the thing goes a bit beyond our choice of sleep schedule, lighting, diet, or time management! LOL Nothing in the article directly addresses real-life externals like noisy neighbors, and the effect of being awakened in the wee hours to the irritation of someone else awakened by the noise. (Eventually, the noise would no doubt have awakened me in turn; it sounded rather as if they were tossing shipping crates against the shared wall at several points, or hosting an event in an octagon ring!) My sensitivity to, and concern over, my partner’s ability to get the rest he needs, himself, likely drove my sleeplessness in some small way. It doesn’t actually take much to disrupt my sleep, even now.

Two nights short on sleep so far this week. It isn’t ideal, and I don’t do my best work – or my best anything, really – when I am distracted and numbed by fatigue. I think ahead irritably to the boundary setting, expectation setting conversation that needs to happen later today. My neighbors are young, and on meeting them the other day they seemed well-intended sorts. It’s likely that the inconsiderate amount of noise is nothing more than that – inconsiderate. They may be unaware how noisy they are – although surely less so after my traveling partner was gruff with them during the night. Still, it mustn’t be allowed to pass unnoticed; what we tolerate, we must endure, and I’d honestly rather not have this go on for weeks. My thoughts turn next to the work day ahead. Yeah. Still feeling irritated. Is it going to be that day?

It's too early to be cross already. It is a better choice to begin again.

It’s too early to be cross already. It is a better choice to begin again.

I begin again. Meditation. Deep cleansing breaths. A moment of fresh air out on the patio before dawn, steaming mug of coffee in my hands. Full moon glowing beneath, between, behind the passing clouds for some little while longer before daybreak comes. I think about the patio roses and how lovely they look so far. I contemplate what the patio will look like when the roses are blooming. The studio feels cozy and warm after the morning chill outside. I take time to appreciate the full measure of the quality of my life here; there is so much more to it than a night or two of poor quality sleep. I make a point of lingering over ‘all the things that work’ – it’s a better way to begin my day than fussing about a handful of things that could be improved upon.

Today will be a very good day to take care of this fragile vessel, practicing the practices that support emotional balance, and over-all wellness. I will do my best. 🙂

One way I love is through shared experiences. Not the grudging sort of sharing that is the hallmark of compromising (or over-compromising), more the enthusiastic embracing of events, tasks, and circumstances that become, over time, the foundation of something invested and intimate. As an example, I spotted an event online I know my traveling partner will be excited about – and I am excited to enjoy it with him; I will enjoy the event, myself, and even more so because it is something he is excited about, and we’ll be sharing that. Similarly, he occasionally surprises me with concert or show tickets, or information about an upcoming event, some sort of thing he knows I am excited about. There tends to be enough cool stuff going on in the world that it is rare one of us must truly ‘make a sacrifice’ or compromise our own taste and values to share something special, and generally we both tend to choose the sorts of things that we do, or can, both enjoy. Easier, when possible. 🙂

There is a lot of love in sharing. I may not have understood that very well as I grew to adulthood. I learned the lessons about ‘protecting my interests’, and ‘keep an eye on that other guy’ at the expense of learning to share skillfully, and figured out ‘the sharing thing’ on my own – and rather badly, as it turns out. I built my understanding on a fairly ‘everyone is all in’ notion of how sharing in a relationship would work, without any recognition that other people might handle things differently. There are other ways! (And they aren’t all compatible.) I ended up badly exploited, sometimes abused, and walked away from all that thinking ‘sharing doesn’t work because people only take from you’. Ouch. I undermined love’s power to connect beings through sharing by becoming invested in my hurts, and overlooking the possibility that I didn’t yet understand something important – it wasn’t the circumstances that had that result. I’m very certain there are a great many important things I do not yet understand, even now, on the far side of 50. In fact, at this time in my life I am inclined to embrace the uncertainty itself, and find out where it might lead me. Allowing myself the freedom to be entirely wrong, incorrect, mistaken, or in error, without self-flagellation or beratement has resulted in an astonishing amount of growth in a rather short time.

We learn a lot of crap as we grow up, some of it simply frankly wrong, and some of it distorted by our misunderstandings, or the misunderstandings of those who teach us. We retain, indefinitely, our power to choose – and to change. There is literally no requirement that we remain who or what we are at the start of our journey – and little chance we will, however hard we may work at it. Change is. There is so much power in the choices! Fearful? Choose another perspective, change the narrative driving the fears, pick up a practice that soothes, end one that makes the fear worse… something. Address it. Transform it. Make use of it. Walk away from it. It is actually that easy – and very much every bit also that hard. Not just fear – anger too, resentment, frustration, irritation, rage, sadness – there are too many details in our human experience that are customized and tailored to (by?) our… whims. It took me a lot of precious mortal lifetime to begin to come to terms with how much of my suffering was self-inflicted. Not only self-inflicted, but selected with care, chosen and crafted with commitment, and even insisted upon…and I’m not entirely sure where this understanding may take me, but it certainly seems an observation worth understanding more clearly.

“Are you okay?” “How are you doing?” “Are you stressed out right now?” Mmm… maybe? Maybe not. If the question evokes an emotion, is that emotion actually an answer to the question, or a reaction?

Today a doctor’s office visit is on my mind. My traveling partner and I are both of an age now when doctor’s appointments could be…may be…possibly…very bad news. It’s no more likely than at any time before, I suspect, but we’re more adult, more aware of our mortality, and more likely to be thinking ahead to the consequences of one issue versus another, and feeling the weight of years in which we took a bit less care with these fragile vessels. The concern easily becomes worry, the worry eats at contentment, becoming fear – and the present moment is quickly lost. I breathe, and let it go; there is no knowledge at hand until after the office visit, after lab results, and the circumstances remain – even after all that – more than likely less than dire. ‘Dire’ is not the most common outcome, it’s just a scary one, and tends to hold my attention as a result. It is a good opportunity to practicing letting go, and being present in this moment – which, by the way, is quite lovely and quiet. 🙂

The rain falls heavily this morning, as it has for many recent mornings. The afternoon, yesterday, was mild and sunny, although a bit chilly. Spring is here. I smile, taking a moment to enjoy the sounds of morning, filling up my senses with pleasure, and joy. The most exotic luxury car can only take me as far as the fuel in the tank will allow, however beautiful the car, however well-cared for; my emotional resilience seems generally fueled on a practical investment in contentment and the appreciation of small day-to-day joys. Getting my fill seems a small price to pay to enjoy such a significant reduction in emotional volatility, anxiety, reactivity… as is so often the case, your results may vary (because there are verbs involved, and a lot of practice).

A good day to begin again.

A good day to begin again.

 

 

It’s raining this morning. It’s been raining most of the night. I love the sound of it on the eaves, windows, and chimney cover. I woke fairly early and meditated for some while as the dawn turned to morning, and the rain fell.

A rainy morning from another perspective.

A rainy morning from another perspective.

I find myself thinking a lot about perspective this morning, and my metaphors have gotten all jumbled up. I think of the unique individual nature of each raindrop, each wet blade of grass in the meadow, each insect chased by each swallow…and as each metaphor begins to take shape in some more meaningful seeming way, it crumbles under the weight of how similar each of these things really is, from my own perspective. Can I tell at a glance once rain drop from another? Or one blade of grass, one insect, or one swallow? Hardly. Not as a general rule. Few could, except perhaps those who make a committed study of some particular – raindrops, or maybe a certain very particular butterfly, or the blades of grasses. I spend some moments considering that. If I were to spend a great deal of my time studying just one very narrowly defined object, creature, event, or notion, wouldn’t I become highly aware of the most granular subtleties of every characteristic, over time? Would this alter how I view all manner of other things as well – changing the focal point of my perspective in some fashion?

The rain continues to fall. The ducks and Canada geese appear to be enjoying it greatly, and feasting on something they dig out of the mud between dripping wet blades of grass. I think about perspective as I watch them; if I asked them ‘how are you doing’ and asked also that they place their experience on a scale of 1 – 10, what would they say? I think about my own answer to that question. I find it a difficult way to rate my experience, because it requires thoughtful consideration and then probably some math to find an average; I am in a lot of pain today, but feeling content, serene, and pleasantly disposed toward the world…not quite ‘merry’. So… 1 – 10? 6? 7? ‘Better than average’? What’s ‘average’? My average? Or would the questioner’s perspective be their own understanding of ‘average’? I want to rate it twice – climate and weather. Because my day-to-day background sense of things (climate) is more a… 9. Which is nice to make note of. My right-now-pain-and-all (weather) is something more like a 6 with suggestions that a playful 7 is within reach, if I continue to manage my pain as best I can, and also hold on to some perspective – weather changes. I look out across the rainy meadow. Numbers don’t matter to raindrops. The blades of grass are not concerned about my perspective.

A runner crosses my view of the meadow, running through the muddy grass to bypass the flooded trail. He runs in a t-shirt and shorts, and the rain continues to fall rather heavily. The weather is not yet warm. I wonder what his perspective is on the rain as he passes by beyond the window, across the grass? Does he find his experience bracing, refreshing, and delightful? Did he seek out the sensations he is experiencing? Or his is morning run a matter of rigid habit, of discipline, and a personal will to refuse to be overcome by some raindrops? He chose – but what was it he was choosing?

Today is a good day to listen to the rain fall, and a good day to consider something from a different perspective.

Questions are powerful. Asking them often seems more valuable [to me] than insisting on answers. It’s the questions that redirect my attention from one thing to another. Questions fired off one after the other without time to answer quickly find me feeling backed into a corner, or attacked and frustrated. Questions themselves are not to blame for any of that; it’s how they are used, and with what intent. If I am listening, they can also quickly alert me that I am being misunderstood. I am learning to practice deep listening even when I feel emotionally attacked, or unexpectedly cornered by someone else’s aggressively expressed agenda. (I’m not saying I find it easy, but I often find it successful for putting challenging discourse back on a civil, comfortable foundation.) The most interesting thing about practicing listening deeply is that I end up… listening. Hearing more. Understanding more. Feeling more compassionate and level-headed. Feeling empowered and safe. Once I’m in that place, it becomes a simple thing to ask a question. No animus, no aggression, no passive-aggressive tit-for-tat punishment or emotional bullshit; I am able to ask a reasonable, compassionate, interested question that may actually result in needs being met, and a greater shared understanding being reached. It’s the whole point of a question, actually.

Who's 'right'? The ducks or the waiting cat crouched in the grass?

Who’s ‘right’? The ducks or the waiting cat crouched in the grass?

Questions are powerful. My results vary, of course, because sometimes it is the very feeling of power, itself, that has fueled whatever drama of the moment exists between human beings – and some people don’t want to ‘give up their power’, and perceive any power in anyone else’s hands as a direct threat to their own. It’s a weird sort of emotional greed. I don’t know quite what else to think of it. Fearfulness at its core, probably – I’ve been so terrified of being powerless, myself, that a single question directed with insightful compassion directly at the heart of whatever was truly bothering me could cause real rage; being visible and understood wasn’t what I was after, I only wanted to feel powerful (and I was, in that moment, willing to get there at the expense of someone else’s feeling of emotional safety). I find it, now, a very unhealthy approach. Giving up needing to ‘be right’, giving up needing to feel powerful (not the same thing as feeling empowered!) and practicing authenticity, self-acceptance, and awareness are important stepping-stones to being able to listen deeply (practicing, practicing!), and ask questions with more compassion, and without attacking (also requiring practice).

If I feel flooded, how do I find firm footing to maintain a feeling of safety?

If I feel flooded, how do I find firm footing to maintain a feeling of safety?

Based on careful observation, the vast majority of disagreements are not at all what they appear to be, and it seems rare that participants in dialogue have actually taken time to ensure they have shared definitions of terms, respected fact-based ground rules for the discussion – and a shared purpose in asking and answering their questions. Conversation is so much more pleasant and fulfilling when it is built on sincere connection and genuine receptivity to another person’s thinking. I’m not much interested in arguments, they take time away from intimacy, affection, and connecting deeply with ones fellow humans. This journey is too rich for strategic bullshit, cautious diplomacy, and game-playing! There are stories to tell, adventures to share, parables to teach with, and love notes to slip past the rigidity of our work lives – all so much more important than arguments built on strategy, mud-slinging, and bogus assumptions, all seeking to persuade rather than to learn, grow, or inform. Opening the door to something more sometimes takes little more than a question.

Are you okay?

Are you okay? How are you feeling? What do you need that I can provide?

Unfortunately, questions are also handy emotional weapons. What a shame. What a waste of precious mortal time. I am learning to face such attacks with a new tool; I listen. I’ve stopped focusing on delivering an immediate answer ‘to defend myself’; if I feel attacked, defending myself is probably pretty pointless, because there is something more going on. Instead, I remind myself that this other human being made not have been fully frank with their intent, their needs, or the purpose of their question. They may not have a similar understanding of the topic being discussed as I do, myself. I listen. I take a deep breath – or several – and listen. I am learning – and practicing – letting go of that attachment to ‘being right’ that is so often part of this very human experience, and reminding myself not to take this other human being’s experience at all personally. I listen more. I am learning – and practicing – talking less. It turns out that it is not at all painful to listen. It sucks to ‘wait to talk’, however, so learning to listen (practicing!) requires a commitment to some verbs, and considerable beginning again. (I interrupt rather chronically, partially because I have a brain injury that makes it harder not to, and partially because I need more practice not interrupting.) I find it helpful, when listening deeply, to ask a question when it is clear that a response is expected; this can help me avoid hijacking a conversation in progress with my own agenda, when the person speaking actually has more to say. 🙂

Am I understanding your words correctly? Do you mean what I think I heard?

Am I understanding your words correctly? Do you mean what I think I heard?

I’m definitely not saying that my words lack value, or that I don’t also want and need to be heard, just that it seems pretty reasonable that we all feel that way, and there does seem to be a woeful shortage of real listening going on… if no one is really listening, how will anyone at all feel truly heard, truly visible, or truly connected?

Will I find balance between listening, and questions?

Will I find balance between listening, and questions?

I have the evening to myself tonight, according to the calendar. No idea what I’ll do with it. Paint? Read? Play? Maybe take a few quiet moments and really listen to my own questions? Questions are powerful – and I value feeling heard.

It’s a lovely quiet morning. Yoga, meditation, coffee, an article linked by a friend, some reading on a very perspective-altering web site, some handful of very still moments – no music, no typing, no conversation; it is a seriously quiet morning, punctuated periodically by the nearby wail of the train passing by. The day is alike an unopened box, contents unknown. What will I find when I open the box?

What's in the box? What of the unknown?

What’s in the box? What of the unknown?

My evening last night ended gently, after hanging out with my traveling partner for some lovely chill hours. My night ended with love, and my traveling partner observing that he loves what I’m doing in the studio. (I do, too, and I love that he appreciates me as an artist.)

My morning and my day are as an unopened box. I’ve no idea what it holds, and the possibilities are numerous. I meditate on boxes, packages, packaging and contemplate how the unexpected can be so consequential – or so irrelevant. I think about ‘baggage’, and consider the box as a metaphor, and recall some number of boxes I have recently opened in life: boxes with needed household supplies, boxes shipped to me out-of-useful-sequence, boxes containing more than I expected or something that surprised me, boxes that were mostly filled with air, boxes that were too heavy to lift without help, all varying in size, most a pretty plain squarish rectangle-y sort of shape – what other shape do boxes come in? Isn’t that funny about a plain brown box? How similar they all seem to be on the outside? I rarely consider the box itself when a package comes; I tear through the tape, jerk open the flaps and get at the mysterious contents with haste, generally. Why so much force to overcome a humble box? Why the rush?

I am likely noodling around contemplating boxes-as-a-metaphor trying to understand something very different indeed… I stay on my path, practicing good practices, and gently sorting out how to most easily and comfortably do so, while also enjoying my traveling partner’s time here. I feel encouraged noticing that I’m managing that pretty neatly, so far, for now. I find myself wondering what his experience is, and making a mental note to be attentive for the things he says that tell me – like his observation that he likes what I am doing in my studio, his enjoyment of my cooking, his consideration for my time, space, and practicing, and his day-to-day tenderness. I smile, and remind myself to also just ask. 🙂

Meditation is a favorite practice; it's like opening a box.

Meditation is a favorite practice; it’s like opening a box.

Today I’ll ‘unpack this box’ with as much appreciation for what the box is, as for what goes into it. Today I will practice being awake, aware, and considerate. It’s a good day for good practices.