Best Day Ever

My six-year-old son and I are standing outside the classroom door. It's a cold and dreary Wednesday morning, and we've just muddled through the before-school ritual of dress-eat-gather-and dash out the door. We're standing here with a few other kids and assorted parents, waiting for the day to begin.

Mrs. Walter opens the classroom door, peeks her head into the hallway, and waves to her students. Kids pick up their oversized backpacks, mumble their goodbyes, and slowly make their way toward their beloved teacher's open arms.

I spy my friend Amy near the door. I watch her kneel down in front of her son. She places her hands on this small boy's shoulders and looks directly into his eyes, as if  - for this moment - no one else in the world exists.

"Best day ever," she chirps with a smile. And then she kisses her son on the cheek and dashes down the art-strewn hallway and off into her day.

I think about this moment all day long. It was an instant, really, over in two breaths. It would have been so easy to miss in the crowded corridor and in our own goodbyes. But something about what I witnessed won't let me go. Like a bell peeling through the sky, that moment startled me out of my self-absorbed reverie and awakened some possibility within.

Best Day Ever. Could this grey and ice-strewn day in the thick of midwestern winter possibly be the best day we've ever had? Is it, perhaps, over-reaching a bit to suggest that this is the best day ever to a six-year-old boy on a cold morning inside a little school in a nondescript city in Ohio? And on a Wednesday in January, no less?

Amy's words ring through the morning, as my toddler and I putter about at home, cleaning up the oatmeal and lying on the carpet with legos and the cats, counting the hours until we schlepp back to school to retrieve big brother.

Best Day Ever. Is it a wish, as in, "I hope you have the best day ever?"

Is it an instruction, like, "Please do what you can to make this the best day in the world?"

Or, perhaps, it is a truth, a revelation: "You may not see it right now, but if you incline your eyes in just the right way, you will see that this ordinary day is actually the best day ever - the only chance you have to be fully alive - in the whole wide world."
 
A few days later, with snow melting into slush, Amy and I meet again in front of the classroom door. When the door opens, Amy repeats the same goodbye with her son: a hug, a kiss and a "Best day ever." This is a ritual, I see, a parting offering she leaves with her son every single day.

I begin to look forward to hearing her sing out these words in the morning rush, as if some of the shininess of her blessing might spill in our direction. Her words echo through my brain and rekindle some hopeful warmth in my heart. I begin to wonder whether my family, too, could make this the best day ever. Maybe we could try a little harder, rising to the challenge of making something beautiful and bright with the gift of this day we have been given. But what would that even look like?

Best Day Ever. This is a strange memory to slip to the surface right now, with a pandemic rolling across the globe, leaving grief and devastation in its wake. The world seems to be falling apart, with society's weakest links painfully exposed, and with so many people suffering so deeply. What will the world look like in a year? Who will have jobs and who will be hungry? Who will be alive and who will be dead? Will we still be social distancing, hungry for connection and adventure in the world? Panic floods my chest when I peer too far into our collective future. This time feels so much like a purgatory, as if we're all just waiting for the other cosmic shoe to drop.

My panic eases, though, when I reel my mind in from the distant future and rest it closer to the here-and-now. Life feels a little more manageable when I focus my eyes on the lilies bursting into bloom in the garden, on the hot mug of tea in my hands, on the voices of my children right by my side. Maybe the answer - now and always - is to take good care of the present and trust that the future will take care of itself.

It's that old story about driving at night down a country road: Your headlights only need to throw enough light to see a little way down the road, and in that way, mile by mile, the headlights guide us safely home. The more distant future is too much to grasp. But perhaps we can gracefully manage the gift of this day, this moment, this breath.

Or, as theologian Henri Nouwen wrote: "The art of living is to enjoy what we can see and not complain about what remains in the dark. When we are able to take the next step that follows, with the trust that we will have enough light for the step that follows, we can walk through life with joy and be surprised at how far we go. Let’s rejoice in the little light we carry and not ask for the great beam that would take all shadows away."

Best Day Ever. What if this is the answer to the question of how to manage this scary time? What if the answer is right in front of us, in this breath, right here and right now? What if we take up the challenge of shining brightly today? What if we use this moment to bridge the gap between ourselves and others, to live into the deep and mysterious connections that bind us together through love? What if we use our energy to shine a little light into the world, right now, today, in whatever way we can?

This possibility echoes through my mind each morning, as I sip my tea and contemplate the day ahead. Best Day Ever fills me with possibility and hope. It feels like a challenge we are invited to rise to meet, with strength and a tender heart. I breathe in the freshness of the morning, gaze at the twittering of the birds, and squint into the rays of the rising sun. I peer into the long stretch of the day ahead, and I ponder how I can coax life into deepest bloom, not just for myself but for others, too.

Maybe today we'll make super-thick chocolate milkshakes and sip them in the backyard while looking at the vast blue sky. Maybe we'll sit shoulder-by-shoulder at the puzzle table, with an audio book droning on beside us. Maybe we'll head down the road together in the dimming light to watch the sun set over the neighborhood field. Maybe we'll create something beautiful: music or stories or cards to send to faraway friends.

This might be a good day to make a phone call to a friend who is living alone. To dig our fingers into the dirt and urge our gardens into bloom. To start a compost pile, perhaps. To reach out to others, near and far, and to rise up in ways that allow others to have Best Days, too. Maybe we can use today's blank slate to educate ourselves about the world and its struggles, to contemplate how we can contribute to a stronger, healthier, happier world for all. The possibilities are endless.

I must admit, some mornings this feels like a high bar to reach toward. And on these days, when my heart feels heavy and tight, I soften with a sigh into the possibility that today might be a Good Enough Day, or, perhaps, the Best Day We Can Manage, Given the Circumstances. Or at the very least, a Day with at Least a Few Shining Moments. Even so, this feels like a hopeful response to the morning light, and far better than the alternative of curling up into a little ball and waiting breathlessly for the storm to pass.

Who wants to emerge from our caves in a year or more, blinking into the bright sun, feeling like we've lost a year of our lives? And if disaster does strike between now and then, wouldn't the proper response have been to have leaned into the light even then, making the most of whatever time together we've been given?

And so, with a nod of thanks to Amy and that long ago moment, I offer up the gift of the Best Day Ever. Who knows what the future may bring? Who knows how long this pandemic will last? In the meantime, let's do our best to string together one Best Day after another, filled with laughter and connection and presence and love, not just for ourselves but also for the greater world.

The ancient sages once taught that each day is a lifetime, and the world is born anew each day. The sun rises and a new life is placed into our hands. It is ours to do with what we like - to squander or to savor. We have until the sun sets this evening to bring our world into fullest light and fullest bloom. And then it is gone forever.

Night falls and then tomorrow, if we are lucky, the sun will rise again. And another Best Day Ever will be born.

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Listening as an Act of Love

It’s early morning, just at first light. The house is quiet and heavy with sleep. You’re the first one up. You recognize the possibility of this lovely moment.

You creep downstairs, put the kettle on, stealthily prepare your tea, and slip out the front door. You settle onto the front steps into a seat of peaceful repose, half of you still asleep and half craning your eyes upward toward the light. You sip and you soften into the ease of the waking day.

Your mind understands that it’s too early for to-do lists or ambition of any sort. There is not a thing you need to do quite yet. You exhale, and without even thinking, you settle into a receptive and open state. Nothing needs to happen, you recognize, and yet anything might.

And so you sit, watching the day slowly stretch her arms. The birdsong begins, the light begins to shift, the sky begins to glow. You hear the house creak, you feel the breeze whispering by, you feel your body rise and fall with each breath.

MYSTERY AND GRANDEUR
You sense an awakening in your soft heart, a renewed bloom of the shy light that shines within, a willingness to fall in love with the world yet again. You remember theologian Paul Tillich's words, "The first duty of love is to listen," and you know that in this soulful moment you have found your way into deep knowing of what he meant.

In these quiet moments of the morning, receptive and open and easy, you sense in your bones the necessity of listening, of opening yourself wide to the mystery and the grandeur of the world. You understand the importance of opening your mind and heart so wide that life pours into you with all its delicacy and strength. You sense the possibility of participating deeply in the world without needing to speak a word.

And you promise to remember this quieter way of being, even later, when the day begins to burn bright with activity and bustle. You commit to staying close to this whispering flame that flickers in your heart. You consider the possibility of listening to others just the way you’ve listened to the dawn, with the doors and windows of your heart open wide.

HAPPINESS, KINDNESS
You smile as you sense how full and tender this way of being feels within - expansive, curious, open to every thought and every sound. You understand the gift of bearing witness, of listening without judgment. You sense the healing balm of a soul who listens, truly listens, with a mind clear and a heart wide open.

And then you remember Mary Oliver’s words, “Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness," and you feel like this wise poet is sitting right beside you, smiling. You vow to move forward with Oliver’s words on your lips all day as an offering to the greater world.

This very morning, it seems, you have  been given a new pair of ears that allow you to listen deeply to the song of life. And you sigh in profound happiness. Somehow, before the day has even lurched into action, you have been made whole.

You pledge to hold you close to love and loveliness, leaning in close to life and listening well. You promise to carry this openness out into the day ahead. Perhaps it will be a gift to others, just as it has already been for you.

The house begins to stir and you take one last sip of tea. You take a deep breath, listen to the morning song one last time, and promise to incline your ears, your eyes and your heart toward the world with openness, with ease, and with love that shines from the quiet, listening place within.

This essay was written for Dwelling in the Heart, Claudia's 2016 online lovingkindness immersion.

*****

The Community of Yoga

It’s 8:55 on Wednesday morning and students are filing into the studio. Coats are hung, shoes are kicked under the bench, and mats are dropped onto the floor. Hellos and hugs are offered as the lovely chatter of friends begins.

I listen carefully to snippets of conversation, catching up on news of the day from my perch at the front of the classroom. I hear tales of travels, illnesses, community happenings and family delights. I notice who is here and who we’re missing. And all the while I gauge the mood of the group, rejiggering my plan for our morning according to the energy my friends have carried with them into class.

At 9:05 each week the last student predictably breezes in, reminding us to begin. And for the next hour and a half we stretch and move and breathe and relax. We explore the limits and possibilities of our bodies and our minds. We shed our stress, restore our energy and reclaim our lives.

We’ve come together like this for more than 30 years. The cast of characters shifts from week to week. The location changes occasionally. But two things never change: First, we practice yoga. And second, we cultivate community. We foster a sense of friendship and camaraderie that reminds us that we are part of something greater than our small bodies and individual breaths.

WHOLENESS AND EASE
The word yoga means to yoke, and in the beginning the practice teaches us to reconnect the scattered parts of ourselves back into one complete whole. With each ounce of stress we shed, with each tight muscle we relax, we are brought back to a sense of wholeness and ease. We are returned to our truest selves.

With continued practice, though, a deeper understanding of yoga evolves. We begin to see how the practice not only yokes the body, mind and spirit together, but also yokes us to everyone and everything around us. Through yoga, our sense of self expands farther and farther beyond our skin until we take on all of life as our own.

It’s our Wednesday morning yoga class that has taught me this deeper understanding of yoga. I didn’t set out to build a community, just to teach a few friends some healing yoga stretches and relaxing ways to breathe.

But yoga works its magic - creating community it its wake - whether you ask it to or not. Thanks to my yoga students, I now understand that in some beautiful way, yoga is community. Yoga is seeing clearly and experiencing deeply the strong bond we share, the shared experience we live, the extent to which I am you and you are me and we are all in this together.

You get to know someone pretty well once you’ve done enough downward dogs together. You learn how people move and breathe and think. You learn who runs hot and who runs cold, who runs fast and who runs slow. You learn who can be counted on to add a little humor, who always has the perfect book recommendation, and who is always ready with a hug and a supportive word.

And in the beautiful container of yoga, you also learn to take on everyone around you as family, in the best sense of the word. You begin to love people not just in spite of their curiosities and foibles but because of them. You take an interest, as a matter of course, in the ups and downs of the lives of others. You embrace each soul around you as a vital and important light in the great constellation of life.

I think about this every Wednesday morning as I watch this mystery unfold in our yoga class. Each of us enters with our own frustrations, fears, wishes and needs. And yet each of us, just by virtue of showing up, is knit into the greater whole of all of us. Breath by breath and moment by moment, we are banded together into a beautiful circle of care and support.

Every week I remind my students how this works. When we’re feeling energized and balanced, we share that sense of vitality and support with those around us. We reach out to those who are struggling. We offer our support and energy. And when it’s our turn to feel dispirited or empty, we let ourselves be held and carried by that beautiful network of helping hands that surrounds us.

PEACE AND SOFTNESS
After 90 minutes of stretching and breathing, we settle into a few blissful moments of deep relaxation. I smile as I survey the room, which has settled into a soft and lovely glow. I sigh as my eyes survey my friends resting quietly, restored to some deeper peace and softness. I thank yoga, yet again, for working its magic, for guiding us back to ourselves, and for knitting us all together into one.

I pick up my Tibetan bowl, ready to chime us out of relaxation and off into our days. But then I inevitably pause, reluctant to disturb the collective peace and reverie that has descended upon us. Bowl still in hand, I sweep my gaze across the room, raising a hand and silently wishing each lovely member of our yoga community well.

“May you be happy,” I think, looking at one beautiful being. “May you be well,” I offer another, and then another. On and on, until I have wrapped the whole room in a blanket of goodwill.

I offer my silent thanksgivings to these beautiful souls and to this Wednesday morning tribe that embodies all yoga can be: a living expression of connection, community, and the love that binds us all together all the days of our lives

And then finally, I chime my bowl and bodies stir. Slowly, happily, each of us gathers our belongings and slips out into the day. And even though we head our separate ways, we remain yoked together by the practice of yoga, strengthened by those invisible strands of love and support that carry us all.

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A Few Easy Breaths

I

When the world threatens to overwhelm, I lie down. 

I settle onto the ground and exhale.

I give up. I give in. And for a few sweet moments, I let go of absolutely everything I know. 

I befriend the earth. I let gravity overtake me. I invite my whole being to soften, to melt, as I hand my life over to earth's faithful embrace. 

I relinquish my tight hold on life and let everything beyond me spin off in its own uncontrollable way. I remind myself that I can let go of everything now and still there will be no place to fall.

I nestle into the quiet lullaby of the breath. Slowly and surely this beautiful ebb and flow erodes the stickiness and stress within. Breath by breath and moment by moment, the angst slips away and the mind begins to clear. I sense the quiet return of my sweeter, truer self.

I stay a little longer. I unravel a little more. I rest into the recovered peace of this moment, this tender space, this life-saving balm of the here and now, of heavy and light, of earth and sky. And I stay - breathing and surrendering and softening every bit of my being - for as long as it takes to reclaim my breath, my balance and my life.

II

I call this life-saving practice A Few Easy Breaths, or Grounding Practice, or sometimes Befriending the Earth. Some days I call it Defeated Mother Pose, and in my most desperate moments, I call it Just Giving Up. I share it with you on the off chance that you, too, might need a refuge from time to time, a soft spot to land when the waters of life grow turbulent and scary. I share this practice so that you, too, may find your way back home when you feel lost and overwhelmed.

Magic happens when after so much striving and angst, we give up and let everything be for just a little while. A soul-quenching sweetness returns when we turn away from the world's endless rush, from the relentless chatter, from the nonstop train of life. 

In order to live fully in the world, it seems, it is necessary to turn away every once in a while. To turn inward. To reclaim one's inner balance. To remember what holds us close. To let everything inessential fall away until nothing is left but stillness and presence and who we really are in the deepest folds of the wide-open world.

Even adults, it seems, need a time out from time to time.

III

Here's my gentle suggestion: The next time you feel desperate or lost, with your circuits overloaded and your body gasping for air, get as close as possible to the ground. Sit down, lie down, fall down, whatever you can manage.

I'm a big fan of collapsing onto the earth, but you could also climb into bed or nestle into your favorite comfy chair. In summer, a blanket out on the lawn feels perfect. In winter, tucked in tight in the coziest spot in the house might feel just right.

If you have the energy, grab a pillow or blanket on your way down to create a soft nest for yourself. The aim is to let your body rest completely, to feel held and to let go.

Once settled, invite your whole being to soften, to melt, to relinquish its tight grip on life. Release the shoulders, unclench the belly and notice everything that feels tight inside of you. Hand all that tension over to the earth.

Remind yourself that this troubling moment is not a life-threatening emergency. Say those words out loud if you need. (Sometimes I actually say, "Dear brain, this is not an emergency. No need to be on high alert. I am safe in this moment. I can soften and relax now into the ground beneath.")

Settle into the soothing melody of the breath, with its rise and fall, its ebb and flow. Let each inhalation soften you. Let each exhalation feel like a deep act of surrender. You’ll know you’re heading in the right direction when a soul-satisfying sigh of relief pours out of you. You’ll feel like a lost and fussy baby who has been placed in her mother’s arms and can finally soften and breathe once again. Everyone sighs in relief.

 

About now might be a good time to remind yourself that you have always managed before, that you have never actually fallen off the earth entirely. Now would be a good time to remember that all lives come with 10,000 joys and 10,000 sorrows, and that the rockiness of this moment will eventually flow into joy once again.

Remind yourself, too, that you have all the resources you need to manage this moment, this life. In this one moment - the only place to truly be alive - you are breathing and tender-hearted and whole.

Stay here until you feel like yourself again. This may take several moments. (And wouldn't it be beautiful if you even fell asleep here?) On a good day, you may feel free again after just a few easy breaths.

IV

Here's the mystery and the beauty of this practice: When you get close to the earth, when you genuinely hand your life over to her in a soft and faithful way, the earth generously gives back.

Like a good friend, the earth holds you close even as the turbulence of life roils on. You give up. You let go. You are held. And then when you are ready, the earth gently nudges you back to the wider world. In some strange and quiet alchemy, despair gives way to shades of possibility. Strength slips back into your bones. Your steady heart revives.

By letting go of all you think you know and all you think you should be, you are reclaimed, you are found. In growing heavy you make room for the light to enter once again. In emptying you are filled, and in dissolving you are made whole. 

 

You breathe again without fear, and you remember the sweet ways this life may be song. You remember the beauty and the loveliness of just being here, alive, awake and willing to take in the light. You rest here a little while, feeling utterly grounded and deep, and also as light and spacious as the air all around. 

If the practice has worked its magic, you will feel restored. You will feel returned to your truest self, clear-eyed and at ease. Your faithfulness will return in living color, as you remember that everything is going to be okay, that you can manage this mysterious adventure called life. 

 

 In handing yourself over to the earth you have also been gifted the sky.

V

Why not start right now? Why not slip down to the ground for just a few moments of ease and peace? Even now, can’t you feel the earth pulling you toward her, nudging you to relinquish the weight of your life for just a little while?

Settle close to the earth. Take a deep breath in, and then let a long and beautiful sigh of relief pour out of you. Breathe in again. And with each exhale, nestle a little more fully into the wide-open arms of the ground beneath.

Stay a while if you like. Let the rest of the world spin off in its own hurried orbit. Enjoy the view from down low. Smile at the sky so very high above. Enjoy a few easy breaths, befriending the vast and patient earth, letting everything go and everything be.

Perhaps in these few quiet moments you will find yourself, your life, your possibility and truth. You might even feel shards of dappled joy somewhere deep inside. And when you are ready, you will rise up and return to the wider world, still carrying earth's generous and faithful presence deep within your bones.

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One Sip At a Time

I'm driving to the apple orchard on a soggy Saturday afternoon, listening to my favorite public radio quiz show. A cell phone sits on my lap with a recorded message blaring through the speaker, telling me I have five more minutes to wait before I can talk to an airline reservation agent.

A mug of milky Earl Grey tea cools in the cup holder by my side, and every few minutes I reach for a sloppy sip. All the while I offer my son a running commentary about our journey through the hilly countryside.

"Look at those horses in the field," I sing as I reach my arm blindly back toward his car seat, in a hopeless attempt to shove another piece of graham cracker into my son’s mouth.

The stoplight ahead turns yellow, and impulsively I gun the engine so we can slip through the intersection before it turns red. And then suddenly I change my mind and slam my foot onto the brake. The screech of the tires jolts me awake.

"What am I doing?" I ask myself, looking first at the cell phone, then at the spilled tea, and then finally at the perplexed expression on my son's delicate face.

My son and I are out for an afternoon adventure to pick up a cool jug of cider and a peck of juicy apples, and maybe to stop by the book shop before heading home. We have no one to meet, and we have no reason to be in any particular hurry. Nonetheless, my ferocious multitasking has left me breathless and frazzled.

I turn off the cell phone, and instantly feel a little calmer. I turn off the radio and breathe another sigh of relief. I close tight the lid of my commuter mug, hand the rest of the cracker to my son and feel an immense load lift from my soul.

The light turns green. I place two hands on the wheel and settle my eyes firmly on the road ahead.

ONE TASK AT A TIME
Tackling one task at a time feels infinitely sane. The world grows brighter and clearer, and for the first time all day I feel truly mindful of the sights and sounds around me. I'm no longer gunning my inner engine but instead settling cleanly in the here and now. And all because I’ve pared down my to-do list to one single task at a time.

I feel so soothed, so relieved, so happy to do less that I resolve to stay on the lookout for other sweet spots in my day when I can practice the fine art of doing just one thing. And it doesn't take me long at all to discover that there are many.

When my son nuzzles in to my chest to nurse, I catch myself picking up an outdated magazine. I pause, consider the possibilities, and then toss The New Yorker onto the floor. I place my hand on my son's lean back, and sink into the sensations of the moment. My breath deepens, my muscles slacken, and I feel myself settling into an oasis of calm. The sweetness of this simple, quiet moment with my child overwhelms me, and the recognition that I had almost trampled right over it brings tears to my eyes.

Later that evening, I settle in front of the computer to check my email with a cup of tea in one hand and sliver of rich, dark chocolate in the other. Just as I'm debating which hand to reach toward my mouth, I stop. I decide to choose just one activity: sip, chew or surf. The jasmine tea wins, and I sit quietly in my favorite chair - my back long and straight, my cheeks moistened by the steam - and enjoy every sweet, fragrant mouthful. Another sweet and peaceful moment has just stitched its way into my day.

The next morning, I opt out of a harried attempt to simultaneously answer phone calls, throw a load of laundry into the washer, and trail behind my son in a futile attempt to maintain some sense of order in his wake. Instead, when he hands me a purple scarf and asks me to play his favorite John McCutcheon tune, I abandon my other tasks and turn on the stereo.

My son swooshes his scarf, I swirl mine, and we dance. He smiles mischievously from across the room, looks directly into my eyes, and then with a running start hurls himself into my arms. I laugh almost as hard as he does as we spin about the room, clutching tightly to each other, watching our scarves slip through the air.

MONO-TASKING
With these giggles, my full-blown devotion to mono-tasking is born. The world may be bustling with multi-taskers, but I decide to shift into the slow lane, where the drivers aren’t weaving and swerving as they talk on the phone while listening to the radio, reaching for a sip of latte, and more.
“One task at a time” becomes my new motto. One step at a time, one sip at a time, one breath at a time.

The first thing I notice as I pare my life down to a single task per moment, as best I can, is that the world grows a little quieter. I'm surprised by how much background music I have injected into my world in the form of the droning voices on the radio, small talk on the telephone, and the endless loop of music spilling from my computer.

And then I notice that as I choose to do fewer things at once, I feel like I’m actually getting more accomplished. I'm not sure whether I'm truly growing more efficient, or whether I just feel less hassled as I plow through my daily to-do list.

Whichever it is, I like it. I am surprised to recognize how much frenzy and commotion I had piled into my life simply through my hurried ambition to get everything done at once.

My days begin to feel a little airier and my breath feels like it’s slowing to a more leisurely pace. I feel brighter and more playful. My mind grows quieter and my meditation practice is reborn.

And for the first time in months I find myself pulling my favorite poetry books off of the shelf and savoring the sweet peace I find within them. A good poem, after all, can’t be appreciated when you’re on the run. You have to sit still, breathe deeply, and listen carefully in order for its magic to slip under your skin.

MULTI-TASKING HABITS
As I dive a little deeper into my sip-by-sip experiment, I ask myself what rests beneath our multi-tasking habits. Are we so busy that we need to do four things at once? Are we afraid of the peace and quiet that comes with doing less? Do we buy into the unspoken notion that a busy body must surely mean that one is valued and important? Or are we merely victims of the thoughtless multitasking habit that seems to have overtaken our entire go-go world?

I’m not sure. But as I ponder these questions I am surprised to discover that beneath my ceaseless activity lies a funny combination of carelessness and greed. Somewhere, it seems, I’ve picked up a notion that more is always better. It’s as if I’m wandering through a smorgasbord, mindlessly filling my plate with salad, sweet potatoes, rice, beans and bread, without once asking myself whether I am even hungry at all.

Do we need to heap more onto my life’s plate just because we can? Is more necessarily better? Are two tasks better than one? And what happens when we stop and say, “Wait, I’m full, I’m happy with just this much and no more?”

THE GIFT OF YOGA
I begin to understand more deeply the gift of a simple yoga practice, where we rest our awareness cleanly and compassionately on the sensations of the single stretch and deliberate breath of the present moment. Our minds learn to focus on the task at hand, and our impulses are slowed enough for us to examine them more closely. The yoga mat, I learn, is the perfect training ground for a mind wishing to savor the sweetness of one simple sensation at a time.

And meditation, I decide, is merely an opportunity to practice the extreme edge of mono-tasking. What could be more basic than sitting quietly, observing the breath, and focusing on the raw ingredients of the here and now?

Day after day, on my mat I learn that a few deep breaths and a few quiet moments of settling and softening are enough. I taste with renewed contentment the bounty of the present moment. And I begin to see more clearly that less is often more, or at the very least, less is almost always enough.
As I continue shedding my frenzied, pile-it-on habits, I begin to wonder what would happen if the whole world began to explore the “less is more” approach to daily living. What would happen to our highways, our relationships, our words, and our waistlines, if we kept our hands and our minds focused on one task at a time instead of carelessly struggling to juggle it all?

My hunch is that many of us have become such habitual multi-taskers that we’ve actually forgotten how to slow down. We’re so used to gulping that we barely remember how to sip. But my guess is also that if each of us devoted just a few minutes each day to focusing our attention cleanly and clearly on one single task before us - whether it's downward facing dog, an evening commute or a few moments with a loved one - our world would instantly grow happier, kinder and saner.

Life is busy, and I do want to be flexible and adaptable enough to know how to juggle a phone call, a load of laundry, and a looming deadline with finesse when I’m in a crunch. But when the afternoon ahead promises to be full of blue sky and easy breathing, I want to be able to shake the need to pile ever more onto my plate and then return to mindfully taking one step at a time. I want to move slowly and deliberately enough to enjoy each step, every breath, and each sweet and spicy mouthful of Earl Grey tea… one sip at a time.

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This essay was originally published in Yoga International (May 2006)

No Hurry at All

It's Friday evening - pizza night. I'm standing in the garage with my 10-month-old on my hip, a diaper-laden backpack on my shoulder, and a large, hot pizza box sizzling in my hands. My four-year-old sits in the car, playing with wipes.

"Let's go," I say. "It's supper time." He dawdles in that fabulous, timeless, what's-the-hurry mode of a contented four-year old. My shoulders tighten.

"Come on, Bud," I snap. "We need to get a move on."

Truth is, we don't need to get a move on. I'm uncomfortable at the moment, yes, but we don't have any reason to rush. We have plenty of time left in the day to eat our pizza, plenty of time before bed to enjoy our mid-summer's eve. This sense of hurry, I wonder as we trample into the house, where does it come from?

SLOWING DOWN
Later that night, after being awakened by first one and then the other boy, I pull out my headphones and tune into a dharma talk by Gil Fronsdal, one of my favorite Buddhist teachers. He opens this talk on lovingkindness by explaining that the first step in shedding the crustiness around our hearts is slowing down. If you want to sow the seeds of lovingkindness, he says, change your attitude about time. The world softens and opens when you slow down and offer your loving attention.

I lie in bed, a small heart beating on either side of me. I swallow hard as I consider how often we rush, even when we have nowhere to go and all day to get there. I consider how often my sons will feel hurried as they grow, and I offer a big thank you for the many moments as youngsters they have to linger in the eternal now. At the moment we live as open and unfettered a life as I can imagine. So why am I always pushing us forward at a breakneck and over-caffeinated pace?

My four-year-old is still young enough to look up at me with dreamy eyes and ask, “Is it morning or are we getting close to bedtime?" Or "What day are we in?" And even occasionally, "Did we just have Christmas or is going to happen soon?"

I long to be so firmly planted in the here and now that I am able to forget the ticking kind of time is all about. I wish I were a better lingerer, a lollygagger, able to just sit and let life unfold as it will, slowly and without much of an agenda. And I feel remorseful about the many times I've rushed my children out the door for no good reason but my own grown-up impatience.

GOING NOWHERE SLOWLY
In the dark of the night I pledge to let my kids dive more fully into the present moment, to kick the habit of dragging them forward at high speed without good reason. I vow to let our next month be “Going Nowhere Slowly” month, a time when I will let my children teach me about slowing down, about opting out, about lollygagging in the little delights that make themselves apparent only when one's eyes are focused resolutely in the present moment.

In the coming season, we'll give ourselves permission to opt out of running at the speed of everyone else’s life. We'll make the most of the phrase, "We have nowhere to go and all day to get there."
I know we’ll be happier and less strained when I learn to idle my inner engines a bit. I know our breath will soften and our sense of time will grow larger if we let the spinning legs of time run on away from us, and commit ourselves to simply soaking in the glorious now.

So here's to a "No Hurries, No Worries" season ahead. Let's settle into the glory days ahead, and let the larger, faster world wear itself out without us.

Care to join us? Take your time getting to our oh-so-slow party. There's absolutely no hurry at all.

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Blueberries of Happiness

I'm standing in the middle of a blueberry patch, the long arms of the bushes reaching out to me, practically begging me to relieve them of their berries. The sun is hot and the air is cool. The boys charge ahead of me, picking and eating and musing about the best way to nudge a blueberry off its stem.

I look up at the brilliant blue sky, and I sigh. I catch myself smiling. I realize that I'm happy, right here and right now in this moment.

The women the next row over chat about their morning coffee and their cell phone data plans and whether to abandon Netflix. On the other side a family from Florida ponders whether to make muffins or pie first, and wonders whether their friends in Italy eat blueberries, and if they do what beautiful words they shout out when the berries touch their tongues.

A few bushes down an elderly man and woman, the sort who look like they hold hands when they're not reaching for berries, slowly and methodically work their way down the hill. They exude the quiet contentment that so many of us spend our lives seeking.

What to do with all this happiness, I wonder. This lightness and ease shines so brightly and yet it feels so shy, so ephemeral. I long to clutch at it, to hold it close, but I know that never works. I remind myself to simply enjoy this lovely moment and to savor it fully.

LIGHTNESS AND EASE
I continue massaging the branches and enjoying the plunk-plunk-plunk as the berries fall like raindrops into my bucket. And I try to remember what those wise old Buddhists have to teach us about happiness. They've never failed me in times of difficulty, and they've always offered me comfort and hope. But what do they tell me about happiness? Enjoy it but don't cling, I suppose. Be present for it. Don't over-personalize it, and remember that this feeling, too, will pass.

I move on to the next abundant blueberry bush. The words of the poet Naomi Shihab Nye bubble up from the depths of my body. "It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness," she writes in one of my favorite poems. "With sadness there is something to rub against, a wound to tend with lotion and cloth..."

I pause as I struggle to recall the rest of the poem, where surely she has something to teach me. I recall her words "happiness floats" with a smile, since that is exactly how I feel right now. "It doesn't need you to hold it down. It doesn't need anything." Yes, she's right. I understand.

All this happiness wafts through me like fresh air, and for a few moments I almost feel like we're all floating, carried in a little bubble of happiness that slips into the sky like a helium balloon set free. I realize that in the hour we've been picking blueberries I haven't heard a single sour word from anyone.

Everyone around me, in fact, seems seized by happiness. My sons have been chattering and plotting and discussing and (sometimes) picking, but miraculously they haven't bickered once. The families around me have been kind and generous to one another, as sweet and as smooth as the blueberries we pick.

HAPPINESS FLOATS
Is it the weather, perhaps? The brilliant sun that lifts our moods? The gentle focus that's required when picking blueberries? The blueberries themselves? Or could it be the incredible sense of abundance we all feel right now? There are so many berries, in all directions, that no one need fight over a row or a bush or a berry.

There's plenty for all and no need for anyone to feel territorial or threatened or greedy. For a few moments I contemplate what the world would feel like if we all lived with our hands held open like this, in total faith of the world's abundant generosity. How beautiful a world that would be.

"Happiness floats," indeed. I savor. I enjoy. I ask the boys if they're happy, too, and they are. They say they could stay here and pick all day. "If you're happy and you know it," I call out. And they respond in our family's typical refrain, "Then share it!"

Finally, we can carry (and eat) no more, so we head back to the cashier to pay for our bounty. A woman is just heading out into the blueberry patch, with a baby on her chest and four smaller ones clucking about her like noisy chicks. Even she is smiling, I notice. It's just that kind of day.

We return home. The boys bring in the berries while I dash upstairs in search of Nye's poem. When I find it, I devour it hungrily, happily, with a sigh. "Since there is no place large enough to contain so much happiness," she writes, "you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you into everything you touch."

I float back downstairs and pull out all the plastic give-away bowls that I can find. I rinse our berries in cool water, and ask the boys to tell me who might need a little happiness today, who might like an offering of fresh berries. We begin naming names and sending out wishes for happiness as we spoon shiny purple berries into bowl after beautiful bowl to share.

Because of course, when you find yourself surrounded by a bumper crop of blueberries - or perhaps with an abundance of happiness - the proper thing to do is to welcome it into the marrow of your bones, to savor it deeply, and then to pass it on to others as an offering to the greater world.

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This article was originally published in Yoga International (Fall 2012). The poem So Much Happiness by Naomi Shihab Nye can be found here.

Choose Love

Here's a proposition to offer you on this beautiful new day: In any given moment, we have a choice about how we respond to the world around us. We can live out of love or we can act out of fear. We can anchor our response to the happenings around us in tenderness and optimism, or we can live in a more hollow and grasping place of negativity and anger.

If our intention is to add a healing helping of love to the world, the answer is obvious: We need to ally ourselves with the forces that hold all of us up rather than smack us down. We need to keep close to kindness and tenderness and patience and care. We need to climb out of our small-mindedness and into a sense of greater community with the world around us. We need to stay rooted in our deepest loves, and we need to act in love on behalf of everyone around us.

This sounds so obvious and straightforward when written in a tidy paragraph like the one I've just offered. And yet, as we all already know, this can sometimes feel like the hardest job in the world. When we’re overwhelmed or off-balance, our grasping habits move front and center. When we're surrounded by negativity, we can so easily be pulled down into our own grumbly space. When we feel buffeted by life's fiercer winds, we can lose touch with our innate wisdom and friendliness. We can almost feel the doors and windows of our hearts slamming shut.

Acting out of lovingkindness, then, must become a choice we make moment-by-moment, as we move through our days. It can be a practice, an attitude and ultimately a way of being in the world. It can be a beautiful way to keep our eyes trained on healing ourselves and the world, and it can teach us where our lives are flowing and where we are stuck.

CHOOSE LOVE
Here's a simple strategy that may help us move in that direction: When you face a decision, when you're struggling with how to respond, when you're trying to figure out what to do next, whisper these two words: Choose love.

And then act accordingly, responding in whatever way you feel adds to the world's bounty of love and care. This will be easy, of course, when we're feeling happy and abundant and open. And it will take a little practice when the road feels a little more bumpy.

Even when it's difficult, though, it is still worth it. Choosing the low road, after all, hurts not just others but also ourselves. Maligning another doesn’t help anyone and it doesn’t feel good to us. Trying to keep track of who we like and who we don’t saps our time and vitality. Remembering which grudge we are holding against whom takes energy that could be more productively spent in raising us all up and keeping the planet spinning in a healthy way. Holding tight to stories about how and why we have been wronged only reinforces our sense of despair and deepens our sense of separation from one another.

"I have decided to stick with love," Martin Luther King, Jr., once wrote. "Hate is too great a burden to bear.” I’ve posted these wise words to my bathroom mirror so I have a frequent reminder of the choice we make to incline our minds toward love or hate. If King’s words speak to you, then you might do the same.

Allying ourselves with love doesn't mean we need to abandon our principles or roll over in the face of injustice, of course. Instead, it challenges us to live our truths from a place of empathy rather than anger, in a way that heals rather than deepens the divisiveness and rancor already so entrenched in the world. Isn't this a beautiful call to action? Let us live in love and on behalf of all, without dividing the world into "us" and "them," without creating enemies or demonizing others.

ERR ON THE SIDE OF LOVE
Today and every day, why not open wide our hearts and our arms, and ally ourselves with everyone and everything, choosing the side of light? How can we possibly go wrong with more love?

As you explore this lovely and simply instruction, watch closely to what happens. Do the words "choose love" jolt you out of a rut and into a more enlightened way of being in the world? Do they convince you to abandon those harsh words in favor of a sweeter retort? And how do you feel when you are able to follow through in this way?

And when you just can’t muster up the most loving response and ill-will rears its angry head instead (which happens to us all from time to time), why is that? And what happens? And what can we do in our lives to make it more likely that we can err on the side of love in the future?

As we move forward in the days ahead, let's choose love, in happiness and in sorrow, in joy and in despair. Let's invite our words and actions to be beacons of love and understanding, lighting the way for ourselves and for others. Let's lay down the burdens of hate and ill-will. Let's open our arms and welcome in the whole wide world. And then let's move forward together, with tenderness and care, on behalf of all beings, everywhere.

This essay was originally offered as part of Claudia's online 

immersion Dwelling in the Heart: A Month of Lovingkindness

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Following Your North Star

You stand at a new beginning. Perhaps you are graduating from high school, or choosing a college, or contemplating a career move, or heading toward retirement. Or maybe you have a sense that your life needs a course correction and you are ready to take a leap into something new.

Here's what I want you to know: The world is eager to tell you how to live. Our society is filled with voices telling you what other people think you should do and who other people think you should be. There are business and schools and politicians who have a lot riding on you following their lead, on you buying their products, and on you buying into their ideas about what a successful life looks like.

What college should you go to? The best one you can get in to, according to someone else's definition of what best means. What job should you take? The one with the highest paycheck in the trendiest city, preferably the one that elicits the most nods of approval and admiration from others. What sport should you play and what vacation should you take? The photographic ones that produce enviable action shots that elicit admiring comments on your Instagram feed.

From our earliest days on the planet we are influenced by subliminal pressures to conform, to achieve, to step into someone else's version of good, better and best. We are quietly led to believe that we were born not quite good enough but that if we try a little harder according to someone else's rules, we'll be okay. We are offered pats on the back and trophies and then degrees and paychecks that instruct us on what the world deems most successful and most worthy. We sometimes even fall victim to those who resort to fear-mongering in order to keep us on the straight and narrow paths they think we should travel.

The digital world - with its likes and dislikes, tweets and retweets, invisible friends and anonymous critics - has only added to the crushing sense that we are losing ownership of our own lives. Sometimes those outside voices are so incessant that we forget they are even there. They become so tightly woven into our lives that we can no longer tell the difference between our desires, our passions, our happiness, and the world's.

Don't listen! Don't be a lemming! Don't take what the greater world puts on your plate with without a second thought. Don't be the fool the conventional world wants you to be, following the well-worn and well-marked paths that others have laid out for you. If you do, some day you are likely to end up looking back and wondering why you decided to live someone else's version of a good life instead of your very own.

Right here and right now, at this turning point, you have an opportunity to take back your life. You are in the ideal position to consider what brings you happiness, what gives you meaning, what offers you peace. This is your chance to decide for yourself who you will become and how you will spend your days. Now is the time to find your own footing, to plant yourself in the fertile soil of your own life, and to bloom into your own fullest being.

So go ahead, hear out your parents, your family, your wisest mentors and friends. Listen to what they have to say. Smile as they share their stories and offer you advice. Nod your head so they know they have been heard. Promise them that you will be okay.

And then take a deep breath, and turn and walk away.

Go outside. Look around. Feel the fresh air on your cheeks. Take a deep breath in, and then let a huge sigh of relief spill out of you. Open your eyes to the amazements all around. Listen for the birds. Linger on the colors. Set your gaze on the farthest horizon.

Go small for a little while. Lie down in the grass like you did when you were a child, and watch the clouds slip across the clean blue sky. Or plop yourself down on the closest bench, close your eyes and listen to the sounds of life. Or, perhaps, be like Thoreau and head off into the woods in search of some greater peace. Open yourself to the vastness and vitality of the world all around you, to the steadiness of the earth and the promise of the sky above.

Relax every muscle in your body. Exhale, and then exhale some more. Let go of the tightness of your fears, the weight of expectations, the suffocation of perfectionism, all the heavy shoulds you have been carrying around for years. Invite everything inessential spill away, like rocks tumbling off the cliffs of your body.

Crane your neck upward and imagine the millions of miles of space above you. Keep imagining - through the clouds and the blue sky, up through the darkness to the moon, through the spinning planets, the far edges of the solar system, through the milky way, and beyond.

Keep going until you sense how infinitesimally small you are amid the enormity of the world. Keep going until you see how beautifully minuscule this one turning point of your life really is. Keep going until you sense that you are just one teeny tiny light amid an infinite strand of lights that make up the world, no more and no less than any other light that shines. Keep going until you sense that as long as you keep shining, what happens to you next makes little difference in the arc of the whole wide world.

Linger here in the smallness and the vastness, in the spinning and the silence, until you sense the voices of the outer world growing quiet, until you sense your own head beginning to clear. Stay here until you feel your frozenness and  fear melt away. Stay here until you know in your bones that you are good enough, and that whether you go left or right, you will still be wholly you. Stay here until you sense that what matter most isn't your job title or your salary but rather that you live fully and deeply, that you shine brightly and live with whole heart, before you die.

From this place of quiet and calm, ask yourself what brings you alive, what lifts you up, what matters most. What fills you with a sense of purpose and presence? What brings you joy, what brings you love, what brings you peace? How will you live this gift of a life that you have so generously been given?

If you haven't looked inside for a while, gleaning a response from the depths of your being might take a while. Keep at it, though, for now is the perfect time to reacquaint yourself with who you are and how you want to live. What would you do if you were given an afternoon - or a month, or a year - with absolutely no obligation? What childhood passions brought you deep pleasure and delight, and might still bring you alive today? And when you are on your deathbed - hopefully a very long time from now - what will you have been most thankful for, most proud of, most happy to have been called your own?

Wait patiently for an answer.  Eventually the shy voice of wisdom will make itself known. Visions of what you love most and who you want to be will shine up from within, pointing you in the direction of your truest self, your deepest passions, your own true north.

Go deeper than job titles and cities and names. Open your field of vision wider than that. Is it creativity that brings you alive? Or the thrill of discovery - new places, new visions, new ideas? Does figuring things out set your soul on fire? Or attempting the impossible? Maybe your heart's greatest desire is to add beauty to the world through music or dance or poetry or painting, Maybe children lift you up, or animals, or long rambles through ancient woods filled with rare and unusual creatures. Or perhaps you never sleep better than on a day when you've righted a wrong or lifted up another soul.

Don't be surprised if the answers you hear aren't at all what you expected. Don't be surprised if your answers aren't the conventional ones. And don't be surprised if your answers aren't the most glorified or even the most respectable in the eyes of the outer world. But listen, nonetheless. There's only one person in the world who knows what will bring you happiness and fulfillment. There's only one person who can tell you how to lead an authentic life. Your time here is too brief and too precious to waste on someone else's dreams and truths. Welcome to you, and welcome to your life.

When you've found that shining steadiness within, promise yourself that you will never forsake it, that you will hold it close, and that you will carry it forward with you back into the world of action. Commit to living your very own life - the life that turns on all the lights in the house - from this breath forward.

How will you do that? That is up to you. Maybe you'll discover that the direction you were heading is already a perfect fit for you. Or maybe you'll swerve from the path you thought was yours and try on another life for a bit. Maybe you'll don the dark suit and head to Wall Street after all, or maybe you'll pull your backpack out of your closet and head to Kathmandu. Whatever you choose, it will be your adventure, your journey, your opportunity to call forth your greatest gifts in a way that brings both you and the world happiness and peace.

I do have one hint to guide you as you plot your next chapter: When we look back on our lives, on what has brought us meaning, what has brought us joy and what has brought out the best in us, we likely won't name the titles of our jobs, the addresses where we've lived, or the dollars that we've earned. In the end, it is our relationships that will have mattered most.

It is that trip we took to Europe with the friend we met in Kindergarten that will fill our hearts with happiness. It is that roommate who at first seemed so different, but whom we learned to treasure. It is the beautifully - and sometimes beautifully difficult - adventure of being a member of a family that holds itself together through thick and through thin. It is the joy of creating a new family, in whatever form that takes, to shepherd through the world with tenderness and care.

Our job here on earth isn't to cultivate a life of meaning and happiness for ourselves alone. It is to shine in ways that light up the world around us, too. It is to hold our bonds with others at the center of our lives, to love deeply and love well. For it is love that binds us together, love that points us beyond ourselves, and love that carries us through both the shining and the tragic moments of our lives.

Every authentic life flourishes from within. But every life worth living ends in the hearts of others. No one wants to eat their birthday cake alone. And chocolate always tastes better when it is shared.

So as you find your way, guided by your own north star, always reach out to others and err on the side of inclusion. Make connections, widen the circle of your life, and offer your gifts to others. Once you've found what brings your life into living color, and once you've cultivated the courage to live that vibrant life, then harness that energy to serve the world in some beautiful, meaningful way.

There is no one right way to live a life. There are only choices that bring us fully alive and allow us to flourish, and also choices that shut us down and disconnect us from our deepest loves. There are only moments that are ours to fill, and how we choose to fill them becomes who we are. The real journey is the journey inward where we discover our secret center - our own north star within - the place from which we shine most brightly and bloom into our most illuminated selves.

You are already good enough, deserving of the life you are meant to lead. You have all the wisdom you need to find your way with happiness and grace. All you need to do is take one step forward, and then another, and then another. Where your steps take you matters less than how you choose to live them. As the Spanish poet Antonio Machado, wrote. "Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking."

One step at a time, one breath at a time, one moment at a time. Live with whole heart and an open mind. Follow the adventures that awaken your deepest passions. Trust your steady legs and your strong and tender heart. Shine brightly. Extend your arms wide out to the horizons. Love generously. Cultivate friendship everywhere. Serve others. Spread kindness and goodwill to all.

And never stray too far from the wisdom that already lies within you. Keep your eyes open and your heart clear. Stay true to your own north star, and never waver from the path that is yours, from the life that only you can live.

I wish you great happiness and deep love as you move forward into the next adventure of your life. May you live a life of meaning and delight, of depth and passion, of beauty and peace. May each day be filled with laughter to buoy you, adventure to inspire you, ideas to challenge you, peace to sustain you and an unending supply of that vital and shimmering love that illuminates all of our days.

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