Category: Reflections

Reflections on life: trauma, recovery, happiness, and spirituality

Posted on

3 Key Ways You Benefit When You Show Compassion To Others

Elissasimanowitz, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I can think of few things more beautiful than compassion.

Compassion heals us when we suffer and hurt. It is the balm that steadies us when we are lonely. It soothes us when we are angry.

Compassion is the remedy we need in these unstable and uncertain times.

So, how can we encourage ourselves to generate more of it? It might help to remember these 3 key benefits.

  1. Compassion energizes you. It makes you feel good.

You might have heard of compassion fatigue. It can happen to anyone in a helping profession, and is a common cause of burnout and early retirement.

But here’s the thing: there is no such thing as compassion fatigue.

This is empathy fatigue. Empathy is tiring. It requires you to put yourself in the shoes of others and to take up their feelings as you own. It has a searching and reaching quality to it. It requires effort. Others’ feelings can stay with you and drag you down. This can definitely create exhaustion.

But compassion is different than empathy. While the two feelings often occur together, empathy is tiring, while compassion is not.

Compassion doesn’t sit and marinate in feelings, as empathy does. It has an active quality to it. When we feel compassion, we take the difficult feelings of others and pour sunshine on them. We wish them well. We pray with sincerity. We hope for the best. Compassion is active. This sets it apart from empathy.

Research done in 2013 found that when meditators practiced feeling empathy for others, the brain’s areas for negative feelings were turned on. Empathizing for long periods of time was a struggle. By contrast, when the same meditators were told to practice compassion, it caused the areas of their brains that make dopamine and oxytocin to become more active. There was a positive emotional response that uplifted and energized. Practicing compassion was much easier.

Bottom line: empathy tires. Compassion uplifts.

2. You have an endless supply of compassion. You can’t run out of it.

Many people think that generating compassion is difficult. We fear we won’t have enough of it, so we become stingy, and reserve it only for those closest to us.

But the truth is, you have an endless supply of compassion. It’s an essential part of your being. You can’t run out of it.

You can see this natural capacity for compassion most easily in toddlers. They share easily. They give to others who are sad. They have open and generous hearts.

This is because of the mirror neurons in their brains – in our brains. Humans are profoundly social creatures and we learn by watching and imitating others. It is through these mirror neurons that we see and react to other’s emotions. It is how empathy evolved.

If we want to be happy, we soon learn that the other members of our tribe need to be happy too. So, if someone we know is in pain, we feel a natural compassion for them. We want them to feel better so we can feel better too.

Jack Kornfield is an author and meditation teacher. He describes compassion as a channel within us. Fear, anger, depression, and worthlessness can cover over this channel. They can cloud our ability to show compassion.

But our natural ability for compassion is always there. It sometimes becomes blocked, like the clouds covering a blue sky. But if we can work to keep our hearts open, by caring for others and noticing the beauty of the world around us, then our natural compassion will flow through.

So, please don’t worry about portioning out your compassion. Your heart is rich with it, as long as it remains soft and open.

3. Compassion occurs when love meets pain.

By definition, compassion arises in response to the difficulties of others. This means that, without pain, there can be no compassion. I find this incredibly moving.

Luckily, life has no shortage of pain and difficulty. No one, neither rich nor poor, is exempt from it. This means you can spread your compassion widely to everyone you pass by on the street. You always know it is going to a deserving place because we are all struggling with something.

But this is also why compassion must start with you. Too often, we compare our hurts, thinking that some people deserve more care than others. But there is no ranking system with pain. It just is. A sore heart is a sore heart, no matter the size of the hole within it. This means there is no greater recipient of compassion than you, yourself.

So, be sure to show yourself as much compassion as you can. And know that when you show yourself more compassion, it’s easier to spread it to others.

As you move forward in your life today, please remember these 3 things about compassion:

  1. It can’t tire you.
  2. It’s impossible to run out of it because it is intrinsic to your being, and,
  3. The person most deserving of compassion is yourself. You can travel the whole world and experience pain from all corners. But in the end you will find there is no one more in need of your own compassionate heart than yourself.

Now, go out and be compassionate! Shower compassion on others, but especially on your own tender being. Wish others well. Pray to ease their suffering. Hope that all will understand their own worth. And then, notice how much better you feel.

The world is hard, but it doesn’t have to be. Compassion makes it softer. For both yourself and the other hurting souls within your midst.

Posted on

A Rare Bird

My family, circa 1976

I rounded the corner of the games area, just looking for somewhere to sit. My right hip was bothering me and I wanted to do some quick stretches to open it up and relieve some tension.

The cafeteria offered many empty chairs but was also noisy and crowded, so as I wound myself through the full tables, brimming with customers, I was looking for a place of relative quiet. A place where I could take my ease, yet also watch people as they were coming and going.

And as I looked ahead of me, towards the reserved area where we were to have our party later, I saw my father.

He was looking right at me.

My dad hadn’t smiled much in recent years and he wasn’t smiling now. This unnerved me a little. To know that he might have been watching me this entire time, quietly assessing me as I wended my way towards him.

My father and I aren’t exactly close. This is not because there’s any animosity between us. It’s more because of who he is. Born in the 1930’s, he’s very much a man of his era – more of a silent provider and protector for his family, and not so much a friend.

I express surprise at seeing him there so early, and as I speak, he continues to watch me steadily with his calm blue eyes. His face is expressionless, so I have no idea what he’s thinking. But then he greets me readily enough and dives right into his recent health challenges.

“You are a rare bird,” his doctor told him at his last visit.

The description immediately captures my imagination. A rare bird.

My father is that.

Described as “backward” by his mother when he was young, he’s a little socially awkward. A quiet and thoughtful type, he didn’t show any signs of marrying and settling down until he was almost thirty – late for the time. But my mother liked him. She was drawn by his courteousness, his intelligence, their shared love of choral music. He seemed like a bird in need of caring, so she took him under her wing and nurtured him.

She died a little over a year ago.

During the difficult last days and weeks of her life, my father had a silent heart attack. We only found that out months afterwards. Further diagnostic imaging has determined that the problem is due to amyloid plaques in his heart. The same plaques that tangle the brains of patients with Alzheimer’s syndrome are suddenly interfering with the activity of his heart. His doctors are trying to keep him alive.

I watch my father as he speaks, taking note of the dry patches of skin around his cheekbones, and the gauntness of his face. He’s alive at 90, but not exactly doing well. I guess that’s the best you can say of anyone who has had the good fortune to reach the age of 90.

In the past, I’ve often felt uncomfortable around my father. I find him too silent, too acquiescing, too passive. I’ve wanted more action from him. More vigour.

The funny thing is, I guess you could say the same thing of me. My discomfort around him likely stems from the discomfort of being myself. I am very much like him.

But there’s something about that phrase he used today – “a rare bird” – that softens me towards him. And then softens me towards myself. Maybe we truly are both ‘rare birds’. And if so, shouldn’t I appreciate all those things that make us different, rather than resent them? Shouldn’t I be proud of all the things that make us ‘rare’?

Neither of us are the life of the party. We’re both easily overlooked. We’re both a little too still, too passive.

But that quietness, that stillness, can also be a strength. Today, I notice how welcomed I feel within his attentive gaze. How reassured I feel by the thoughtfulness of his words. My father has never been someone who speaks in order to get attention. He speaks when he has something to say. And in a world where everyone is constantly talking over one another, all at the same time, this is refreshing. This is rare.

I once read an interview with the Canadian singer K. D. Lang. Praised for her unique voice, she was asked when she became aware of her talent. Incredibly, she said she doesn’t believe she’s unusual. In her opinion, everyone has a world-class talent. Maybe it’s not singing or dancing or acting, but each of us has something we do exceptionally well, better than anyone else on the planet.

At the time, I had scoffed at her words. I’ve never thought I had any particular skill or talent. But now, with that new sense of openness inspired by the phrase “a rare bird”, I give it some thought.

I know I like to listen. I like to hold space for people, and help them feel seen and heard. I like to reassure them that they’re essentially OK, that they can feel safe in my presence.

As I sit next to my father and we quietly discuss the events of the day, I find I am better able to appreciate the gift of a quiet presence. The gift of attentiveness. Of thoughtfulness.

And as I accept the quietness of my father, I find I am also able to accept the quietness of myself. I am finally able to accept us both as the rare birds we are.

Posted on

How to Navigate the Space Between

User:Stanistani, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I’ve long been fascinated by lonely, empty, forgotten spaces.

Like the dark, little cubbyhole underneath the stairs, the mysterious attic, or the quiet hush of the bedroom that hasn’t been entered in years.

I think it’s the stillness. The natural pause you find in such places.

I suspect this is because I’m an introvert. Crowds overwhelm me, but give me a quiet place, with nothing but the sound of faint birdsong and the wind in the trees, and I’m immediately at home. I can actually feel my nervous system down-regulating.

In art, this place of emptiness is called negative space. It’s that white, empty area in between objects that seems meaningless, but is actually what gives art its form and style.

In yoga, it’s the space between poses. We think that nothing is happening during this time, but in actuality, everything is happening. We are shifting, we are moving. We are attempting to shape ourselves into a new pose, and in doing so, we are falling into old patterns of perfectionism, or inattention. We begin to lose focus.

This is the part of yoga practice, and of life, that we tend to disregard. But maintaining our presence and our focus in this empty, negative space is really the goal.

I’ve found myself stuck in just such a place over these last few weeks. A small muscle injury that I paid little attention to gradually became bigger more involved the longer I ignored it. Now I’m paying dearly for my lack of focus.

I had intended to enter the year 2024 full of energy and activity. Instead, I’ve found myself unexpectedly shelved.

In the beginning, I railed against my new confines. Frustrated and frightened, I contracted into a small ball of irritability. I couldn’t see my way through. Everything became tight and tense. But then things started to change.

I was able to enter the space between.

Although it may seem like nothing, this place of in-between holds great meaning. How we choose to navigate it can determine the quality and course of our lives.

In literature, this space is often referred to as the liminal space. It’s a place of transition. It’s the doorway that leads we know not where.

It’s Frodo walking the lonely, treacherous path towards Mount Doom. It’s Luke Skywalker flying to the empty, swamp-covered planet of Dagobah. In entering these liminal spaces, characters leave their old selves behind and begin their walk towards something new.

The liminal space is frightening. First of all, it is usually entered after a period of loss, or of death. It’s Frodo realizing that the entire world is threatened by the wrath of Sauron. It’s Luke Skywalker, driven away from Tattoine by the murder of his aunt and uncle.

Secondly, the liminal space is confusing. You feel lost. You will fail here. It’s an area of cognitive dissonance. The rules that you once lived by no longer apply. You have become a stranger in a strange land. Essentially, you are a caterpillar entering a cocoon. Yes, a butterfly will eventually emerge, but we sometimes forget that the process starts with the death of a caterpillar.

It’s a beautiful process. Or it can be. But in order to succeed, in order to come out on the other side in one beautiful piece, you will need a compass.

And that compass is yourself.

I think it’s easy to enter one of these empty, liminal spaces and just shut down. The emotions are too high. The fear is too intense. Nothing makes sense anymore. In order to cope, you can start to numb yourself with food, or TV, alcohol, or drugs. But the longer you distract yourself, the more extended and painful the process of transformation will be.

That’s why it’s very important to pay attention. To check in with yourself often and take note of how you’re feeling. What delights you here? What doesn’t? What can you do to make your heart soar? What causes your gut to tighten? Allow yourself to feel everything. As frightening and discouraging and bewildering as it may be, find a way to stay present.

When I unexpectedly found myself in the space between, I became contorted and depressed. Unable to follow my usual yoga practice, I felt adrift, uncertain, and without anchor. It took me awhile to find a new rhythm. But eventually, I was led back into a regular meditation practice, and re-learned, once again, how to stay present with my strong and difficult emotions.

In the process, I wouldn’t say I’ve become a butterfly. But I have become more comfortable in this new and unfamiliar land. I’ve rediscovered my strengths. I’ve relearned humility and patience.

Once again, I’ve discovered the serenity of the space between. And although it’s a place I’d rather not be, I’ve managed to find joy in the stillness and quiet here. I’ve leaned in strongly towards my fear and discomfort, and managed to make it my home.

Posted on

Free Parking and a Piriformis Injury

Larry D. Moore, CC BY 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

The man in front of me stiffened, squinted, and drew himself closer to the ticket machine. He pressed a button, but nothing happened.

Confused, he turned to look at us, the half dozen people waiting behind him. Our faces were probably blank, bored, or irritated, and offered no help.

Saying nothing, he turned back to the machine and rubbed his forehead with the fingers of one hand in a gesture of frustration.

“Oh, no,” I thought to myself, “Something’s wrong”. And that was when my heart dropped into my stomach. A sense of dread began to build within me. I really didn’t need this right now. I could feel that hot, searing pain in my right leg start to build, and I shifted my weight away from it. It didn’t help.

Suddenly, an older gentleman stepped up from behind me, walked up to the machine, and took charge.

“Try taking your card out,” he suggested. The man took his credit card out, and there was a slight pause as we waited for a reaction.

Nothing changed.

The machine still wasn’t printing out his receipt, and without a receipt, the man couldn’t leave the parking lot. And if he couldn’t leave, then none of the rest of us could leave either!

I shifted my weight again and winced as the now-familiar pain shot through my leg. I felt hot and desperately uncomfortable.

Now the older gentleman became frustrated too. He pushed the “call” button at the front of the ticket machine, and suddenly, we could all hear a distant phone ringing.

No one answered.

Undaunted, the older gentleman pressed the “call” button again.

Still no answer.

So, he pushed the button again, and again, and again, in a never-ending series.

I could hear the people behind me began to shift, sigh, and grumble. A few more people entered the tiny vestibule and joined the growing line in front of the ticket machine, their faces clouding with confusion. What was going on here? Why was the room so crowded?

The room began to feel tight, airless, claustrophobic. My leg throbbed. I felt anxious and trapped.

Suddenly, a man in uniform appeared to my right. “You can all go,” he said, tiredly. “I propped open the exit gate, so you can leave without paying”.

I didn’t take longer than a second or two for his comment to register. People immediately began to rush for the exit. The older gentleman was almost running, pushing past others to get out the door as fast as possible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a room empty so quickly in my life.

But I couldn’t run. I couldn’t even move quickly. In fact, I could barely walk! While the others flew around me, I hobbled out the door. Step after aching step. All around me, car doors were slamming and engines were revving. As I passed through the parking lot, a car drove in front of me, driving a little too quickly towards the exit gate.

Suddenly, the situation started to feel just a little ridiculous, and laughter began to bubble up within me. Laughter at the way we all dashed to our cars. Laughter at the way the cars rushed toward the temporarily free exit. Laughter at my ridiculous hobbling. And all to avoid paying a $4 parking fee!

In case you’re wondering, I injured my leg a couple of weeks ago while doing Locust Pose. It’s a pose I’ve done hundreds of times before without harm. I chalk up the injury to me pushing myself too hard, and not respecting the stiffness and reduced elasticity of a post-menopausal body.

Technically, it’s not even my leg that’s injured, but the piriformis muscle in the centre of my right butt cheek. A muscle I never even knew existed a couple of weeks ago, but has now begun to dominate my life.

I’ve been seeing a chiropractor twice weekly to help heal my injury, and in just a short period of time, there’s already been big improvement. Or so my chiropractor says. When I seem down, he talks to me about lowered expectations. “At this point in our treatment, if the pain is reducing, we’re doing well!” he says, cheerily. “If your walk has become straighter and more even, then we’re doing well!” And I feel reassured.

The last time I saw him, my chiropractor and I discussed all the little humiliations that come with lower back, and/or sciatic injuries like mine. Humiliations like the sudden inability to walk normally, or the difficulty getting into and out of bed, the struggle to get up off the toilet, and even the strain of putting on your socks and shoes each morning. Such simple things, and yet they’ve all begun to seem like a climb up Mount Everest every day. It’s been incredibly humbling.

Recognizing my frustration, my chiropractor tries to put things into perspective for me. He reminds me to take real pleasure in all my little gains. If I’m already experiencing a considerable reduction in pain, that’s something to celebrate! If I can now walk in strides instead of hobbling, that’s tremendous! He trains me to focus on all the real progress I’ve made, however small, rather than obsess on what I can’t yet do.

So, when I’m finally able to put my socks on without wincing, he says to me, “Hey! Great putting-your-socks-on this morning!” and he gives me a high five.

Which brings me back to that incident at the parking lot and the mad scramble to leave before the exit gate was lowered. I must have been the last one to reach my car, because by the time I finally arrived at the exit gate, no one else was waiting.

And despite my anxiety that I might be too late – that my slow hobble might have caused me to miss the opportunity for free parking, that I might yet have to turn myself around, and limp back into the building to find some way to pay – when I finally arrived at the gate, I found it still raised, and was able to pass through it without incident.

A big smile came to my face as I re-entered street traffic. I felt slightly silly, but why shouldn’t I smile? Why shouldn’t I celebrate this random piece of luck? It may be a small thing, but isn’t life really about the small things?

What small challenge have you overcome recently? Have you, perhaps, finally mastered a new skill at work, after weeks of frustration? Have you finally been able to lift more weight at the gym? Has your baby finally been able to sleep through the night?

Even if there have been no recent changes, can you find simple gratitude in the fact that the sun is shining, or that you are still able to do something as simple as put your socks and shoes on without pain?

Whatever your small gain is, make sure the pleasure counts. Turn up the volume on it. Soak it in. Marinate yourself in positive feelings. Let yourself grin.

Or, do as my chiropractor would, and say, “Great putting-your-socks-on this morning!” And then he’d smile and give you a high-five.

Posted on

The Core Wound

Donald Judge, CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

After days and days of greyness, the sun finally came out this week, glinting over everything, revealing the deep, perfect blue of the sky. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through my back yard, causing the branches of the old, hickory tree outside my window to wave up and down, back and forth. It seemed as if the tree was waving at me, and smiling.

Unexpectedly moved, I began to cry.

This is not the first time I’ve cried on my yoga mat. But the sudden surge of tears still took me by surprise. What was that all about?

In the past, I would’ve just brushed away my tears impatiently and got on with my practice. But recently, I’ve been delving a little deeper, and done a lot more inner probing. Now, instead of turning my attention elsewhere, I zoom in. Where did those tears come from? What do they signify? Why is there that sore spot in my heart, and what is it trying to tell me?

I’ve long heard of the idea of a core wound, or a sacred wound. This wound is said to be a place of deep hurt that guides our actions, and is the reason behind many of our life choices.

Usually inflicted upon us at some point in our childhood, we arm ourselves against it, and this armour can be very difficult to pierce. Survival within our family or community usually requires us to remain dutiful and smiling, so instead of probing our pain or questioning it, we stuff it down deep inside. As children, we also lack the maturity required to heal it, so it can fester within us for years.

But as we age, and gather more financial and emotional security, we can start to feel safe. This is when life circumstances may allow our core wound to be uncovered, finally calling it up from our subconscious mind to be healed.

This core wound doesn’t necessarily have to be something major, like emotional or physical trauma, although something like that would certainly qualify. It could also be something like parental neglect, or the death of a parent at a young age. Perhaps we were betrayed by a sibling, or felt guilt for being unharmed in an accident while a friend or relative was badly injured. Maybe there remains a deep feeling of deficiency after a major illness.

I’ve heard of the idea of a core wound before, but never really knew what mine was. While I’ve certainly carried plenty of baggage from my past, I could never discern that one wound, the one that encompassed all the others. The one that all the other wounds folded into.

Somehow, while lying on my yoga mat this week, that core wound finally crept up into my consciousness. I think it arose because I’ve been practising a lot of openness and acceptance of myself during my daily yoga practice. And what it said was: “I am a bad person. A person who is wrong in some fundamental way. I’m not just a person broken by circumstance, but someone who doesn’t even know the right thing to do. A person whose very instincts are incorrect, and not to be trusted”.

As these feelings and thoughts arose within me, I found I was able to hold them tenderly, something I don’t think I’ve had the capacity to do before. I recognized them, and understood where they came from. And though they did sadden me, a flood of compassion quickly filled my heart and I was able to accept my pain with care.

Bill Plotkin, psychologist, author, and wilderness guide, says our core wounds do not necessarily need to be healed. In fact, it may not be possible to heal them. This is a relief to me, as I don’t even begin to know how to fix mine. But Plotkin goes even further, saying our core wounds may even be necessary. Without them, without the need forge ahead into something better, away from the pain of our past, we may fail to move forward in life.

There’s also something much deeper going on here, though. Our core wounds are not just a heavy weight for us to carry. They also hold the potential for profound healing. As the poet Rumi famously said, “The wound is the place where the light enters you.”

This is where our life purpose can be found. Just as an irritating piece of sand at the centre of a clam shell can eventually turn into a pearl, so our core wound is the sore spot, that, with careful tending, can bring a startling beauty, not just to ourselves, but to our entire community. If we are brave enough to delve deeply into it, to fix our gaze directly at it, and hold its pain with gentleness and compassion, there is treasure to be found.

That day on my yoga mat, as the tears rolled down my face, I finally began to understand my own core wound. And as I did, a wave of empathy hit me. I finally began to understand why I’ve fallen into so many black holes throughout my life. Why I’ve struggled so much to listen to my own heart.

With gentleness, I allowed myself to feel its heaviness, and the sadness within it. So far, it has given me no answers. If there is a treasure to be found within this pain, I don’t yet know what it is, but at the very least I’m no longer running away from it. I’m still and I’m listening.

Posted on

A New Year’s Intention

Agência Brasília, CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I don’t know about you, but over the years I’ve grown to hate the very idea of a new year’s resolution. I think I’ve broken too many of them. Now, the fear of failure looms larger than any hoped-for gain. It’s not a happy frame of mind to have at the beginning of a new year.

Perhaps you feel the same way.

In the past, I’ve used brute force to push my way into new habits. I’ve forced myself out of bed, even when I’ve felt unwell. I’ve worked longer and harder, even when I felt tired. Initially, this may have won me some short-term gains, but it never seemed to last very long. When my energy inevitably flagged, I would return to all my old habits.

A turning point came a few years ago after I read The Willpower Instinct by Kelly McGonigal. In this book, she shares surprising research that self-compassion and self-forgiveness are much better motivators for changing our behaviour than guilt-tripping or condemnation. At first, I was skeptical that going “soft” on myself would reap any rewards, but I actually found it to be incredibly helpful.

It turns out that my self-destructive tendency to push myself way past my limits was a big part of my problem. I wasn’t able to see that until I finally gave myself permission to stop.

Since then, I’ve noticed how common a problem this is. In Western society, we’re terrified of being seen as lazy, slothful, or unproductive. The good old Protestant work ethic has turned us into slave-drivers, expecting more and more from ourselves and from others, for less and less remuneration. Yet, studies show that a culture that emphasizes kindness and empathy, avoidance of blame, and forgiveness of mistakes, reaps greater benefits for both individuals and groups over the long term.

Over the past couple of decades, I think our entire culture has become more corporatized, to the point that we treat ourselves like little mini-businesses, expecting year over year profits and gains. But I’m not a business, and neither are you. We shouldn’t have to prove our value to others. We have a right to exist, regardless of how much money we make, or what we produce.

This year, I encourage you to be a little softer on yourself, to treat yourself with a little more kindness. If you’re feeling tired or overwhelmed, it’s OK not to have a New Year’s resolution. If you didn’t make any particular gains over the past year, that’s OK too. It’s OK if all you did was survive.

You have a right to be here, no less than the trees and the stars. You have unique gifts that are yours and yours alone. Your very presence on this earth is a gift and a blessing. This year, rather than setting a New Year’s resolution, how about setting a New Year’s intention instead? Give yourself permission to be kind.

Posted on

Silent Night

Txllxt TxllxT, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Today marks the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. As the month of December has advanced, the sky has been darkening earlier and earlier with each passing day. But on this day, that cycle will come to an end. Tomorrow, the day will be just a little bit longer, just that little bit brighter. This is a hopeful change.

Each day when I come home from work, I look around at the lights decorating our house, and watch them twinkle in the dark. It’s a moment of beauty in an otherwise cold and barren landscape. I’m so thankful we got our Christmas lights up early this year. It’s been a welcome change from years past.

This feeling of Christmas tranquility has been all but impossible for us for about the past ten years. It’s funny how the weight of those years became almost invisible to us back then, we’d been carrying it for so long. But now that it’s gone, I can remember the weariness more clearly. Its sudden absence brings a feeling of relief, but also of sadness.

Those who live with family members suffering from dementia will probably understand.

Caring for someone with dementia is challenging. As much as you try to remain patient, as much as you prepare yourself for each day, you will inevitably lose your temper. And then, you will chastise yourself. You will feel guilty for becoming angry at someone who, though an adult, has the mental and emotional understanding of a toddler.

During the last few years of Julia’s life, we put up a Christmas tree only mechanically. In her final year, we didn’t bother putting one up at all. It just created too much trouble. Julia would ask: “What is that? Why is it lit up? It bothers me,” or some variation of those responses. Then, she would unplug the lights, and the tree would sit in darkness. This would happen about every hour, if not sooner. Since it was impossible to keep the lights on, Christmas was effectively cancelled.

It wasn’t just Christmas lights, though. Julia would also turn out room lights, even if you were still in the room! She would unplug the stove while you were trying to warm it up. She would stop the washing machine, mid cycle. Then, she would take clothes out of the dryer and spread them out about the house, not knowing whose they were, or what they were for.

She was also paranoid about the front door being left unlocked, so she would check it all the time, pulling hard on the knob, twisting and turning it one way and then another. We actually had to replace the doorknob twice because she broke it. I didn’t even know you could break a doorknob until Julia did it. It boggled the mind. How could such a small woman cause such damage? And yet she did.

She would regularly open and close the garage door, multiple times a day. I never quite understood why. I think maybe she was just checking inside, but the cycle would inevitably end with the garage door being left wide open, exposing our junk for all to see, and potentially steal. During those years, I often felt like I was leaving the house in my underwear every day. My entire life felt exposed for all to see. Nothing was private anymore.

As Julia’s dementia worsened, she got kicked out of the local supermarket. The manager called the police, who threatened to take her to the police station. I guess she had been bothering other customers, probably giving them dietary advice they weren’t interested in receiving. She also got banned from the bulk foods store – for life. I have no idea what she was doing in there, but we suspect she might have been eating indiscriminately from the bins. She was impossible to contain. During those years, life was never dull!

Now that Julia’s gone, and her husband too, the house feels unnaturally quiet. The night more silent than I can recall it being in years, if ever. The losses are really hitting me now. The warmth and comraderie of the Christmas season seems to draw it out.

This Christmas, I would like to extend care to all who are struggling with burdens of various sorts. To those struggling to care for elderly parents, as we did for years, I wish you patience and fortitude. For those struggling financially, I wish you abundance. For those who are alone, I wish you moments of warmth and connection. For those who are grieving, I wish you love.

The night may be dark tonight, but tomorrow brings the beginning of greater light, increased brightness. May the lights of Christmas bring you solace during the more difficult days that lay ahead, and hope for a better and brighter future just around the corner.

Posted on

The Season of Gratitude – Part 2

Isiwal/Wikimedia Commons/CC BY-SA 4.0, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

In my last blog post, I wrote about my difficulties feeling gratitude in the past and how allowing myself to feel all the feels opened up some space in my heart, allowing the gratitude to finally move through me.

In this blog post, I’d like to delve a little deeper into all those murky feelings and then talk about choice.

Back in 2010, when I was in the thick of my struggle with CFS, I remember watching an interview with Karen Armstrong. In case you don’t know her, Armstrong is the author of many books on comparative religion, and during this particular interview, she was promoting her latest book (at the time), Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life.

I was not paying particular attention to what she was saying in this interview until she openly admitted to feeling bitter. Very bitter about life. That got my attention. An expert on religion, and author of a book on compassion, was declaring herself to be bitter? I wanted to know more.

She spoke about her past as a nun in training in Ireland, and about the Superior who was responsible for her. This nun had had a very difficult life, going deaf at an early age, and then being sent to a convent. She happened to be dying of cancer and was in extreme pain, yet she had still spoken kindly to the nuns under her watch. As Armstrong said, “she had trained herself, through all those difficult years not to become bitter, not to think, why me? Why am I deaf? Why am I wasting my life? And as a result, she has remained in me as an icon of what a good person should be”.

And then Armstrong said, “Becoming bitter is always a choice”. In essence, she was saying that life is a road with two very different paths, both equally valid. The decision you make will determine the quality of your life going forward. You can either decide to be bitter and angry about the difficulties and injustice in your life, or you can choose to be compassionate instead.

Her comment really resonated with me because I was slowly coming to the same realization myself. Stuck in bed and unable to accomplish any of my life goals, I was feeling frustrated, angry, and yes, definitely bitter. But I was also realizing that this was not the kind of person I wanted to be.

I think it’s the same with gratitude.

We are living in difficult times. A lot of people are struggling. In many cases, basic needs are not being met. The climate is worsening. Wars are being fought. Everywhere you go, people are suffering. It is very easy to feel hopeless and despondent at the number of crises surrounding us.

It is at these times – often especially at these times – that we realize we have a choice. We can either choose to become bitter, or we can aspire to something a little more noble.

During my years of difficulty, I would often console myself with the beauty of my neighbour’s garden. I may not have had the energy to care for a garden myself, but I felt grateful that I could still enjoy the gardens of others around me.

I became spellbound by the gracefully arching branches of the tree outside my window, watching its many moods as the seasons changed. I may not have been able to spend much time outside, but being able to watch that tree outside my window was a lifeline for me.

I was also deeply consoled by the laughter of the neighbourhood children as they walked past my home on their way to and from school. I may not have been able to see them, but I was grateful for my ability to hear their small voices, and to feel the bubbling energy of their youthful selves.

I know it’s been said before, but it is often when life is at its most bleak, when we are grasping at the smallest example of beauty or kindness, that possibilities for gratitude are fully revealed to us.

This doesn’t mean we don’t also acknowledge our pains and our struggles. It means that, while still feeling our pain in all its fullness, we make the choice to be grateful anyway. It’s a powerful choice. I can’t promise that it will magically make your troubles go away. What I can promise, is that it will make your heart lighter, and your burden easier to bear.

Posted on

The Season of Gratitude – Part 1

ID 4653867, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Over the past couple of decades, I’ve been often reminded about the importance of being grateful. I admit, there have been many times in my life when I’ve fallen into the trap of thinking I am not good enough, that my life is not exciting enough, or that I don’t have enough of the things that I want.

By and large, I think it isn’t just me that struggles with this. We humans have a natural tendency to want more and better, no matter the abundance that we already have. And then, the western economy is also built on this idea of lack – that there is always something more we should have, some other experience we need to feel, in order for our lives to be complete.

In acknowledgement of my problem, I kept a daily gratitude journal for years. In the evening before bed, I would list off 5 things for which I was thankful. On the whole, I think it’s a very good practice. And studies show that when people show more gratitude, they are happier.

But I have to admit, the practice started to falter for me when I noticed that I tended to list off the same things every single day: gratitude for a roof over my head, for my loving husband, for healthy kids, and the regular presence of my furry dog. I began to feel that I had only those 5 things to be grateful for. And even though those are not small things, depression started to set in, as it often does for me. The daily gratitude practice no longer seemed to be helping.

This past week is Thanksgiving in the US, so I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude recently, and those struggles I had with it in the past. I’ve also been wondering why I feel so much more gratitude now than I did then. Why didn’t that daily gratitude practice work for me? And what has changed now?

For an answer, I turned to my herbal studies and its discussion of feelings. Interestingly, in Chinese medicine, feelings of all types are held in greater regard than they are here in the west. In fact, they are considered such harbingers of illness that, for thousands of years, doctors treated people by helping them to resolve their feelings with counter-feelings, rather than prescribing herbs or acupuncture.

Here in North America, feelings are given nowhere near that amount of respect. If anything, feelings are thought to be a problem, an obstacle that gets in the way of forward progress. We are advised to ignore them, stuff them, or push past them. People who dwell on their feelings are considered soft and weak.

But feelings have a seriously negative effect on your health. In Chinese medicine, it is well known that anger congests your liver, sadness constricts your lungs, worry weakens your spleen, and fear depletes your kidneys. Before you dismiss this concept, understand that western medicine is starting to come around to the same conclusion. Gabor Mate, a Canadian physician with particular expertise in the treatment of addiction, trauma, stress and childhood development, has written a number of best-selling books on the negative effect emotions can have on your health. When the Body Says ‘No’ and The Myth of Normal are the two most recent.

In the intervening years since I kept that daily gratitude journal, I’ve done a lot of work with my emotions. I’ve spent hours sitting in meditation, I’ve discovered the power of restorative yoga for processing my emotions, and I’ve also spent a lot of time thinking through my triggers and trying to heal the emotions behind them. Although scary and difficult, I have found this work to be transformational.

Liver and gallbladder flushing can also prove tremendously helpful and many of our customers have testified to this. Your liver stores a lot of your emotions. Anger, frustration, envy, moodiness, and depression are all common emotions for people whose livers have become stagnant. When herbs are taken to clear away congestion in the liver, these emotions tend to leave too. It’s a fascinating process.

Once all those negative emotions are cleared away, a space is created for more positive emotions like gratitude, compassion, and love to take hold. An important discovery I’ve had as I continued my healing journey, is that emotions are things. They are not ephemeral nothings; they have weight and space and can’t just be shrugged away. If you avoid feeling them, your body will just hold on to them for later processing. And the longer you hold them, the sicker you can get.

If you’re struggling with gratitude this holiday season, consider the possibility that you’re holding on to some difficult emotions. It’s not unusual. We all have them. I know it’s scary, but the next time you feel them, recognize where the tightness is. It’s often in your chest, but it can also be in your belly or your shoulders. Try to soften into those places in your body, and when the emotions arise, allow yourself to really feel into them. But be gentle with them. Show these feelings kindness. They are there to take care of you.

One good practice I learned is to go to a quiet corner where you won’t be disturbed, and then purposely feel the emotion in all its intensity – really push it to the limit! If you feel anger, allow it to build and build and feel it to its completeness. Welcome the anger. Really revel in it. If you stop this process and still feel a residue of anger inside you, it means it hasn’t been fully spent yet. Cultivate it even further! Trust me, if you take the time to feel it fully, it will disperse.

Emotions need to be felt. Pushing them away only makes them toxic. So, try accepting them with kindness and grace instead. Allow them more space. By accepting them and allowing them, they usually start to shift a little. And into that space, amazingly, there will be a possibility for more joy and gratitude. And who doesn’t need more of that?

Posted on

Remembrance Day

Lest we forget by Derek Voller, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

“I’m not a hero,” said the old man, a veteran of the Korean War. It’s a moving refrain you often hear from soldiers who feel guilty for having survived something their comrades-in-arms did not.

“Yes, you are!” assured the reporter beside him. And the old man shook his head and looked like he might cry, even all these years later.

I was profoundly moved by the annual Remembrance Day services this morning. Maybe it’s because of what’s currently happening in Gaza, or because of the war in Ukraine, but I seem to finally understand, now, that we will never be at peace. There will always be conflict somewhere.

I grew up in the 1980’s, during the time when there was a Cold War between the US and Russia. I think we really believed, then, that the next war could never be fought because it would mean the end of all humanity. And yet, here we are. Still at war. Still maiming and killing one another. We just took a step back from the nuclear option so we could keep on hurting one another without the mutually assured destruction that inevitably comes with it.

Yes, I know that there have been many wars fought since the Second World War – roughly one every decade – and many more fought without the involvement of the US and its allies. I suppose I just thought that these were “smaller” wars that would eventually play themselves out as humanity continued to mature as a species. You can call me naive. I’ll admit to that.

What I feel now is sadness. And also profound empathy and remorse for those who are currently caught in the familiar snare of hatred and violence. There doesn’t seem to be anything we can do to stop this regular flaring of vengeance.

I’ve been reading a lot about trauma recently, and so I can’t help but think about how much pain the victims are in and whether it’s even possible to heal them. If it’s true that hurt people hurt people, then how do we ever stop the hurting?

I read a book recently about the World War II bombings in London. In it, a bookshop owner says to the young protagonist (who is struggling with what to do with all the suffering around her): “Just do what you can, when you can, whenever you can, and don’t worry about the end results. It’s all any of us can do”. I found that really inspiring.

And so, I will keep on trying to heal people, through herbal medicine, and through yoga. I will continue to remind them to inhabit their bodies and feel their emotions, and in that way, to begin to alleviate their suffering. It may not make a great difference to the world at large, but it may prove helpful to someone in their time of need.

In the coming weeks, we will have a new offering at our humble yoga studio. One that I hope will remind us of our similarities to one another. That will help us to feel more connected. After all, we are essentially all the same. We all suffer, we all have people we love who we don’t want to see harmed, we all want to belong. We all know pain.

It is my fervent hope that we learn to know our connectedness better than we do our separateness. That when we feel most hurt and alone, instead of lashing out, we learn how to lean in instead. It may not be realistic, but it’s a vision I will keep fighting for.