What we feel in our physical bodies and our emotions, memories and experiences is inextricably wound together in ways that we can only begin to imagine. The connection between what we think and how we feel is becoming more and more well documented and well considered, but I believe that the room for exploration of this connection is still in its infancy. I also know that this connection can be exploited for the purposes of bringing people relief in a more profound and complete way.

While you have an experience, any experience at all – eating lunch, banging your head getting into the car, playing tennis, or getting embarrassed – your body is constantly monitoring, assessing and adjusting the sense of where your body is in space, in relationship to itself (proprioception), and muscle tone (quick twitch, or slow and languid). The vast amount of information that is coming into the body at any given time is this sort of sensory information. Add to that smells, noises and other tactile information, and you can see that our regular, almost constant, experience of being in the world is a very physical one.

As a result, when you remember an experience, a significant amount of that memory consists of information regarding our body experience. Using this information can allow working in two directions. One way of making use of this is that by working with the body in relationship to its position and movement in relationship to it’s physical limitations, stuck traumatic experiences can be brought forward for processing and movement in a non-invasive way.

I have seen this in my practice as an Advanced Ortho-Bionomy® Practitioner. In my work, I use a technique of using position and movement that is reflective of the preference of the individual with whom I’m working. The miraculous thing that happens is that without any kind of intention or intervention for it to do so, reflection brings the mind to gently process any emotional content that may be connected to the pattern, while allowing the body to process and release restrictions and pain. This “back door” approach works so well because examining the preference of the individual’s physical pattern promotes a safe environment for the mind to follow.

Coming from another direction, this connection is being used in an innovative and productive manner in treating post-traumatic patients. A study was conducted using individuals who had experienced a traumatic event more than 10 years earlier. About half of the subjects were given a propranolol pill and half were given a placebo. All of them were allowed to relax while the drug took effect. Then each of the patients was asked to read a script that had been developed with a narrative describing their traumatic experience based on previous interviews. Some of the patients cried, some were fine, some needed to take breaks.

This process was completed a week later without the use of the drug (or placebo). The patients who had taken the propranol in the first part of the study were noticeably calmer, had a smaller increase in heart rate, and less perspiration as opposed to those who were given the placebo.

A larger study was done where participants repeated the drug/script regimen for six weeks, once a week and they showed an average reduction in standard PTSD symptoms of 50 percent. What seemed to have happened is that the “emotional tone” of the memories had changed. They seemed less invested in the intense quality of the memories.

Propranolol is a drug used to treat high blood pressure and has been taken to address stage fright. I mention this story not because I recommend its use, but because I want to show how changing the relationship of the physical body to the emotional experience changed the individual’s overall relationship to it.

Whether feelings begin in the mind or body is still up for debate, and sometimes it might seem like an appealing idea to erase the memories of unpleasant experiences, but these experiences are a defining part of who you are. The better choice is to change your relationship to the difficult events in your life in a way that, instead of erasing them, changes how you respond to them.

What we feel in our physical bodies and our emotions, memories and experiences are inextricably wound together in ways that we can only begin to imagine. The connection between what we think and how we feel is becoming more and more well documented and well considered, but I believe that the room for exploration of this connection is still in its infancy.

I also know that this connection can be exploited for the purposes of bringing people relief in a more profound and complete way.

While you have an experience, any experience at all – eating lunch, banging your head getting into the car, playing tennis, or getting embarrassed – your body is constantly monitoring, assessing and adjusting the sense of where your body is in space, in relationship to itself (proprioception), and muscle tone (quick twitch, or slow and languid). The vast amount of information that is coming into the body at any given time is this sort of sensory information. Add to that smells, noises and other tactile information, and you can see that our regular, almost constant experience of being in the world is a very physical one.

As a result, when you remember an experience, a significant amount of that memory consists of information regarding our body experience. Using this information can allow working in two directions. One way of making use of this is that by working with the body in relationship to its position and movement in relationship to its physical limitations, stuck traumatic experiences can be brought forward for processing and movement in a non-invasive way.

I have seen this in my practice as an Advanced Ortho-Bionomy® Practitioner. In my work, I use a technique of using position and movement that is reflective of the preference of the individual with whom I’m working. The miraculous thing that happens is that without any kind of intention or intervention for it to do so, reflection brings the mind to gently process any emotional content that may be connected to the pattern, while allowing the body to process and release restrictions and pain. This “back door” approach works so well because the following of the preference of the individual’s physical pattern promotes a safe environment for the mind to follow.

Coming from another direction, this connection is being used in an innovative and productive manner in treating post-traumatic patients. A study was conducted using individuals who had experienced a traumatic event about a decade previous. About half were given a propranolol pill, the other half a placebo, and then they relaxed while the drug took effect. Then each of the patients was asked to read a script that had been developed with a narrative describing their traumatic experience based on previous interviews. Some of the patients cried, some were fine, some needed to take breaks.

This process was completed a week later without the use of the drug (or placebo). The patients who had taken the propranol in the first part of the study were noticeably calmer, had a smaller increase in heart rate, and less perspiration as opposed to those who were given the placebo.

A larger study was done where participants repeated the drug/script regimen for six weeks, once a week and they showed an average reduction in standard PTSD symptoms of 50 percent. What seemed to have happened is that the “emotional tone” of the memories had changed. They seemed less invested in the intense quality of the memories.

Propranolol is a drug used to treat high blood pressure and has been taken to address stage fright. I mention this story not because I recommend its use, but because I want to show how changing the relationship of the physical body to the emotional experience changed the individual’s overall relationship to it.

Whether feelings begin in the mind or body is still up for debate, and sometimes it might seem like an appealing idea to erase the memories of unpleasant experiences, but these experiences are a defining part of who you are. The better choice is to change your relationship to the difficult events in your life in a way that, instead of erasing them, changes how you respond to them.

There is a yearning we have as humans: to join with the flow and essence of the world around us. It creates a nostalgia for something we know we’ve experienced, yet cannot put a name to. There is a longing to be part of the greater whole.

It is nearly impossible to walk to the edge of the ocean and not to kick off your shoes, wade in and let the waves lick against your ankles, to find a path in the woods and not take it, to come to a hill and not climb it. I grew up near Niagara Falls, and no matter how many hundreds of times I stand next to the falls, I find the pull of the water almost irresistible.

It is not only nature that has this pull on us. The urge that draws people to show up at everything from Woodstock to the Obama inauguration without plans or tickets, just to be part of something, and the sentimental fondness with which these events are remembered are part of this impulse, this thirst, to be immersed in the flow of the world.

What are we to make of this impulse? Its ubiquitous quality indicates to me that it holds an evolutionary advantage. So, what good does it serve? Arguably, it serves many, but for our purposes, it seems there is an obvious one. When we enter into the stream of life in a manner that allows us to be completely suffused with all that is around us, we cannot help but feel the distinctions between us begin to disintegrate. When the boundaries between “it” and “I” begin to grow indistinct, we are in a position where we naturally begin to embody a compassionate presence. It is not so much a matter of making the decision to be in a relationship of compassion with others as an inevitable consequence. As the boundary between yourself and others grows less substantial, it seems only natural to be present and open with others in whatever state they are in, and that is the root of compassion.

The most straightforward way I have been able to experience that sense of oneness with my environment, without any sort of extreme circumstances, events or settings, is through practicing Shikantaza. Shikantaza is just another kind of mindfulness. It is a way of being barely aware and yet completely in the moment. Much has been said about mindfulness techniques that name or identify our state of being, and anchors our awareness (including here in this column). These techniques are infinitely useful, but for me they are a wonderful bridge to this state of bare awareness.

“Bare Awareness” sounds as though one might be partially checked out, in some sort of semi-trance state with a tenuous connection to the outside world. Instead, it is a more complete awareness. It is a “bare” awareness, as in unencumbered. The mind does not attach to any one thing, but is aware of everything equally.

It’s like frosting a cake. You can put it all over the cake in blobs, dropping it from a spoon. It is very thick in the places where it lands and thin to non-existent in others. Now, spread that frosting as evenly as possible. There is less frosting in one slice than there might be in the blobby cake, but all of the cake is evenly coated, equally delicious, and aesthetically pleasing.

Shikantaza is spreading our “beingness” to every corner of our experience like the more evenly frosted cake. Every slice, in every direction, is equal and wonderful.

My most striking meditation experiences have been times when I have decided to sit in a noisy, busy, public place – for example, the middle of Powderhorn Park May Day Festival, and sitting on the curb at the Minnesota State Fair. Both times I have felt myself essentially disappear into the world around me; people, sights, sounds and smells all meld into a oneness that I, also, merge with. Everything is equal in value and importance, and I promise you, it’s hard to feel antagonism when you are everything.

If you regularly read my column, you probably know that all of my columns are, in some aspect, very personal. One of the trickiest parts of writing these personal stories is that so often, it is not just my story. If it involves someone else, I am always cautious, as it is not only my story to tell.

In C.S. Lewis’ A Horse and His Boy, as the great lion Aslan reveals his role in the unfolding of events to each person, each character has questions arise regarding things that have happened to other individuals in the story, and to each of these questions, Aslan replies, “I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”

Here is an example: I have a friend who, in the past, was a regular and relatively frequent dater. The thing about dating a lot is that it increases the likelihood of bad dates, and she’s had some doozies. Some of these stories are jaw dropping, others hilarious. There is a huge temptation to share these stories with others. Are these my stories to tell? This is the kind of question that I started to ask myself when I started writing this month’s column about some personal dynamics (unrelated to the woman mentioned above) that I thought might provide some interesting insights, but really reached into the edges of what is my story, and what is not, and the ethics of speech.

One of the behavioral guidelines in Buddhism is most often translated as “Right Speech.”

We teach children right speech principles all the time: “We don’t lie.” Or “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Or the big one in my house right now, “Don’t take that tone with me.” Like everything we learn as children, these rules continue to apply as we become adults, but also like everything else, they become more nuanced and complex.

Right speech is often expressed in terms of things we should not do, and involves avoiding what is defined as harmful speech. Four types of harmful speech are traditionally described:

• The first example above falls under the first category of harmful speech to avoid, lies, which are defined as words spoken with the intention of misleading or misrepresenting the truth.
• The second type of harmful speech is divisive speech, which is language that has the intention to create division among people.
• The third type of harmful speech is to abstain from using harsh words with the intent of hurting another person.
• The fourth type of speech to be avoided is usually referred to as idle chatter; a useful “catch-all” description if ever there was one. This one I fear may be the most important, dangerous and slippery of all. Gossip, in its most pure, refined sense of the word, is, of course, easily qualified as idle chatter. But where does the line come between chatter and useful conversation? When we tell someone that we’ve heard a friend has bought a house, does that qualify as chatter? What about telling others that a friend’s mother is dying?

I decided that I needed to spend some time contemplating the question of Right Speech. The outcome was that although there were many ways of delineating right speech, the first and best measure is to question its intent. Intent is the determining factor at the root of so many things; it sets the stage for determining how something should be done and, more importantly, whether it should be done at all. Choosing whether to use words, what words to use and how to use them is a very good place to examine intent behind the action.

Being thoughtful of your speech provides the opportunity to honestly examine and consider what it is you want to say and why you want to say it. Armed with this information, you are in the position of deciding whether to say it at all.

Examining your motivation in speaking can be an uncomfortable, even painful, experience as you are confronted with some of your less-flattering behaviors, but I think it’s better to squirm silently for a moment than publicly for much longer.

I want to be more present. I really do, but I find myself slipping into states of mindlessness more often than I’m comfortable with. I, of course, have no idea that I am checked out until something occurs to snap me back, and I realize that “Elvis has left the building” (as I have dubbed it).

I have explored the virtues of mindfulness many times in my writing, so you know that it is something I place great importance on, so these occurrences are a regular wake-up call to me of how far I have to go. I do, however, take some comfort in knowing that I am at least mindful enough to notice my lack of mindfulness!

About a month ago, I went to visit my parents. I was there to help out with my mother while she is going through strenuous physical rehab and my father had to be out of town. I was the only person in the house who could drive and I had my father’s car that is temporarily without a radio. I didn’t do a lot of driving, but whenever I did, I found that I was in the car for only a minute or so before my hand was reaching to turn on the radio, almost as though it had a mind of its own. I knew there was no radio, but it didn’t matter. There would be my hand, reaching for the radio like a salmon swimming up stream, operating entirely without any thought or decision making, and it happened repeatedly, sometimes several times in a single, short car trip.

This mini mindless moment was quite interesting to me. I began to see the relationship between habit and mindfulness, and began to pay attention to other habits I had associated with driving and with other activities.

You see, when you perform a habitual action, for that moment, you are not present. These are not decisions you are making; they are behaviors that are performed regularly and occur subconsciously. There is a distinct lack of awareness when we perform habitual behaviors.

Whenever I examine human behaviors, I ask myself, “What is the evolutionary advantage to this behavior?” The advantage to our ability to habituate is that it allows us to become less responsive to irrelevant stimulus. In other words, if we could not habituate to our environment, we would be unable to tune out outside noise while trying to focus on a conversation, or to distinguish the one plant we are looking for in the woods. In other words, it has provided us with a tool to increase our ability to focus and give our attention to a selected task.

I find it so ironic that the tool that evolution has provided us to increase our ability to be completely present with one particular thing has provided us with many opportunities to live our life in a less-mindful state. My day has become filled with tiny activities that I perform without any thought or consideration. Habits are usually keyed to other stimuli, which is why when people quit smoking, they need to change their behaviors around such activities as drinking coffee or talking on the phone.

In my case, sitting in a car seat makes me turn on the radio. I decided to notice other mindless habits that I was performing. My hand would stop half way to the radio, or I’d find myself opening my email every time I turned on my computer. Even worse, I sometimes got to the end of my alley and started to turn right, even when I wanted to go left, because I turn right to go so many of the places I tend to drive.

This made me realize how much I operate on autopilot, and to wonder how much I am missing in these moments of subconscious functioning.

I have made it a point to begin to notice my habits and, in many cases, rid myself of them. Not because they are all inherently bad, but because they are times of thoughtless living. I still like to listen to the radio in the car. I just make it a decision, not a habit.

We live in a world that lives by the rule of impermanence and I find myself fascinated by it. It is that fascination of those things we both fear and awe. For example, I am unreasonably bothered by the idea that our sun will burn out to the point where it will no longer be able sustain life on earth in about a half a billion years (for perspective, about 2,500 times the amount of time that humans have been on earth), and yet I am also completely fascinated by the ephemeral nature of things. I am completely intrigued by the book, The World Without Us, and the TV show “Life After People,” seeing how everything we find familiar would cease without humans to maintain or nurture them.

Impermanence looms large in our consciousness. It is easily an instigator of the kind of anxiety that lives just around the corner of your awareness. The knowledge that the touchstones of life – your family, home, belongings, environment – are in a state of decay and disappearance can leave you feeling untethered, fearful and filled with preemptive grief.

I have been immersed in the transitory. I recently said goodbye to my role as a Girl Scout leader. I’ve been with these girls for seven years, through most of their life, many since kindergarten. I’ve seen them grow and change and begin to become the people they will be. It was time; there was no doubt about it, and I was ready to move on and devote my energies elsewhere, but the melancholy that I felt at the end was surprising. Here was something that had become somewhat of a burden, but during that last time together, as I encouraged each girl to push her limits and expand her potential, and celebrated each small victory, I realized what I was losing.

The ephemeral nature of things need not be only a source of anxiety, fear and grief. It can be a balm and a comfort. If we did not recognize the transient nature of physical pain, heartbreak, anger and grief, we would find it unbearable to live with them. You might find yourself saying, “I feel like this will never end” – but inherent in that statement is the knowledge that it will end, even if it ends by transforming into something else.

For impermanence does not mean the complete cessation of something; it means the cessation of it in its present state. It means change, and that is a constant. Children grow and then age. Mountains are worn by wind and water. Iron rusts. Experience becomes memory. Grief becomes anger, anger becomes resolution, and resolution becomes clarity.

I have been watching my mother struggle with more than six months of pain and frustration as something that was expected to be a pretty straightforward surgical event became a challenging, reality-altering travail. She has been a student of the double-edged sword of impermanence. She no longer lives with the debilitating pain she has suffered from for years, but she has to relearn how to walk and is quite dependent on others while she does so. She is heartened by every small mark of change, and is, therefore, fed by the promise of impermanence. Yet, she fears she’ll never be able to be mobile in the way she would like when she can only see her plateau, and that change is nearly panic-inducing.

There is comfort to be found in knowing that this, too, shall pass. But if you are to fully embody this face of impermanence and reap all the benefits from it, then it is required that you also embody and accept, and eventually embrace, loss, change and the fleeting nature of our experience.

The fear and distress associated with change and loss, or its anticipation, comes less from the transition itself than from the suffering you impose upon yourself by failing to acknowledge and welcome it. If you look at many religious shrines, you will often find flowers placed there. Yes, they look lovely and gladden the heart, but their real purpose is to remind you of the ephemeral nature of all things and to be able to rejoice in it here and now.

Sometimes, there are things you know and understand. Intellectually, you grasp the validity and value of these ideas, and practices; you are able to see their truth and wisdom, but don’t feel that you have any sort of relationship with them. Suddenly, you have some sort of visceral experience, make a physical connection, or maybe just an “aha” moment, and you have an insight into this thing you’ve known and understood in a pure, theoretical way, and you get it on a whole different level. You have a gestalt sense of this concept that transcends your previous understanding, creating a deeper appreciation.

I have this happen, and often it is when I’m working with my fabulous Tai Chi instructor. He can tell me the same thing for years, and I hear it, but until I have the foundational experiences, I don’t really get it. Then, all of a sudden, my body moves in a new, more complete way, the words have a context and it becomes an experience instead of an idea.

I also have this relationship with understanding the value of mindfulness. I’ve been working with mindfulness for many years. I explore bringing it into my daily activities, I cultivate it in my meditation practice, and it is integral to my work with clients and students. I have seen the concepts and skills I have learned and developed through these activities becoming contextualized, seeing them in new relationships and settings. I think I have integrated them into my life, and then, unexpectedly, in their spiral path, they again resurface in yet a deeper, richer way. Sometimes these realizations are so profound, they literally take my breath away.

My most recent revelation that allowed me to grasp mindfulness more fully is that it has the gifts of increasing the likelihood of being kind, and that this kindness extends not only to others, but to yourself.

When you are in a mindful state, you are more present with your circumstances, and more cognizant of your physical and emotional responses to them. It is a platform from which you can see with great clarity the profound dimensionality and complexity of the causes contributing to each event. It is much more difficult to be reactionary and judgmental in response to others when you are faced with the deep intricacy and profound humanity of each difficult, volatile or contentious situation.

This clarity is wonderfully comprehensive. It provides a deep and moving ability to see the suffering that has led to your present set of circumstances, both yours and others.

Against this backdrop, the root causes of the reactions you experience to stressors that may be less than kind stand out sharp and clear. It becomes apparent how much of your unkind behavior springs from old hurts from which you yourself are suffering. You are able to see starkly which of your buttons are being pushed, and that they are most likely being triggered unknowingly and unintentionally by others.

Standing in this place of mindful awareness provides an all-important split-second of insight, allowing you to put a reaction or response into proper context before letting fly words or actions that might be hurtful.

That split second is also often just the right amount of time required to allow yourself the luxury of letting your heart be open to the hurt and suffering of the other. Aggression, sarcasm, manipulative behavior or rudeness really is a manifestation of another’s pain, or fear. As you cultivate mindfulness, the space opens up for you to see this, and respond with gentleness and kindness.

That moment, no matter how seemingly brief, can provide the proper buffer for turning unskillful action into no action, allowing an explosion of uncharitable energy to dissipate harmlessly instead of spreading destruction and embarrassment.

This ability to make a space for perspective, calm, and compassionate vision is something that is developed over time. Find ways to regularly bring a mindful state to your day and stealthily and subtly that sense of clarity will begin to find its way into the difficult places in your life, opening up spaces to see, to breathe, and to find perspective. There you discover many windows for kindness.

In the pre-dawn light of early morning, I stood at my post, observing as the doshi bowed, bowing just as he always does and as he has done more than a thousand times before.

Suddenly, I was struck by a sensation of ease and opening within myself as I experienced a sense of profound clarity. I could see completely, and simply how the bow was merely itself, without significance or import; I saw how each movement was unremarkable, not representative of anything. Yet, in the moment, the act was singular, unique, central and entire; it was everything. Then, in an instant, each motion and gesture passed and was gone, becoming nothing. The gesture, the movement, the attention and the intention no longer existed.

The passing of the moment was without any sense of loss or nostalgia as its passage produced a ceaseless series of endings, constantly replacing one another.

I decided a few months earlier that I would like to train to be a doan at the meditation center where I often sit and learn and take retreat. A doan is most readily compared to a cantor, the person who guides the proceedings, letting others know when activities are beginning or ending, leading chants, and allowing participants to be free from decisions and consideration of time and progression of activities. In the case of what I became responsible for, it includes the use of several instruments, chanting, timing of activities, and standing and walking in particular ways, in a particular order.

I felt the need to do this, even though it meant showing up at 5:30 in the morning, because I had recently realized that I experience much of the world kinesthetically. I felt that having my meditation practice involve something that involved moving my body in a prescribed way would be of value to my practice. In addition, my previous spiritual tradition involved a lot of ritual, and it was something with which I felt comfortable and at home. Instinct told me it was the right thing to do, and I was heavily supported in my intentions.

I knew that, in some way, this would to be an opportunity for me to gain insight. As is true of all opportunities for being struck by a lightning bolt of lucidity, I could not anticipate what I would learn.

When I began this practice, I asked my teacher what I should be thinking when I bowed. His answer was that it is merely another opportunity to be mindful, and I have kept that in mind. Then I became a doan, and the duties are prescribed, complex and wordless. First you light these candles, then you stand here, then you stand there, then you ring this bell, then you ring a different bell, then you ring yet another. Chanting, more bells, more chanting, more instruments, it was inevitable that I would be nervous. By attempting to be mindful of each thing, not worrying about the next, I was more able to let go of the worry that created the “stage fright” I found myself on the verge of. But the effort of paying close attention to what I was doing and readying myself for the next thing did not allow me to be mindful of the environment that I found myself in and was creating by these activities.

It was my third time acting as doan, when I was just beginning to be comfortable enough with the order of things, that I found myself with an opportunity for me to be quiet and present without doing. It was then that I was able to experience the aforementioned scene; one that awakened me to what my teacher was telling me about bowing.

I understood in that moment, the opportunity there is to bring meaning into each thing I did each day. I also saw that each thing has no more meaning than a momentary movement, word or gesture. It merely is.

Each gesture is a ritual, full and complete; each ritual merely a gesture. Every thing has only and exactly as much importance as we give it. Let us restrain ourselves from giving it more than is warranted or less than it deserves.

Charles Schultz once said, “I love humanity; it’s people I can’t stand.” And truly, one of the great challenges of being human is encountering other humans. It is an unavoidable truth that interacting with people usually results in some kind of reaction, often strongly emotional. There are interactions that can provoke a great amount of frustration, irritation, or impatience. Sometimes they fuel our weaknesses and shortcomings, or push our hot-buttons.

Aren’t there times that you just wish that you could make people different? Fix their annoying quirks? Rid them of their neuroses? Convince them to stop being manipulative, controlling or passive aggressive? Sometimes, we even try. By now I’m sure you’ve noticed; it doesn’t work.

When dealing with people, there is one important truth. The only person you can change is yourself.

When I say “change yourself,” I mean change your relationship to the circumstances and events created by the interaction with people and the frustrations that result. How you respond can easily contribute to further deterioration of the situation. But in every moment, there is an opportunity to be the force for healing, diffusing tension or, at the very least, preventing an escalation of bad feelings. The only action required is to monitor your reaction and learn to adjust your response.

Self-examination, meditation and therapy can assist in the quantity and quality of your reaction to events, but essentially, we have little control over our reactions to situations. What we do have is a choice in how we respond to those reactions.

What this means will be clearer if we have a common definition of “reaction” and “response.”

A “reaction” is the unbidden emotional and physiological result of encountering an event, circumstance or individual. It is the “gut” response to circumstances and events that we experience subconsciously and often has a body sense that accompanies it.

A “response” is the action taken as a result of the reaction. It is the attitude that is assumed when experiencing a reaction. This sometimes then manifests in a particular tone of voice, assumption of body posture, word choice or energetic response.

The time frame between the reaction and the response can be so small that they can seem undifferentiated. However, there is a small but important window of opportunity for recognizing reaction before response, and a method for finding that window lies in perceiving and understanding your physiological feedback to a situation before you respond in a way that has every likelihood of causing the situation to exacerbate or deteriorate.

I want to assure you that your own suffering (stress) is present, real, inevitable and intricately bound with our humanity and our capacity for compassion. This is not to deny the experience of your feelings, but to warn that it’s likely to lead down a path of self-indulgence and immersion. It can be observed and acknowledged without feeding into the energy, creating a feedback loop of destructive words, actions and feelings.

Before you can adjust your relative attitude to irritation or discomfort, you need to be able to have an understanding of what your reaction is and the state of being that it produces in you. The most consistent and reliable standard against which you can measure your reactivity is with you all the time – your body. Next time you find yourself in a position where you find yourself being reactive to the words, presence, or actions of others, and you can find a moment of clarity, try the following exercise.

Allow yourself to notice any of these physiological responses. There is no need to change, alter, or regulate them, just feel and acknowledge them in your body:

• A change in your relationship to gravity
• An increased sense of restriction or tightness somewhere
• A changed speed of bodily functions – breath, heart rate, digestion, actions
• An increased recognition or consciousness of a segment of the body
• Sounds – louder, rushing in your ears
• Vision – tunnel vision, brighter colors, blurriness

The more you can be aware of your reactions to difficult circumstances, the more you can open up that space between reacting and responding. That space is your opportunity to govern your response, and to become an agent of healing.

We spend much time in our lives failing to live fully, going through the motions. Being mindfully present allows not only clarity, but also invokes a state of peaceful oneness, providing the opportunity to be of benefit to all others. We are constantly lured away from this state by enticements that are powerful, insidious and almost irresistible.

About 2,500 years ago, the Buddha sat down under a tree and made the commitment to sit in that very spot until he became enlightened. After a while, Mara came to the Buddha to tempt him away from his quest for enlightenment.

In this story, Mara is seen as the personification of influences that entrap our minds, frustrating our efforts at cultivating clarity, equanimity and mindfulness.

Mara set about attempting to draw the Buddha from his task, and each time the Buddha resisted Mara, the greater the temptations became. The first was an army of fearful demons and beasts who, upon their assault, became powerless, their weapons losing their points and turning into flowers. The second was a bevy of beautiful women intent on seduction, but the Buddha easily turned them away. The last attempt consisted of Mara challenging the right of the Buddha to the boddhisatva’s seat, claiming that he had done all that Buddha had done, calling upon his minions as witness. The Buddha merely touched the earth in response.

You see, as each of the temptations toward distraction is thwarted, they become more irresistible. They begin with fear and proceed to the temptations of pleasure. The last attempt at derailing the clear mind is the most tempting of all. It is an appeal to pride, and an assault on human insecurity. The touching of the earth was the Buddha’s way of calling on the earth as witness to the truth of his experiences. A less confrontational way of dealing with a challenge to one’s capabilities has yet to be invented.

In it, we can find the clues to deciphering distraction, determining when an experience that appears as a genuine gift of insight, a glimpse of clarity, or a window into an improved understanding has merit. Sometimes that which feels good can be growing experiences, but so often they are cleverly disguised hindrances. We are all gifted in the art of self-delusion.

Fear can be a powerful motivator for checking out from our present circumstances. It can provide a litany of demons and armed foes that we can use to dissuade us from making decisions that are uncomfortable or cause us to challenge our assumptions. Most of these enemies are those of our own imagination, and, as in the story, by facing them calmly, allowing the emotional charge associated with them to dissipate, we become fearless and they become powerless over us. Fear has its place, but cultivating self-consciousness about its validity is crucial.

To call the next set of enticements the temptations of the “flesh” would be obvious, but it’s more; it’s about the distractions of the world at large. Yes, there’s food and sex and comfort, but also there are the elements of the everyday that can occupy us, taking us out of being present.

Planning, worrying, remembering and obsessing are all distractions that tempt us away from the goal of being completely present. They take us into a past that’s gone, and a future that doesn’t exist. This is the temptation of distraction. Distraction can look like fantasies or like your to-do list, one diverting and pleasurable and the other giving the illusion of achievement or progress. Neither is inherently bad, yet neither is beneficial when it takes us away from what’s important and right in front of us right now.

The most enticing draw from a state of openness and equanimity is our ego. It is the need to prove our worthiness, competence and accomplishments, to oneself and others. It is the voice that justifies our actions because they reinforce our beliefs, or when we intrude into the choices of others, believing we know best. The fear of ego-death provides great motivation to develop rationalizations for our behaviors.

This is the last, great temptation. Only by being vigilant can we fully live. You see, Mara is with us always.

It was one of those months. Death in the family, complicated hospitalizations, interrupted meditation retreat, equipment failures, delivery of damaged goods, dental infections and car accidents, not to mention the general chaos associated with the holidays. Every time some sort of major event happened, I thought to myself, “There’s a lesson to be learned here.” And each time I thought I knew what the lesson was, something else would happen to shift the gaze, sharpen the focus.

It sure seems that sometimes the universe hits you with a lesson, and keeps beating you harder until you finally get the message. I wondered, “What do a death in the family, an automobile accident and a meditation retreat, have in common?” In each case, what seemed to be important was that there is much to be gained in recognizing what is, and shifting the relationship to an incident or situation.

It is an important lesson, and one that bears revisiting, but it turns out that wasn’t what I was supposed to learn. In fact, it’s one I teach in my classes and to my clients regularly.

The day my rental car (which I had because of an auto accident that left my car unhappy about making left turns) had transmission problems and got stuck in Park, I felt that I had reached the end of my proverbial rope. I thought I’d been relatively patient and sanguine about everything that had been happening to our family up until that point, but I could feel myself on the verge of snapping. Then a friend of mine said, “When at the end of the rope, be the end of the rope.”

That’s when I got it. There was a sense of everything clicking together.

Just the day before, a friend was talking to me about some very old business and baggage she had, and that what she feared most was the kind of humiliation she had endured at the hand of those in power over her during part of her childhood. A friend said to her, “Be humiliation.”

She said, “I got it.”

You see, it’s not just about being in an okay place with not okay events. It’s about not seeing ourselves in opposition to events, or even separate from them. Once we find a way to “become” that which we fear, dread or antagonizes us, the duality disappears. Good/bad, this/that, me/you are revealed as the artificial constructs that they are — if only for a moment.

In that moment, the distinctions become so blurred that we cannot help but begin to find a state of peace with the source of our distress. This is not to say that we need to see ourselves as the cause of our troubles, just to try to experience, fleetingly, the seamless nature of reality. Out of that experience, we discover that suffering occurs as a result of differentiation, not from immersion.

Unfolding from this realization is an equanimity that does not present as inappropriately optimistic or false. It is a state of recognizing the reality of the situation calmly, without the need for an emotionally loaded reaction, a “woe is me” approach, or a sense of victimization. There is an acceptance that this is, in fact, how things are.

How do you “become” the antagonist? In the long term, the best strategy is developing a meditation practice as a tool for cultivating this ability. This does take some time and practice, and so, in the meantime, try thinking about a bell. It can help to work with an actual bell. A bell is a bell because it makes sound, but the sound is only possible due to the emptiness it contains. Take turns being the bell, the sound and the emptiness, noticing that none of them can be without the others.

The difficulties we encounter as we make our way through life can tempt us to indulge in a great deal of drama, immersing ourselves in misery, anger, or self-pity. To quote Shakespeare, this is only “sound and fury, signifying nothing.” The calm created by the equanimity found when letting go of differentiation is not only physically healthier, it leaves us with greater clarity with which to tackle our situation.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I believe it. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I have earned my own hard hat and orange safety vest.

Many sensitive, lovely people are genuinely committed in their hearts to making the world a better place. Unfortunately, this noblest of goals can set up them up for a nasty trap. The messes that can be made by stepping in to resolve a problem are often far greater than might result from being hands-off.

The drive to care for others is a noble one, but the drive can be so strong that it can override perspective and cloud better judgment. In the attempt to be of service, the most well-meaning person can become a font of trouble. The line between wanting to care about others and care-taking others is so fine that sure-footed dexterity is sometimes required to avoid crossing it.

The stereotypical caricature of this is the busybody, the bossy aunty or the high-handed neighbor who seems to think she knows what is for everyone else’s “own good,” and is willing to make it happen whether others like it or not. Most of us don’t see ourselves in that way, and few actually behave in such an overtly interfering fashion, but that doesn’t mean that the most subtle, well-intentioned statements and actions don’t carry the same charge.

Have you ever absolutely insisted that someone must order a particular item on the menu, just has to try your hair stylist, or buy something you think they really should have? The menu item may be fabulous, and very much the sort of thing that person would enjoy, but that doesn’t mean she’s in the mood for it.

What happens in these cases is that others feel like their choices are being threatened, or even taken away. Imagine making those sorts of recommendations and pay attention to the feeling you experience. Notice how strident and keyed up you feel. Consider how that translates to the person you’re speaking to. Now, notice what happens when the presentation changes: “I really recommend the salmon.” “I am really happy with my stylist; would you like her number?” “That really does look nice on you, and it is a great wardrobe basic.” These are all ways of being helpful without leaving the other person feeling threatened. Making recommendations with an insistence that implies knowing best also implies criticism of the other’s choices.

Criticism is a key way that we find our better nature manifesting into our worst behaviors. Critical behavior can be the result of a variety of motivations. Finding fault with others’ choices and decisions can result from a low self-esteem as a technique to build up oneself by diminishing another. But there is sometimes a more altruistic reason for appraising others. When casting a critical eye, the frame of mind of the critic may be that the object of their criticism has some untapped potential. The subconscious intent may actually be to be the cheerleader for that person, the coach that pushes him to live up to the promise of who he can be. Of course, it doesn’t come out that way. It is very difficult to see your choices be criticized without seeing it as an indictment of your intelligence, your taste, or you. Seeing past the faultfinding to the well-intentioned boost is a very hard thing to do when you feel wounded and diminished.

Do you see yourself as the person who is caring and well-intentioned, but misunderstood? Or are you the victim of the interfering, over-bearing critic? The truth is that at different times, each of us is capable of being one or the other.

When your passion to help others and make their lives better drives you to a place where you might insert yourself inappropriately, remember that just being with someone, totally and completely, is the most helpful that you can possibly be.

When someone in your life is making you crazy with interference and commentary, remember that deep inside, they may be trying to show you how much they care about you, so soften your heart, go to a place of love — and hand them a hard hat and an orange vest.

Several years ago I read the following: “It’s not a hot flash, it’s a power surge.” Now at the time, I had never had a hot flash. I wasn’t even sure I knew anyone who had hot flashes, but instinctively, I took offense at this. There was something about the relentless optimism I saw being expressed that sounded like utter crap to me. What little I’d heard told me that these were unpleasant experiences and pretending they weren’t was disingenuous, as well as shaming to anyone who didn’t share the experience. (I can assure you that they are the absolute opposite of a power surge; they suck the energy right out of you.)

I was reminded of this when I recently heard an interview on the radio with author Barbara Ehrenreich who recently released her latest book, Bright-sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. The seeds of the book were in her experience with being diagnosed with breast cancer, where she found herself immersed in a culture of “positive thinking.”

When Ehrenreich was diagnosed, she found that the pervasive tone in the breast cancer community was a cultish optimism that left her feeling lonely and denied. Her anger and outrage around the insufficiency of information about the cancer’s cause and treatments was real. Her experience was that of isolation that increased the more she delved into books, articles and support groups that pushed a positive attitude, lots of pink, and breast cancer teddy bears. Nothing seemed to support her as she went through feelings of pain or anger.

I think about the many times friends had come to me with their problems, their pain, their disappointments, and I tried to cheer them up, help them find the bright side. I also think about times that the situation was reversed, and how I felt under those circumstances.

Despite what we think is needed by those who turn to us for support, most of the time the one thing they need is to be heard. Sometimes our life circumstances are pretty crappy. Disease, divorce, lay-offs, happen, and they happen to everyone, and everyone feels angry, sad or frustrated in response.

So, picture yourself at a point where you were experiencing authentic feelings of pain, fear or anger, and imagine you are being told to cheer up, that things are not as bad as you think, and if you’d just see what a great opportunity this crappy experience is, you will realize that it is the greatest thing that ever happened to you.

In essence, you are being told that your feelings are not only invalid, but also inappropriate. Your very reality is being repudiated.

I’m sure that I am not alone in finding that nothing is more certain to change my mood for the worse than someone telling me to “Smile.” So often my expression is not expressive of my mood; I’m most likely to be lost in thought, happily ensconced in a pleasant, internal world. Suddenly, the directive to display a “positive” expression is an imposition, an assertion that the speaker knows what’s best for me. It makes me crazy.

Believing that you know best for someone else is a conviction that may come from a place of good intentions, but no matter how good our intentions may be, they are our intentions for another. It is presumptuous to assume that we know what is right for that person. Attempting to talk someone around to a particular point of view or that they be, act or feel a particular way is a subtle act of aggression.

When we’re dealing with someone who already has been victimized by disease or circumstance, the last thing they need from their friends is controlling behavior. What they are genuinely seeking is a loving, compassionate presence.

Being completely present with one who is suffering means being able to be present with the suffering itself. This, you may recall, is the very definition of compassion. True compassionate presence is not about denying someone his experience with the dark realities he is experiencing; instead, it provides illumination that allows him to explore all the aspects of his situation with clarity.

For a week I’ve hardly been able to go anywhere or have a conversation with anyone without the encountering the subject of giving. It began when I met a friend for dinner in Downtown St. Paul near her workplace. We were returning to our cars when a woman approached us asking for the location of a battered women’s shelter.

What it turned out she was really looking for was bus fare to Minneapolis, which I ended up giving her. As I drove home, I realized I was feeling resentment; I felt manipulated by her. How she got to the point where she asked for bus fare was a bit convoluted, even exploitive, playing on our sympathies for her as a battered woman.

To be clear, it is entirely possible – maybe probable, that she was everything she said. It was the manipulation that gnawed at me.

Then I thought, “Really? You’re going to resent those two bucks? You’re going put conditions on that gift of $2?”

I realized how foolish I was. Give her the money or don’t, but if I’m going to give it, I shouldn’t cheat myself out of the gift I could receive from giving freely from my heart.

Surprisingly complex
Giving is a surprisingly complex thing, fraught with baggage and preconceptions, pushing some of our hottest buttons. The word “give” has even been marginalized and rejected, as if “to give” demonstrates something improper in tone, failing to appropriately express an open generosity. People now feel the need to commit crimes against grammar, replacing the verb “give” with the noun “gift”, as in “I’m gifting you that necklace,” as if it’s by saying, “I’m giving this to you,” we are expressing something akin to condescension. Rather than screwing around with parts of speech, perhaps it is merely a matter of where we stand energetically and emotionally, as giver and receiver, which we need to shift.

The substance of the issue is that there is no distinction between giving and receiving, between the giver and the gift.

We are all both the givers and the gifts, giving and receiving every day, living in a state of symbiosis in which we are constantly sharing what we have and receiving what we need, in ways that rarely cross our minds. We breathe out carbon dioxide appreciated by plants and enjoy the oxygen that they supply. We provide a home for more bacteria in our gut alone than there have ever been humans on this earth combined. We give them food and shelter, and they keep our bodies functioning and whole.

Letting go
We receive when giving by being in a place of generosity, warmth and equanimity when we do so. By letting go of any attachments or expectations surrounding the act of giving, we experience an expansiveness that promotes a state of well-being and even greater generosity. There are those times that you have given something – a donation to a cause, picked up the tab at lunch or chosen a holiday gift for a child – and you have done it from a place of genuine kindness, resulting in joy. There are times you have given begrudgingly, and instead of feeling richer, you feel drained. Instead of expansive, you feel tight and contracted.

A barrier to generosity is the paralysis and discouragement that comes from feeling overwhelmed by the needs of so many in the world who need so much. A member of my spiritual community raised this issue this same week. He spoke of the people with their “begging bowls” he saw each day on Nicollet Mall in Downtown Minneapolis. He told us of his brother in another city who is also deeply in need. We all were able to be present and understand his sense of overwhelm.

The remedy to hopelessness is grasping that each act of generosity we experience incrementally shifts the larger pattern of humanity in a way that makes it better, as long as we enter into it with a heart free of judgment and full of joy.

I am so grateful to that woman in St. Paul; I was the one to receive the gift; it was what she taught me on those dark St. Paul streets that night.

There is a yearning we have as humans, to join with the flow and essence of the world around us. It creates a nostalgia for something we know we’ve experienced, yet cannot put a name to. There is a longing to be part of the greater whole.

It is nearly impossible to walk to the edge of the ocean and not to kick off your shoes in order to wade in and let the waves lick against your ankles, to find a path in the woods and not take it, to come to a hill and not climb it. I grew up near Niagara Falls, and no matter how many hundreds of times I stand next to the falls, I find the pull of the water almost irresistible.

It is not only nature that has this pull on us. The urge that draws people to show up at everything from Woodstock to the Obama inauguration without plans or tickets, just to be part of something, and the sentimental fondness with which these events are remembered are part of this impulse, this thirst, to be immersed in the flow of the world.

What are we to make of this impulse? Its ubiquitous quality indicates to me that it holds an evolutionary advantage. So, what good does it serve? Arguably, it serves many, but for our purposes, it seems there is an obvious one. When we enter into the stream of life in a manner that allows us to be completely suffused with all that is around us, we cannot help but feel the distinctions between us begin to disintegrate. When the boundaries between “it” and “I” begin to grow indistinct, we are in a position where we naturally begin to embody a compassionate presence. It is not so much a matter of making the decision to be in a relationship of compassion with others as an inevitable consequence. As the boundary between yourself and others grows less substantial, it seems only natural to be present and open with others in whatever state they are in, and that is the root of compassion.

The most straightforward way I have been able to experience that sense of oneness with my environment, without any sort of extreme circumstances, events or settings is through practicing shikantaza. Shikantaza is just another kind of mindfulness. It is a way of being barely aware and yet completely in the moment. Much has been said about mindfulness techniques that use various techniques of naming or identifying our state of being, and kinds of anchors for our awareness (including here in this column). These techniques are infinitely useful, but for me they are a wonderful bridge to this state of bare awareness.

“Bare Awareness” sounds as though one might be partially checked out, in some sort of semi-trance state with a tenuous connection to the outside world. Instead it is a more complete awareness. It is a “bare” awareness as in unencumbered. The mind does not attach to any one thing, but is aware of everything equally.

It’s like frosting a cake. You can put it all over the cake in blobs, dropping it from a spoon. It is very thick in the places where it lands and thin to non-existent in others. Now, spread that frosting as evenly as possible. There is less frosting in one slice than there might be in the blobby cake, but all of the cake is evenly coated, equally delicious, and aesthetically pleasing.

Shikantaza is spreading our “beingness” to every corner of our experience like the more evenly frosted cake. Every slice, in every direction, is equal and wonderful.

My most striking meditation experiences have been times when I have decided to sit in a noisy, busy, public place, for example, the middle of the Powderhorn Park May Day Festival, and sitting on the curb at the Minnesota State Fair. Both times I have felt myself essentially disappear into the world around me; people, sights, sounds, smells, all meld into a oneness that I, also, merge with. Everything is equal in value and importance, and I promise you, it’s hard to feel antagonism when you are everything.

We all know the people whose lives are the stage for constant drama. They live from crisis to crisis; every conflict, or roadblock is fodder for their personal soap opera. Once one catastrophe ends, they are quickly immersed in another.

We are all subject to it. You have some kind of stressful event happen, a bad break-up, a conflict with a co-worker. You get on the phone with friends, constantly rehashing and analyzing the situation, working yourself into a froth. Exhausting one audience, you begin again with someone else, expounding, complaining, discussing. We’ve all been through it.

This pattern becomes exhausting, yet you can’t seem to quit scrutinizing and analyzing the situation, working yourself into a tizzy over and over again.

So why do people put themselves through this, even to the extent of making a lifestyle out of it?

First of all, there is the physiological response to personal drama. Imagine yourself in a state of distress. Pick something recent and loaded with emotional charge. When you experience crisis, you body responds by going into the fight-or-flight response. Adrenaline begins to be pumped into your body; your respiration changes and the amount of oxygen being sent through your body and into your brain increases. Your feel your heart beat faster, pumping that oxygen-laden blood throughout the body. Without you being aware of it, glucose and other nutrients are liberated for immediate use by the body and brain. You have an enormous amount of energy. You have greater mental acuity and decisiveness and increased pain tolerance. The pupils dilate, and vision changes to a tunnel-like view, removing everything from the periphery. Your focus on you situation becomes exaggerated. It’s all very exciting and you feel powerful, or at least jacked up.

Then the crash comes. The sugar levels in your body drop. Your respiration and heart rate and perceptions return to normal, and you are exhausted from your hyped up metabolic state. Without any awareness that it’s happening, you begin to crave a return to your previous, pumped-up condition. So what do you do? Create more drama.

This, my friend, is a recipe for addiction. It’s one as physically and emotionally complex as a pharmaceutical.

As harmless as it seems, just like any other addiction, becoming a drama addict takes its toll. It is physically depleting, can cause issues such as constipation due to the fact that the fight-or-flight reaction shuts down the digestive process, and suppresses the immune system.

You are exhausting to be around, constantly conscripting other people into witnessing and feeding your story. Maintaining your addiction becomes your priority, distracting you from important things, taking you out of the present, and clouding your thinking.

The resolution is as simple as “Just Saying No” to full-crisis living. Saying no to being a user, saying no to being an enabler.

The first step is noticing when you work yourself into an adrenaline-fueled state. Are you talking yourself into a charged emotional state? Do you embroider the situation in your mind to make it more offensive/irritating/shocking? Pay attention to the times when you feel yourself physically changing and responding to your thoughts. The mere act of noticing and observing the event changes it. Go ahead and give yourself permission to be simply in this place of observation, and the rest will unfold from there.

What about “pushers” or enablers? Those people who bring drama into your life, unbidden? Of course, when we take care of ourselves in a way that is both respectful to ourselves and compassionate towards others, it becomes a win-win situation for everyone.

Creating a feedback loop of this kind of crisis energy is a very easy thing to do; all you have to do is allow yourself to be caught in the urgency, to feel the tickle of that adrenaline rush and jump on. Indulging in that state of excitement and urgency only feeds that state in another, until the two of you are over the top.

Resisting that urge, coming back to the present in a mindful state, allows the energy to dissipate, calming each other, and becoming a healing presence.

When I was in Sedona, AZ, about a year ago, I was reminded of an interview I read with travel journalist and chef Anthony Bourdain. He said that he no longer takes photographs when he travels, as he is inevitably disappointed by how poorly they capture his experience. I had been treated to a stay at an incredible spa nestled in the floor of a spectacular, red rock canyon, surrounded by parkland. In a freak meteorological event, it had turned cold and damp and rainy in late May and we’d been tucked into the relaxed loveliness of the spa. I was really dying to get out and walk the canyon though, and finally we woke to brilliant, clear weather.

I grabbed my boots and my camera and wandered down the center of the canyon, entranced with the color and light of the desert morning. I constantly stopped to look around, breathless with the power of rocks towering over my head, and each time I lifted my camera to my face in an attempt to capture the view. I’d move a bit further on and stop to catch the next angle, the next formation. Every part of me was so full of amazement at this place; I could easily see these rocks as beneficent gods, standing watch over my puny humanness. I needed to catch this place, and bring it back with me.

All of a sudden I realized I was spending so much of my time and attention trying to put this place in my pocket that I was not permitting myself to fully BE there – right now – and to develop the kind of complete, rich and intimate relationship with the experience that would be more useful in remembering the experience than any photograph I might take would be.

This leads me to another story of being in a beautiful and deeply moving place. I was going to British Columbia for the first time to begin my instructor training. It was a bit of a Planes, Trains & Automobiles sort of trip; two plane trips, a tram and a taxi ride had gotten me to the ferry landing within a barely comfortable window to get on the boat. Once on the boat, I headed right for the dining area to eat my first meal in many, many hours.

Emerging from the interior, I stepped into the most profoundly beautiful panorama I could never have imagined. There we were, crossing this spectacularly beautiful bay of crystal blue water, from which mountains sprang, covered in richest green. The sea air blew gently across my face; waves lapped the boat. What did I do? Burst into tears. Why? Because I was already anticipating having to leave.

Now, you must understand; I was going to be there close to two weeks. I was not going home the next day. Still, I was overcome with a sense of loss. I soon snapped to, breathed and enjoyed the rest of the ferry ride.

The common thread in these stories is how we create stress, or dukkha, for ourselves in even the most fortunate of situations. Stressful situations – anger, fear, annoyance, sadness – all can threaten our state of equanimity, our ability to be present, and our responses of aversion and attachment. These situations are quite readily recognized, as their general lack of social appropriateness and the sense of discomfort they produce are reminders to return to a more balanced state of mind.

It is equally possible to become unbalanced when caught up in a moment of joy, elation or delight, but the euphoria of the moment screens us from the imbalance and suffering it creates. Being so enthralled by our circumstances that we fear their loss evokes an attachment to them, and an aversion to losing them, that brings distress. Trying to hold on to what we have in the moment, takes us into a state of worry, preventing us from being present.

Failing to be mindfully present due to anticipation of future events prevents us from enjoying what is right in front of us. Being right there with your experience as entirely as possible, understanding, but not fearing, its transient nature is a path to peace.

In this world of hyper-specialization, something is being lost. The brilliance of our humanity is being dimmed as we get narrower and narrower in our focus. Our ability to think globally is one of the most wonderful parts of being human and the intellectual rewards are immeasurable, and key to our growth as people and as a species.

But, as importantly, allowing ourselves to gratify all our passions – Australian film, Chinese cooking, the history of infectious disease – we become more whole as humans, giving us additional ways of connecting with people and shifting our relationships with them to make our interactions fulfilling, nurturing and healing.

Imagine a chef. He’s not just a chef, but a brilliant one. His subtle layering of flavors, passion for top-quality ingredients, preoccupation with all aspects of food – he is a creative genius. But the genius of cooking is an earthy one; taste, texture, color, even sound, are part of the visceral experience of cooking. In addition, anyone who has worked in a commercial kitchen can tell you that it is a hot, sweaty pit of hard work and rough language, populated by a cast of questionable characters. But this chef has a passion for something else. He has a fascination with astronomy; he even has a large telescope that he goes home to late at night after the kitchen is closed. Astronomy is about everything cooking is not; it is, for practical purposes, intangible, abstract and cerebral. There are those who would say that the time this guy spends reading about astronomy and staring at points of light that are light-years away is a distraction from his real work. But the real deal is that by accessing these other parts of himself, he gives them opportunity to grow, becoming an entire person.

The result: he creates dishes that respond to many points of view, food that speaks to his customers on a heart level. That’s the real reason why he’s a great chef.

Michelangelo (architect, engineer, sculptor, painter) and Leonardo da Vinci (scientist, mathematician, inventor, anatomist, painter, sculptor, architect, botanist, musician) were, and still are, held up as archetypal geniuses who were given the latitude to express their multiplicity of interests and skills. Shoot forward to the 20th century, and we see that Richard Feynman (theoretical physicist, bongo player, safe cracker) and J. Robert Oppenheimer (nuclear physicist, theoretical astronomer, political activist) were loudly and frequently criticized for the fact that they let their other interests “distract” them from their “important” work. Yet, these are the people who capture and hold our attention over time.

Thinking is three-dimensional. The more places you can stand and look at a situation, problem or relationship, the more you can see. Additional perspectives give additional insight, and additional insight promotes more creative problem solving. One could speculate that we actually become more brilliant by developing our passions.

Human relationships are three-dimensional too. The more of these parts of ourselves that are expressed, the more places you can stand in relationship to others. We have a much greater ability to access the parts of ourselves that are like the other person. This is the opportunity for the heart connection, the place that allows us to be completely present with others, letting go of preconceptions and judgments, and just be with each other.

Being three-dimensional gives voice to parts of our intellect that are crying out to be heard. Someone who is being shackled will eventually either die or rebel. Shackle the sub-selves, and we become less of who we were or who we could be. The regret that results from that suppression produces someone who is bitter, depressed and intolerant, setting up a vicious circle of misery. Not only are they no longer contributing as effectively intellectually, but are precipitating a cascading negative effect throughout the matrix of humanity.

The more of our sub-selves we can allow to exist without judgment, the more we can extend that to our relationship with others. We need not have a deep, intimate relationship with everyone we meet; we only need to allow them to be most completely themselves. We are far better equipped to do so if we give ourselves the same consideration.

My ankle has been doing a bang-up job of predicting the weather lately. I broke it when I was about 22 and it was set wrong, and I can tell you that it’s kept me updated on all the fronts that have come through recently. Other repercussions of this injury have gradually manifested over the years until it has become my “bad ankle.”

Get to a certain age and everyone has one: the trick knee, the bad back, the screwed up shoulder. You can’t help but notice the language we use to describe these parts of ourselves. They disclose the antagonistic relationship we have with parts of our own bodies. We marginally accept these troublesome aspects as something to live with, but generally have little to no hope for improving, creating a sort of armed truce.

The moment when you disparagingly label your knee, back or shoulder, you create a rift, an artificial distinction within yourself. The result of this is an internal fracturing, a step away from the kind of wholeness that creates a sense of well-being and sets the stage for good health.

Can this breach be mended? Indeed it can, but it requires noticing and acknowledging bad habits and reorientation of our energetic and emotional relationship to our bodies.

The numbers of clients I see who have energetically divorced portions of themselves is staggering. Once we work together to recognize and bridge that relationship, clients are shocked to see old patterns of pain and limitation associated with that disconnected limb or segment begin to improve.

Think about it: how weird is it to take one aspect of yourself and create an artificial division based on an internally created hostility? We cannot genuinely split part of ourselves off. It creates an inauthentic persona that prevents us from being all of who we genuinely are.

Of course, nothing will reset my weird ankle, but other patterns that are related to it, provoke it or connected to the trauma of it are much more accessible for resolution if I don’t have an acrimonious relationship with that part of myself. It is possible to reconnect, and even become loving toward all parts of ourselves.

Wabi-Sabi is a word that describes an aesthetic approach that appreciates a beauty based in imperfection and impermanence.  Objects that exemplify a wabi-sabi aesthetic are characterized by simplicity, modesty, wear, and age, and demonstrate an interaction with the natural process of decay that results from being in the flow of time and experience. A Western corollary is “shabby chic.” It’s the thing that makes people find beauty in antique toys, vintage clothing and grandma’s house. The nature of wabi-sabi comes from an acceptance and embracing of the impermanence of all things. Even you.

Think of an object that you love, not despite its wear, cracks and chips, but because of them. Imagine how much less attractive that object might be to you if it was perfect, new and shiny.

Think of yourself as that chipped mixing bowl, or the tool whose handle is worn just right for your hand. Your hitches and kinks and scars are expressions of the wabi-sabi nature of you, of a life well lived and lessons learned. Can you begin to see that they are an essential part of you? Can you embrace and love them because they are an inherent part of who you are, rather than despite it?

There is a fine, but important line between used and tattered, between rustic and neglected. As such, it is crucial to understand that maintaining yourself, seeing to your own well-being is also an important part of wabi-sabi living. The wabi-sabi object is lovingly mended, not allowed to fall into a state of disrepair. Similarly, it is also important not to give up on the places in our bodies that give us regular trouble, but to maintain and improve them to the extent possible.

The first step to mending your wabi-sabi body is to recognize, embrace and value it in its entirety. By perceiving, acknowledging and accepting that the damages, wounds, and scars that hamper you as something of value, you create an atmosphere of diplomacy. Once you own and love your worn out places, you can begin to heal.

When we talk about learning to love and accept ourselves, I’ve heard some people describe it as coming across as kind of “cheese-ball,” and frankly, it often tends to be. I don’t wish to denigrate the wisdom that holding oneself in a place of respect and kindness is important. In fact, I am here to support and endorse it. After all, how can we truly develop a compassionate, healing presence with others without including ourselves? What I want to do is change the context of what it means to feel love for oneself and how we achieve it.

The kind of self-care that I am espousing is not the kind that involves flowery affirmations that it might feel vaguely ridiculous to say, or visualizing yourself as the hero in your own story. It isn’t about taking yourself sternly in hand and examining your shortcomings and making a “to do” list for self-improvement.

I want to talk about metta. Metta is an ancient word variously translated, most commonly as “loving kindness.” I have grown to prefer “gentle fondness” or “mindful affection.”

It is one of the brahma viharas, or divine abodes – in other words, the ideal ways of being in the world. By cultivating these states of being, we make great strides on the path to cultivating a state of healing presence. Metta is ideal for laying the groundwork for this, since it is a gentle state without a great deal of fire and noise. It is traditional to begin with developing this relationship with oneself.

The cool thing about metta is that it requires so little to get it started – very little by way of preparation or process. It is uncomplicated, and it doesn’t require any special guidance. By repeating a series of somewhat flexible phrases with the intention of directing them toward the object of metta while holding a particular space, metta develops, sometimes in spite of us.

The end reason for developing metta, this softening of the heart in relationship to ourselves, is that it provides fertile ground not only for the development of metta for others, but that it creates a warm, relaxed, receptive environment for us to nurture, examine and respond to all joy and suffering that we witness in those around us. This is what is necessary to embody a healing presence.

Ideally, the first step to cultivating metta is to get to a state of relaxed mindfulness. I have not discussed the value of cultivating mindfulness here, but I see it as an important fundamental. [More information and instructions can be found on my website www.thehealingpresence.com. Click on the "Meditation" tab.]

If you feel the need to just jump into practicing metta, skip this part for now (but I encourage you to return to it later). Just get yourself in a relaxed, seated (not reclining) state. Think of someone or something that makes you feel as if the area of your chest around your heart is softening. Thinking about children and pets is great for this. Just allow yourself to dwell lightly on that object of affection until you feel your chest begin to loosen and open. Now, directing your words and that gentle feeling toward yourself, chant or silently repeat the phrases.

There are many versions of the metta phrases, and almost all of them are good. The most basic is, “May I be well. May I be happy. May I be at peace.”

The ones I use are only slightly more complex: “May I be healthy and happy. May I be peaceful and safe. May I live with joy and ease.”

Another approach is to make statements along the lines of: “May I be free from illness and danger. May I be free from hunger and fear…” and so on. Lest those attached to positive visualization take issue with this, I can say that the most profound and productive metta experience I have had came from this approach to the phrases.

If you forget them, a bit of “riffing” is fine. Just remember to keep it simple, heartfelt and emotionally neutral.

Take your time with the phrases. Allow their meaning to settle in. It is possible that you will find yourself deeply moved to tears by this experience. It is equally possible that you will not experience anything immediately notable, but the reverberations of this practice will become apparent at some point not too far down the road. Be gentle with yourself.

I have spent much of my life learning that my greatest vulnerability is my greatest strength. I cannot overstate the value of this fact. Once you can accept and embrace it, your ability to be a force for good in the world will unfold in a staggeringly powerful way. You will discover that your ability to be more entirely present with others will improve exponentially. Additionally, much of your own pain will begin to fall away.

The definition of vulnerability is being “capable of or susceptible to being wounded or hurt.” You will notice that nowhere does it prescribe that one must be or will be hurt, only be capable of it. Vulnerability is too often equated with weakness. This deeply embedded misconception strongly discourages surrendering to it. This promotes physical and emotional armoring, fear-based decision making and defensive or hostile relationships with others and our environment.

Shielding ourselves from the feeling of emotional exposure is something that is both fed by fear and, simultaneously, feeds fear. Think about what happens when you are in a state of fear. Your mind feels confused and cloudy, and your vision literally and figuratively narrows, limiting your options. Clarity and equanimity disappear. Our body becomes more rigid and we find ourselves physically and mentally less flexible and adaptive to circumstances. Fear is never a place of strength.

If we can overcome our fears around being hurt and step into capacity to accept the possibility of being wounded, we can create a state of flexibility and resilience that is stronger, tougher and quicker to recover, than any shield we create by anxiety or dread.

One time a client was experiencing a great deal of deeply internalized stress that was manifesting externally in painful physical symptoms.

Sometimes I get these ideas in my head when I’m working. I call them “cosmic downloads,” because that’s what they’re like. Sometimes they’re straightforward and other times obviously metaphors. This time, I had a clear image of the scene from the original Star Wars movie where Obi Wan says to Darth Vader, “If you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can imagine.” In the end, he drops his guard and allows himself to be cut down. It was a great metaphor for the power of allowing oneself to be vulnerable. You may remember that, in essence, by being unguarded, Obi Wan defeats death.

Opening the heart and allowing oneself to be open to pain also allows one to be open to deep connection.

A friend was telling me about a problem she was having with her main support staff person. This support person was subtly disparaging and judgmental with her and was becoming hurtful. My friend wanted to keep her support person happy since her own work lives and dies at this woman’s mercy. She asked me for advice.

I suggested that the next time it happened, she say, “I know you probably don’t realize this, but when you say things like that it hurts my feelings.” I knew that I was asking her to take an emotional risk with someone who is attempting to manipulate her, especially given the setting and relationship structure.

A couple of weeks later there was another occurrence, and my words came to my friend’s mind. In desperation, she decided to try my suggestion. The employee grew very sad and told her that she had no idea she was being hurtful, she was very sorry and that she valued their relationship, and would be more considerate.

A couple of minutes later she came back and said that when she behaved in this way, it was really about her own pain, and she went on to share it briefly, candidly and appropriately. She said this was not something she had been able to explore much before and appreciated the opportunity.

When we surrender to our vulnerability, we give other people permission to be vulnerable, a state necessary for healing. We felt a softness and compassion in our heart for her as we were able to see her pain and understand how wounded she was. We witnessed the pain without an attempt to resolve, share or experience her trouble. That’s the Healing Presence.

I am here to tell you a secret: each and every one of us can become a force for healing every day, in every part of our lives, both for others and for ourselves.

In more than 15 years of practicing integrative health care I am yet to be burned out or bored. In fact, on my very worst and most-draining days, going to work is one of the best things I can do. Rather than being drained by my work or ever feeling burned out, I am constantly fed by the experience.

The thing is that during the last 16 years I have taken every opportunity to examine what I do, trying to develop deeper understanding of it and improving its efficacy. I am continuously on the lookout for correlations between my work and my life, learning from my experiences outside the office and bringing that knowledge back to my practice. I am continuously gathering data from what I encounter in my practice and applying it to other situations, feeding them back and forth, enriching both.

This constant searching, exploring and connecting has resulted in layers of understanding that I have examined and organized into something called Cultivating the Healing Presence. The foundational premise is that a compassionate presence is a positive act of healing. Healing Presence has become the foundation of my work, and I practice it as integral to my work, improving the profundity and effectiveness of it, and making it increasingly pleasurable for all involved.

This column is the place where, together, we can explore this principle. It is a place to share my insights on what it means to Cultivate the Healing Presence, a concept that seems so simple at first glance, but has layers and implications that reach far beyond the obvious. Embracing and considering this idea can change how we enter the world and our relationship with it. I am constantly awed by how miraculous, simple, breathtaking and seditious it all is. I am completely intimidated by the profound enormity and the utter obviousness of the whole thing.

Let me start by talking about the word “compassion.” This word is tricky as it is so frequently misunderstood or imprecisely interpreted. “Compassion” gives an impression of a bleeding heart, feeling the pain of the world. But compassion does not require us to feel the pain of others. In fact, quite the opposite is true.

Compassion is simply wishing others to be free from suffering. It is a state of unselfish detachment in which one is compelled to relieve the suffering of others. A pure state of compassion exists in a state without ego, fear or pity. In Buddhist texts, pity is sometimes called the near enemy of compassion. It can take on the superficial guise of compassion, but is actually a kind of self-aggrandizement at the expense of others. Compassion is even more easily confused with sympathy or empathy, neither of which has the unselfish detachment that allows us to embody true healing presence.

The choice of the phrase “positive act of healing” is an important one. I use the word “positive” in its meanings of: “Making a definite contribution” and “Unrelated to anything else; independent of circumstances; absolute; unqualified.” It signifies that compassion is an active undertaking in healing, and that it makes its contribution regardless of the participants, setting, or other qualifying variables. It has an active contribution to the healing process and does not just provide a favorable atmosphere for it.

The best part of this whole thing is that, although it takes some effort to shift our awareness, it requires no excess energy expenditure. In fact, it is an energy creator, releasing us from our need to feel “shielded,” our subliminal fears regarding our own inadequacies or ego death, or the fallacy that healing requires a drain on the provider.

I am very excited to bring this information to the everyday, real world that so desperately needs it. The world is full of opportunities to learn about and practice embodying this healing presence and my hope is to open them up to you so that your healing presence can grow and develop.

The trick-or-treaters have come and gone, and the last landmark on the road out of summer has been passed. You have been feeling it coming for a few weeks now – the desire to sleep all the time, the mood swings, the cravings for sugar and carbohydrates. Maybe even a noticeable lack of interest in life, and a diminished vitality. Every year it comes and you dread it.

Seasonal Affective Disorder is real. During the winter months Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, may effect from 10 to 20 percent of the population, especially in northern states like Minnesota and Wisconsin. SAD is more commonly found in women than men and usually does not strike until age 20 or older. In the early 1980s the medical establishment began to take the condition seriously. Dr. Norman Rosenthal, a psychiatrist and research scientist, pioneered light-box treatment. But in the 25 years since, there have been few advances in treatments. Recently, holistic therapists have been offering new treatments that may help those who suffer with SAD.

Light-box treatments (bright-light therapy), the most common treatment, uses a device made of a bank of white fluorescent lights on a metal reflector. SAD sufferers must sit with the box for an extended period once or twice a day. Occasional mild side effects are caused by light-box treatment, including eyestrain, headache and insomnia. Some SAD sufferers find some limited relief from this treatment, yet some do not.

Some SAD sufferers have been prescribed drugs such as Prozac, Zoloft or Paxil – the second line of treatment. There are often serious and pronounced side effects to these drugs, including dizziness, drowsiness, sexual dysfunction, potential increased tendency toward depression and suicide, and complicated interactions with other drugs.

Side effects are only one reason that many SAD patients are turning to new holistic approaches to treat the disorder. Instead of simply using a light box or drugs, which for many gives only limited or temporary reprieve from symptoms, new holistic treatments combine the experiential, practical and spiritual in individually designed therapies.

New ways to see SAD

Why are some people so deeply affected by this, while others are able to embrace and even enjoy the darker months? As someone who is relied upon to be a provider of change and healing and a guide to the depths of the soul, I wanted to probe this phenomenon for its source. As a holistic health care provider, trained spiritual counselor and Ortho-Bionomy® practitioner, I felt compelled to explore the more profound implications of this seasonal disorder. The first step was to deeply question not only those on whom the season makes a negative impact, but also those who find great peace and solace in it. After a while, the dots began to connect and I was able to recognize patterns that led to an entirely new approach to SAD. The notion that I could bring insight and relief to so many who are in such distress was thrilling.

Across cultures and religions, people have always acknowledged the darkest time of the year. Holidays such as Durga Puja, Halloween and LailatUl-Qadr provide a venue for introspection and examination of the shadow self, Holidays during the winter months have in their very foundation the idea of "light within the darkness." This idea is not just culturally bound, it’s hard-wired into our psyches, so whether you’re observing Christmas, Hanukkah, Winter Solstice or the Hindu Dawali, that theme of "light" remains at the center of people’s lives. But then again, so does the idea of the darkness. The idea is to help people reconnect to this natural balance.

SAD surfaces at the darkest time of the year. In times past, people would acknowledge the yearly darkness with ceremonies and introspection. But, in the modern world, we’ve lost the art of introspection and replaced it with worry and depression. Learning to understand our shadow selves and to face our fears in a healthy way can give us the tools we need to overcome SAD.

New ways to address SAD

Although individuals find some relief from symptomatic treatment for their SAD, there hasn’t been much investigation into addressing the root causes. I have spent several turns of the calendar developing an approach to helping individuals with SAD. This includes both group and individual sessions to give a personalized approach to the distinct experience of each person.

The group aspect (which also can be conducted on an individual basis) consists of discussion, guided meditation and ritual explorations. These rituals are not religiously based ceremonies. They are used to touch the deepest parts of the human psyche. Tools such as meditation techniques and dietary information also are shared.

Individual concerns are addressed through deeper consultation and the application of practices that include individual rituals such as ritual baths, custom-blended flower remedies and Ortho-Bionomy®, a body-mind therapy that acknowledges, exaggerates and reflects the individual’s physical and energetic pattern to bring about self-correction and healing on a deep and lasting level. In addition, assessment is done on the pattern indicated by individual symptoms, and personalized assistance offers suggestions for diet, herbal supplements and additional therapies.

For some people, light box treatment, or even walking an hour a day in the winter sun, can do wonders in the struggle against SAD. But other people need something more. SAD can be a serious matter for many people, disrupting lives, work – even their physical health. What’s good is that the field of medicine is taking this condition seriously. What’s not so good is that often, traditional treatments are not enough. For those people, there are now alternative treatments that can have long lasting positive effects. Life, even in the depth of winter, can be worth living again.

New Ways to cope with Seasonal Affective Disorder

Here is a quick list of new ways to approach your personal relationship to the Dark Time of the year. Create a space that is sacred whenever you need to feel whole and healthy, and try any or all of these new ways to cope. Be sure to give them adequate time to take effect.

Make a point of addressing your spiritual needs. When you’re not full of energy, it seems like one more thing that you can’t manage, but the benefits are worth it. One of the challenges is to make sure you do something that is spiritually meaningful to YOU. Go to church, celebrate the turn of the seasons or the harvest, build an altar, do something to acknowledge your ancestors or those who have passed from your life recently.

Spend quality time alone each day. The common wisdom is to not spend time alone with SAD. Be sure you schedule your alone time. Plan a pleasant, rewarding activity for that time so it is not misspent. Read, go for a solo walk, start a research project, explore your family tree, cook up a mess of chili for the freezer.

Spend time with others every day. This is the balance to the former suggestion. This does not necessarily mean you have to attend a lot of parties or social events. It does mean go to work, talk to your co-workers, volunteer somewhere once or twice a week. Take a class. You gain energy by quality social interaction with others.

Learn a meditation technique. There are many different ways of meditating. Find one that appeals to you and try it for a week or two. Feel free to experiment, but give each one 7-14 days before trying another. This will give you some time to feel comfortable with it. Give a fair chance. Do it every day.

Avoid refined carbohydrates. This is relatively common knowledge, but you need to know how to stop the cravings. Some individuals are helped by the addition of carbohydrates, but if you want to consume carbs, make sure they’re of the whole grain variety – sprouted grains if possible. If you add more energy-accessible, and energy-dense, food to your diet, such as stews, soups or meat, you will need the quick shots you get from sugars and refined carbs less often and you will avoid the "crashes" afterwards. Eat warm things, and cut back on cold salads.