Sensible Thoughts

Very little grows on jagged rock.
Be ground. Be crumbled,
so wildflowers will come up where you are.

You have been stony for too many years.
Try something different. Surrender.

~Rumi

“Where in your life have you demonstrated resilience?”

It’s a question our instructor, Alexa, asked us this past week as part of our compassionate resilience training.

I paused and thought about this for a beat, a note of panic rising in my chest as I searched through the dark woods of my memories for an example to share.

I found it a tough question to answer. It’s not that I haven’t gone through hard times. In fact, I often feel like I’ve spent my entire life stumbling from one disaster to the next. But have I ever demonstrated resilience?

The short answer to that question is a big, fat “No”. I feel like a failure. Tears come to my eyes. I’ve always tried so hard. How is it that despite all those efforts, I’ve still managed to do so badly in life?”

As my tears begin to flow, some of my classmates pipe up. They tell stories of shock and trauma. Of abuse and isolation, and how they’ve managed to pull themselves back up again despite their circumstances. They tell stories of the resources they tried to access, sometimes incompletely, but always making the attempt. They tell stories of how they stumbled, but still moved on as best they could.

Is that what resilience is? The mere survival of difficult circumstances? I’ve always thought of it differently. I’ve always pictured it louder, with a more triumphant ring of success.

When I look resilience up in the dictionary, it says: “the power or ability of a material to return to its original form, position, etc., after being bent, compressed, or stretched; elasticity,” or “the ability of a person to adjust to or recover readily from illness, adversity, major life changes, etc.; buoyancy“.

These definitions suggest a return to wholeness, with an unchanged spirit. Like the bad event never even happened. That’s how I’ve always thought of it too. That if you can’t bounce right back to the way you were before, then you’re clearly not resilient and you’ve failed.

But as the stories of my classmates keep coming, they describe something rather different. They detail all the ways they tried to survive. The ways they managed to find some sense of control over difficult events. The steps they took to make themselves feel better, even if only for a moment. Success, when it came, was often far into the future.

And as I begin to reflect further, I think to myself, “Didn’t I do that too”? Didn’t I seek out someone to talk with? Didn’t I start meditating? Didn’t I learn to be with my feelings, rather than constantly pushing them under? Didn’t I create a safe space for myself where I could retreat when times were tough? Didn’t I keep going, despite everything?

Traditionally, my way of dealing with life’s many crises was to criticize myself, often quite severely. It was to deny my feelings and push myself even harder. It was to hate myself for all the mistakes I’ve made, and chip away at my sense of strength and self worth until I was left with nothing. But I am changing. Little by little, I am growing. This time, I didn’t do that.

Slowly and persistently, I have become more resilient.

As my classmates continue to describe their own pain and all the little sparks of resilience that followed, I allow some compassion to flow towards myself, as I’ve learned to do. I soften my heart, and show myself some tenderness, recognizing that I’ve always done the best I could.

Suddenly, my perspective starts to shift, and instead of seeing a life filled with stumbles and mishaps, a new and different narrative opens up. A narrative where I’m not necessarily a failure, a helpless victim bouncing from one crisis to the next, but more of a steadfast warrior. As a woman who has somehow managed to keep going, despite everything, with a heart that’s still beating. With a body that’s still breathing. With a spirit that is still warm and open.

Yes, I am resilient too.

In the past, I’ve always thought that if I wanted to be strong, I had to be hard on myself. But I’m gradually learning that resilience only comes when I can show myself some softness. When I can recognize that I am still a good person, with good intentions, who may have made some mistakes, but is still beautiful, and valuable, and unique, nonetheless.

And when I remind myself of this, the tears stop flowing. My chest opens. My shoulders become less tense and I find I can breathe more deeply again.

The world is full of hardness. This time, try something different. This time, see if you can soften towards yourself. See if you can crumble, so wildflowers grow where you are.

Spring is such a beautiful time. Everywhere you look, there is a sprouting of fresh green. The days have become longer. The sun feels brighter. The temperature is rising, and the tulips in my neighbour’s garden have begun to show their beautiful colours.

And yet, this time of year also marks many endings. It is the end of winter, for one. For university students, another term is now complete, while public school students are looking forward to summer vacation. It is the time of graduations, a time when the end of one block of life is formally marked, even as we anticipate the beginning of another.

I suppose it’s because I am now firmly in mid-life that I keenly feel both the beginnings and the endings of this time of year. When I was younger, I was always caught up in the beginnings, in the excitement of what would be coming next. I don’t think I ever gave much thought over what was being left behind. But now, after a year where I lost both my mother and my mother-in-law, I have to say that I can really feel the endings.

And so, I am feeling sad to report another loss, for me. A mentor of mine is hanging up his spurs and retiring. Michael Tierra, widely considered the father of North American herbalism, has sold the East West School of Planetary Herbology, and is moving on. He is 84 years old this year, so I don’t begrudge him this move. It is just sad to see him go.

Chances are, if you have read any book on herbalism over the last few decades, it was written by him. Author of The Way of Herbs, The Way of Chinese Herbs, The Way of Ayurvedic Herbs, Treating Cancer with Herbs, The Natural Remedy Bible, and the best-selling Planetary Herbology among many others, Michael resurrected herbalism from its doldrums in the 1950’s and 1960’s. He studied with Native American herbalists, and Chinese herbalists, and even started his own line of herbal products. He is the founder of the American Herbalist Guild. Through his school, he taught and inspired scores of new herbalists, including me.

He is also one of the kindest men I have ever known. Over the years, I have attended hours and hours of his lectures and classes. He has overseen many of my cases, and even personally called me to encourage me to join his Free Clinic this past fall. I will miss his encyclopedic volume of knowledge, and also his warmth, his sense of humour and his inclusiveness. He always made everyone feel welcome, and has been resolute in his mission to restore herbalism to its proper place beside conventional medicine. I think it’s safe to say that he changed the world.

This spring may mark the end of Michael’s tenure, but it is also the beginning for those who will carry on with his work. Right now, I am reminding myself that it’s all part of the cycle of life. But I will still miss him.

Every spring without fail, it surprises me when tulips start to sprout out of my garden. Partly, it’s because I’m a half-hearted gardener, at best. But it’s also because I planted those tulip bulbs many years ago during a time of pain and sorrow. By planting them, I was hoping their bright goblets of colour would lift my mood come spring-time. And they did. Every year since then, their faithful sprouting has been a potent reminder of my survival, and also evidence that bad times do end, and better ones can always begin.

The concepts of death and re-birth are common in many religions and myths. The most famous of which is Jesus Christ, who dies on the cross on Good Friday, and is then resurrected on Easter Sunday. But there is also Osiris, the Egyptian god of harvest who is cut down and scattered in the fall, only to rise once again in the spring. And Dionysus, the Greek god who was torn apart and eaten by Titans, and then lovingly restored to life by his grandmother, who finds and stitches back together the broken pieces of his heart.

For those who struggle, stories of death and re-birth can be particularly reassuring. When a dream dies, a friendship fails, or a sickness endures, we may wonder if we’ll ever survive it. Stories of resurrection can then serve as a source of solace and as a guide during those dark times. They encourage us to keep going. They remind us that death is not failure. They tell us that, as long as we keep trying, a happier ending may yet appear.

This Easter, I invite you to gently bring to mind a story of sorrow or hurt from your past. Nothing too traumatic. Just a episode where you felt some emotional pain. As you bring back this memory, start to notice the feelings that arise within you. Observe where in your body you feel them the most. It may be a particular tightness in your chest, a tension in your jaw, or perhaps a clenching of your stomach.

With gentleness and compassion, allow yourself to feel these emotions in all their depth. Don’t be afraid. With each new breath, try to create more space for them. Resist the urge to push them away. Welcome them as honoured guests, as important messages from the deep. Be curious. And then watch as, with enough time and space, they gradually crest, loosen and float away.

By feeling and releasing these old and painful emotions, you are making way for new life to come forth. Opportunities for growth can now emerge. Maybe not right away, but soon. Be patient. Always remember, your story is not yet over. A new one is still waiting to be told. It’s all part of the magic, and the promise, of spring.

When my youngest son was born, he was a tiny little thing – only 7 lbs to my older son’s nearly 8 lb birth weight – and held himself in the fetal position for months after his birth. At each checkup, my doctor would try to pull his legs down away from his chest to straighten them, worried about his physical development. He advised me to do the same whenever possible, but my son kept pulling them right back up again, as if he needed that skin to skin contact.

In addition to his tendency to hold himself in the fetal position, my son also grew into a colicky baby, who spent more time crying than he did anything else. During that first year of his life, I found it easiest to co-sleep with him. That way I could quickly cradle him whenever he cried, and vigorously jiggle my arms up and down until he settled again. He would resume crying again easily if I put him down too quickly, so I spent many hours dozing in an upright position, his tiny body clutched firmly in my arms.

I remember one time when he was about 8 or 9 months old and he contracted a fever. For long hours of the day and night, I would lie with his hot little body curled right up into my chest, just resting there. I felt so much love for him then, when I realized that the thing that brought him the most comfort was this simple, physical contact with me. Even now, we are still close. He contacts me every week, checking in with me to see how I’m doing. Sometimes now, it feels more like he’s the parent and I’m the child.

Clearly, my son has always needed close, physical connection. But it’s not just him. Connection is important to everyone. As social animals, we need emotional and physical contact with others in order to feel well, in order to be at our best. The pandemic was a good teacher in that respect. Those who were isolated and without a social bubble tended to fall into bouts of anxiety or depression, or both. Those who lived in a full household with plenty of social support weathered the storm more easily.

This is something that I’ve been reflecting on recently, as I think more and more about trauma and how to manage it. I used to think that trauma was an event. That it was something that happened to you, like a beating or a rape, or the sudden death of someone close to you. I thought that if you experienced something like this, you would naturally have trauma. But apparently, that’s not how it works.

Terrible events like these are certainly traumatic, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that they cause trauma. According to the American Psychological Association, trauma is not the event in and of itself, but the emotional response to that event. This means that we only experience trauma when we find ourselves without the resources or supports necessary to successfully navigate it. In short, we experience trauma when we are alone, or when we feel alone. We experience trauma when we lack connection.

Social support has repeatedly been shown to be one of the strongest protection factors against the development of PTSD. It’s an emotional regulator. It helps us feel stronger and more courageous than we could ever be on our own. And while compassionate support is powerful, it’s absence can be equally devastating.

I find that incredibly empowering. Every day, we have the opportunity to make a choice between kindness and compassion or its opposite. Within every hour, we can either save someone’s life, or make it worse. Which is why it’s so important to be mindful. Please remember that many are struggling right now. Please know that we all need care. And with that knowledge, proceed accordingly.

When I started my yoga teacher training more than a year ago, our instructors told us to be gentle with ourselves as we learned. They warned us not to be overly critical of ourselves if we failed to meet our goals, and to show ourselves compassion. At the time, it sounded like fluffy, airy-fairy yoga stuff to me.

I had always pushed myself very hard in school, forcing myself to give my absolute best to any assignment or project. I may not have had the highest marks in the class, but I was always up there in the Honour Roll, and I prided myself on that. If there was one thing people knew about me, it was that I did well in school.

That was just about the only part of me that most people knew, though. It was also the only part of my life where I felt I passed muster. I needed to do well in school. My fragile sense of self depended on it. Failure – even just mediocrity – was not an option.

It’s funny how strong those kind of past beliefs are. When I started my yoga teacher training, I could feel myself gearing up for the challenge just like I did when I was a teenager. I was determined to be the best in the class, and willing to put in whatever effort was required to wow my teachers.

But almost as soon as those thoughts crossed my mind, I could feel the fatigue welling up behind my eyes. I had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I had already spent all my available energy more than a decade ago. I didn’t have it in me to keep pushing myself so hard. If I did, I knew I would collapse from exhaustion before the program was even finished.

Why did I think I needed to do that? I guess you could say I was never told – or at least I never believed – that I was good enough on my own. I thought that if I didn’t stand out in some way, if I wasn’t special in some way, then I would never be loved. Certainly, I would never succeed.

That appears to be what our culture teaches us. If you aren’t exceptional in some way, you’re not wanted. Our children have to prove their excellence just to earn entry into schools and land low-paying jobs that we could have fallen into when we were young. As a result, they are developing physical and mental health problems that we previously didn’t see until middle age. I may have grown up a generation earlier, but I was still negatively affected by it.

Why are we doing this to ourselves? How can we change?

Well, I don’t know how to change a culture, but we can at least change our own attitude. Studies show that being critical with yourself actually makes you work less effectively. It makes you so afraid of failure that you stop trying.

On the other hand, when you can show yourself some compassion and forgiveness, it actually helps you to relax so you can perform better. You aren’t so stressed and afraid that you view every failure as the end of the road. Instead, you’re able to see it as an opportunity for growth.

It seems counter-intuitive. Many people think that if they aren’t strict enough with themselves, they’ll just lie back and never achieve anything. But in the long run, pushing yourself too hard doesn’t make you do better. It only makes you sick. Like me.

I want you to put your hands over your heart right now and think back to a time when you felt loved, by a friend, or a relative, or even just a pet. Breathe deeply now and allow the remembrance of that love to enter your heart. Breathe it in and really feel it. Know that you are a good person. Know that you are lovable and worthy just as you are.

Somehow, we have to learn to soften towards ourselves a little more. To give ourselves a little more space, to breathe and to just be. To show ourselves a little more compassion. Maybe that is the only way we can begin to turn this world around. Because if we can learn to treat ourselves better, then maybe we’ll start to treat everyone else better too.