My heart has been heavy, and my mind has been full trying to process COVID and social unrest and the election. Then fire season descended upon Napa far earlier than usual, and my mind went into a tailspin.
I sat in silence after reading this poem. Tears stung my eyes. Then, I slowly reread the poem, stopping on this line:
Try corralling a lightning bolt, containing a tornado.
It’s a line that makes you want to laugh because it sounds so outrageous, yet it’s often how we approach life, especially in hard and uncertain times. We know it’s impossible to corral a lightning bolt, but we’d rather try than sit with our feelings and our racing mind.
Today I needed this reminder. When life feels like it’s falling apart, that’s the time to allow, bear the truth, and let go. Because I am ready to be carried to higher ground.
Then, that minute turned into an hour. That hour turned into a day. That day turned into a week. That week turned into a month. That month turned into two. It’s now been more than two months since I’ve posted on this blog.
But I needed that time because I’d lost my voice. Between the pandemic, the murder of George Floyd, and our country’s reckoning with police brutality and systemic racism, I felt unmoored, disconnected, and as if I had nothing of value to say. I needed to retreat and go inward to listen and learn from others. I meditated, read books, and listened to podcasts. I followed inspiring Black Lives Matter influencers on Instagram. I signed petitions, wrote letters, and spoke to friends and family.
My husband and I also drove across the country.
As I sat in the car, I watched the parched West coast landscape fade into salt flats, lakes, and snow-capped mountains. Then there were prairies, tumbleweeds, and massively imposing wind turbines. These gave way to rolling hills, rivers, and towering evergreens. Eventually, we were greeted on the East Coast by heavy rain, congested highways, and dense suburbs.
I was struck by how meditative it felt to do nothing but stare out the window and marvel at the vastness of this country.
Experiencing a forced retreat
My meditation teacher has described the coronavirus pandemic and shelter-in-place orders as a retreat–albeit a forced retreat. We are being forced to go inward, to spend more time with ourselves and those immediately around us. This inward focus held steady during our road trip. My husband and I did not linger at rest stops or take time to sightsee. Instead, we drove with purpose, ate in our car, and masked up at every stop. We were in our own little bubble, a forced retreat for two on this 3,000-mile journey.
Dr. Mark Epstein, a psychiatrist who studies the intersection of Buddhism and psychotherapy, also talks about this time as being on retreat. Speaking on the GOOP Podcast, he explains that this retreat has been so hard because our natural human impulse is to avoid uncomfortable feelings. Our instinct is to do whatever we can to alleviate pain and suffering. But this isn’t always possible in a lock-down because we’ve lost a degree of control over our lives. We are forced to sit in a place where we can no longer avoid confronting that which is painful or harmful–in our own lives and culture.
Taking wise and skillful action
This forced retreat may be part of the reason why the country rose up in mass protests in response to George Floyd’s death. Being forced into retreat, we could no longer distract ourselves and turn away from the horrific violence we witness against people of color. Millions transformed their anger into wisdom and skillful action, Epstein explains. This helped to turn a moment–the murder of George Floyd–into a global movement.
I am back home now, and I am slowly returning to The Land of Woo. But I am doing so with gratitude for those who have educated me, inspired me, and helped me navigate these tumultuous few months. Thank you for speaking out when I lost my voice and acting as a beacon of hope, light, and inspiration guiding me through this forced retreat.
My Dad is an ally. He always has been. Being an ally comes naturally to him. He interacts with Black and Brown people with ease. When I was very young, he worked as a teacher at a public elementary school in Washington, DC. He was the only White teacher. Every so often, he would bring my older sister and me to visit his classroom. We’d be the only White kids in a sea of Black faces, and we loved it. We were always excited to meet his students, who would dote on us. Although my Dad left that job in the 1980s, he remains close friends with his former colleagues. Over the years, he has attended their retirement parties, and, sadly, some of their funerals.
My Dad is not without conservative views. When my then-boyfriend (now husband) and I would travel from New York to visit my parents in Maryland, my boyfriend always had to sleep in the basement. I slept upstairs, two floors away, in my childhood bedroom. While he was strict, my Dad never cared about the ethnicity of our friends or the men my sisters and I dated. My Dad wanted us, too, to be allies.
This past week — marked by the daylight murder of George Floyd, the eruptions of protests across the country, and law enforcement agents firing rubber bullets and tear gas at peaceful protestors — has forced me to ask myself tough questions questions.
How strong of an ally am I?
How much do I rely on or hide behind my white privilege?
How can the #Woo help me process all of this?
To answer these questions, I took #BlackOutTuesday to heart. I blacked out my social media, took the day off from work, and spent hours reading, thinking, and meditating.
This is what I do know.
Being mindful and practicing meditation or Buddhism does not teach us to be self-absorbed or disengaged from reality. Rather, these practices teach us how to sit with our uncomfortable feelings instead of pretending they do not exist. Once we learn how to sit with — rather than judge — our most complicated feelings, we can recognize them, accept them, and learn how to move past them. Sitting also helps teach us compassion — for ourselves and others — and how to practice loving-kindness toward all beings. These practices can help us to overcome the ingrained belief that we are all different from one another, allowing us to recognize the humanity in others.
Practicing the #Woo is in no way an excuse to remain passive. Instead, we can be mindful allies. For instance, in early May, more than 100 Buddhist teachers and leaders penned an open letter encouraging us all to vote.
This is a truly critical time in American society. We are in the midst of a global pandemic, financial collapse, climate change emergency, and approaching a November election that threatens to exclude many eligible voters. As Buddhist teachers and leaders, we recognize that every vote and voice needs to be heard to help guide the next years of our society wisely.
Open Letter from 100+ Buddhist Teachers
Today’s climate is marked by divisiveness and a lack of compassionate leadership, the letter says, and the need has never been stronger to ensure everyone’s voices are heard to elect thoughtful leaders. Getting out the vote can help us move closer to a mutually caring community.
3. Being a mindful ally does not come naturally to me, and I need to be far more aware of my white privilege. To better understand this, I pored over op/eds, news articles, and blog posts to gather actionable steps I could follow to become a better advocate. I then created a reading list and called my local independent bookstore to order new books.
“Do you have How to be an AntiRacist by Ibram X. Kendi?” I asked when the clerk answered the phone.
“We also just sold out of that book, but we should have new ones in stock on Monday,” he said.
“Perfect! I’ll pre-order that,” I said.
“These books are flying off the shelves,” the clerk told me. “We just received 30 copies of How to be an AntiRacist, and we’ve sold all of them. This is so inspiring. We can’t keep these books stocked.”
I agreed with him because this is what should be happening. Yes, we are posting quotes, memes, and videos on social media. But we are also taking action, protesting, making donations, and initiating conversations. It made my heart happy to hear that my neighbors are eagerly trying to be part of the solution.
There are no quick fixes or easy answers to solve the heartbreak we are experiencing. But there are two questions I can ask myself as I try to move forward as a mindful ally: Will my actions lead to greater wellbeing? Or will they lead to greater suffering?
As a student of the #Woo, I am focused on using my actions to lessen the suffering and create greater wellbeing.
For the past few weeks, I’ve felt very disconnected from the #Woo.
I’ve felt uninspired and low energy—as if my #Woo spark disappeared. To top it off, my lower back pain returned. My usual stretches and Kegels weren’t helping. So, yesterday I finally gave in and canceled my Tuesday evening Zoom HIIT class.
That’s when it hit me (no pun intended 🙂 ) — I realized how I’d lost my connection to the #Woo.
Socially distanced but overly socialized
I’m what people call an extroverted introvert. When I’m with people who I enjoy and connect with, I have a great time. But being with people—even smart, fascinating, uplifting people—drains my energy. I need time to recover.
I hadn’t fully realized it, but shelter-in-place means I’m far MORE social usual. We are no longer just Zooming for work; we’re Zooming for all of our social engagements. High school friends! College friends! My family! My husband’s family! Work friends! Workouts! Dance classes! You name it, we’re Zooming it.
Last week, I had Zoom calls Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights. That didn’t even cover actual phone calls and texts.
I haven’t been that social in years, and there’s a reason. I can no longer handle that level of socializing without a night or two off to recharge. It’s in those moments—when I’m by myself and I let my mind wander or I read an inspiring book or I listen to an inspiring podcast—that I connect to the #Woo.
Connecting with the #Woo was automatically built into my pre-COVID life. I’d go for a long car ride to commute into the city, and I’d listen to The Sheri + Nancy Show, Abraham Hicks, Dr. Joe Dispenza, Oprah Winfrey, GOOP, Hay House, and a host of others. These voices would inspire me and remind me to raise my vibe, commit to my meditations, and connect with the Universe.
Once SIP first started, and I could no longer drive, I’d take walks in my backyard. My backyard isn’t large, but I’d listen to these same voices as I walked lap upon lap around my rectangular yard. But as SIP progressed, so did Zoom and my social engagements. I failed to protect my alone time. I never realized how crucial that time was to nurture my connection to the #Woo.
So yesterday, instead of logging on for my weekly grueling Zoom HIIT workout, I headed to my backyard, I walked my rectangular laps, and I listened to #Woo teachers. I got inspired, raised my vibe, and once again found my connection to the #Woo.
This Instagram message from Glennon Doyle stopped me mid-scroll:
I don’t think of myself as an artist. I have trouble calling myself a writer, even though I’ve been paid to write for my entire career. I’ve always called myself something else — like a reporter or journalist or marketer or content creator.
But I’m exploring how to own the label of “writer,” and doing it while sheltering-in-place has been so much harder than I thought it would be. Like millions of others, when I heard we had to shelter in place, my striving mind switched into overdrive. I thought I’d finish a million home improvement projects, and start churning out blogs and social media content for The Land of Woo.
Instead, I’m still struggling with the blog’s look and feel, my social media efforts are non-existent, and I’m not posting nearly as much as I’d like to be.
I love Glennon’s IG post because I’m reading her book, Untamed, and these words came directly from a writer who is openly admitting that she is struggling right now.
She hasn’t written a word.
And she shares this comment:
Please don’t forget that the Not Creating is a crucial part of the Creating. We are in a cocoon time and in there- the only work to be done is: surrender. Please be relentlessly tender with yourself.
Glennon Doyle
It’s not that I want to stop creating altogether. It’s that I wanted someone to tell me it was ok to create at a caterpillar’s pace. Now I feel more at peace, knowing that this slow becoming is part of the process of creating.
I wish I could say I was posting this mantra because it’s become my daily practice. Nope. I am posting it because my judgment mind needs to be reminded of it over and over again.
I’m finding that shelter-in-place is making it especially difficult for me to practice non-judgment and avoid comparing myself to others. After all, almost all of my daily interactions are now happening online. I rely on technology to work, to study, to entertain myself, to distract myself, and to connect with others.
This non-stop tech connectivity is, unfortunately, providing me with some new and very unhealthy ways to compare myself to others. The result is a severe case of judgment mind. Why isn’t my home as nicely decorated as hers? How come everyone seems to be waaaay more productive than I am? How does he have the stamina to be on Zoom ALL. THE. TIME? How on earth can that person still put on makeup/jeans/real clothes?
I am not yet great at stopping judgment mind, but I’m getting better at noticing when it’s rearing its head, and it’s time for me to put it in its place. That’s when I try to repeat this mantra. Non-judgment doesn’t come naturally to me, but this mantra helps to remind me that I can let these judgments go and focus, once again, on what’s important to me.
Grief started creeping up on me yesterday, but I ignored it. I pushed it to the side. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I was being stubborn. I didn’t want to cry.
But as I sat down for my Friday meditation, grief was having none of it.
I dialed in to my weekly meditation call, announced my name, muted myself, sat, and immediately, the tears started rolling.
My teacher welcomed us. My tears kept rolling.
Before starting our sit, my teacher shared thoughts on dealing with “This is never going to end” mind. I listened, and my tears kept rolling.
“Let’s settle into our bodies,” she said. Still, my tears kept rolling.
“Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel gratitude that you are taking the time to engage in this practice of meditation,” she said. Still, my tears kept rolling.
“Remember,” she said. “If at any point meditation becomes too much for you or your feelings are overwhelming, you can focus somewhere neutral, like your hands or your feet.”
But my mind didn’t want me to seek shelter in my hands or my feet. My grief was determined to be acknowledged. It needed to be wholly experienced. Otherwise, I knew I would stay in this grief.
So I sat, and I cried.
As the meditation ended, my teacher brought us back into the room. She asked each of us how we were feeling.
“I’m so sad,” I said. “I’m just so sad.”
“Did your hands and your feet help?” she asked.
“I didn’t want to go there,” I answered. “This was a grief that demanded to be seen and heard.”
We talked some more, and slowly, some of my grief subsided. The ache in my chest lessened. My breathing became deeper, fuller.
My teacher reminded us that grief is like a wave. It may come crashing down, but it will always recede. It’s part of the human experience. Just as we have great days, we will also have grief days.
As I continue my journey into the land of #Woo, I’m studying how to expand my mind and improve health. I’m also studying my actions and reassessing the impact my consumption has on society and the earth.
For a long time, I dabbled with the idea of launching a blog on Conscious Closeting, exploring how to build a more sustainable, earth-friendly, lower-waste wardrobe. One of the people I immediately began following was minimalism expert Courtney Carver.
Courtney started down her path to minimalism in 2006 after she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Over time, she realized she didn’t have to be defined by M.S. She decided to “choose what foods I put in my body, what treatments I take, who I spent time with, who is on my medical team, and how I view my life and the world.”
This week marks the 10th anniversary of Be More with Less, and today Courtney shared 10 lessons she has learned from a decade of blogging. I won’t repeat all 10 lessons — please read her entire blog. Below are the three lessons that stood out for me, and let me know I’m on the right path:
#1 Courtney’s Lesson: Consistency matters more than intensity. I have to work on myself every day. Feeling calm and centered doesn’t come naturally. I over react when I want to under react. I hold on when I mean to let go. In between all the lovely parts are messy parts. Sometimes I think I’ve got it all together but unless I’m intentionally focused, I’m all over the place. …. Consistency matters more than intensity.
My take: Thank you, thank you, thank you for saying this! Some days I feel like an absolute mess, and I question why I think I’m qualified to write this blog. On other days, I get an idea that I’m so excited about I can’t wait to write. We all know success never comes in a straight line, and life is messy. I need to remind myself of this constantly — it’s the consistent little steps I take that will keep me moving forward.
#2 Courtney’s Lesson: You can get started before you know what you are doing. Never wait until you think you know it all or until you think you have it all figured out because when you start, you usually discover that you really don’t know what you need to know and the only way to know is by starting, stumbling and discovering what really matters.
My take: I waited too long to start this blog because I didn’t think I knew what I was doing or had enough “expertise” in the area of #Woo. Honestly, I let fear hold me back from launching. I finally realized I just needed to do it — just publish that very first blog. It was the most amazing feeling to launch this blog and realize yes, I can do this. It is not perfect, but it “is.”
#3 Courtney’s Lesson: Working harder is not the answer. Movement without stillness becomes burnout. Rest, recover and be kind to yourself as you find your way in work and in life. Leave the keeping up and catching up behind. Don’t be afraid to walk away and give things room to unfold as you remind yourself that everything will be ok even if it feels like things are falling apart. As Wallace Stevens said, “sometimes the truth depends on a walk around the lake.”
My take: This is why I love my 2020 New Year’s Resolution: Non-striving. When I work too hard and strive too much, the wheels fall off. My health gets worse; my mood suffers; my work deteriorates. That’s when I remind myself that this year is all about non-striving. I take some deep breaths, look at the sky, go for a walk, make some iced tea, or meditate. Only then does my energy start to return, and my stress begin to ease.
Thank you, Courtney, for your blog. It’s the inspiration I was seeking today, and the #Woo made sure to send your message my way.
P.S. And if an idea is really meant to live in the world, it will. Journalist Elizabeth L. Cline published the book The Conscious Closet in 2019 on how to build a more sustainable closet. I read it. You should, too.
The instant I started reading it, I knew karma was involved.
The author, Katie Meuse, explains how she’s experiencing endless emotional swings that veer from feeling calm to helpless to feeling like a sloth for eating an extra batch of cookies. (There’s no shame in that. I think we’ve all been there.)
Then, she goes on to say this:
I catch myself feeling like a hero as all the cooking, laundry, and cleaning is under control. Then it’s feeling stifled and exhausted like I traveled back to the 1950s as all the cooking, laundry, and cleaning is under control.
– Katie Meuse
This is the exact conversation I had with my therapist this week. I told her how exhausted I was feeling after helping out in the kitchen, as well as doing the laundry and the cleaning. If I have to unload the dishwasher one more time, I’m going to explode, I told her.
“You’re feeling like a 1950s housewife,” my therapist said. “And you’ve never wanted to be a 1950s housewife.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ve never wanted to be a 1950’s housewife.”
But the complicated thing is that my husband is a huge help. He does ALL the cooking, ALL the grocery planning, and he picks up ALL the food.
The other thing is that I actually feel calm and productive when I clean our house. It can be meditative, allowing me to calm my busy mind while I concentrate on wiping down the counter or folding a load of laundry.
So… I’m mad that I have to clean the house, but I’m happy that it’s clean. I’m simultaneously loving and hating feeling like a 1950’s housewife, and it’s making me crazy.
This is why I found comfort in Katie’s article. She perfectly describes the emotional rollercoaster we are all riding. One day, we’re on top of the world. The next, we’re at the bottom.
She closes out her piece with this quote from Eckhart Tolle:
“Don’t look for peace. Don’t look for any other state than the one you are in now; otherwise, you will set up inner conflict and unconscious resistance. Forgive yourself for not being at peace. The moment you completely accept your non-peace, your non-peace becomes transmuted into peace. Anything you accept fully will get you there, will take you into peace. This is the miracle of surrender.”
-Eckhart Tolle
This week I’m going to work on forgiving myself for not being at peace. Forgiveness seems to be the only way to manage the emotional rollercoaster that I expect I’ll be riding until the end of this pandemic.
Non-striving doesn’t mean doing nothing or never pursuing your goals. Instead, non-striving is the idea of trying less and being more. I think of it as learning to ignore all of the “shoulds” floating around in my head that weigh me down instead of lifting me up.
In February, I happily adopted non-striving as my official resolution for 2020. Then, as we all now know, the coronavirus hit.
When the order came through to shelter-in-place, my striving mind immediately took charge. I frantically made a list of the projects I was going to tackle. What excuse could I possibly have for not being super productive if I’m forced to stay home?
Well, my striving mind never took into account the fact that I was not only working but also consuming hours of news while checking in on friends and family. Simple tasks, like grocery shopping or pumping gas, suddenly required herculean efforts involving masks or gloves or massive amounts of hand sanitizer. Meanwhile, towns were shutting down, millions of Americans were losing jobs, and thousand were falling ill.
Life in the time of coronavirus is not a time for striving. It is a time to try less and be more.
What does that mean to me?
First, it means being very clear with myself that I can’t “strive” my way out of this situation. I will get myself nowhere by making lists of projects I have no chance of completing while living through a pandemic.
Second, it means being more present to the realities of my daily life. I am trying to be less judgmental of my feelings, which swing wildly from sadness to frustration to happiness to anger. I am focused on being more patient with myself and asking what I genuinely need. Is that feeling hunger or restlessness? Am I anxious or overtired? Am I stressed or scared? Taking a moment to sit with my feelings instead of impulsively reacting to them helps me determine my next best action — which, let’s be honest, sometimes involves eating ice cream and watching Netflix.
I still strive, but in ways that bring meaning, purpose, or joy to my life. For instance, I am committed to keeping my body moving because otherwise, I get antsy and cranky. One way I stick to this is by walking outside while listening to audiobooks that I love. Another way? My friends and I meet up virtually every week to do Zoomba together.
I had no idea when I chose my New Year’s Resolution that a pandemic would sweep the globe, forcing me to stick with non-striving for better or for worse. So far, I’d say it’s for the better. Non-striving is the anchor that keeps me grounded as I face one of the most uncertain times of my life.
