Mindful Moment: My mom’s every day love…in a grapefruit

Grapefruit.  I could’ve sobbed over my grapefruit the other morning.  Carefully cutting the outside circle of my grapefruit, I stopped.  The memory of my mother so lovingly and thoroughly cutting my grapefruit for me as a girl flooded my mind and heart.  Back then, I probably didn’t say, “thank you.”  Back then, I took it for granted that she put such extraordinary care into something so ordinary.  Back then, I’m embarrassed to admit, I never thought that it was any “big deal.”

Now, as a mom to two little ones, I get it.  The time, attention, care, focus, energy, and “groundedness in what is important” it took for my mom to cut my grapefruit and never even say anything about it – I know all too well now what a big deal that is!  To take the time, to put off showering or brushing teeth or fixing her own breakfast, to put attention into one thing instead of being a multi-tasking queen, to muster up the energy from a night of little sleep from a tending to a sick little one, to find balance in divvying up time with more than one child, to recognize in the moment “THIS. This is what matters” — THAT is extraordinary.

mom and me

And I am humbled.  Grateful.  I want to go back in time and savor every little cut out triangle of grapefruit and hug my mom and kiss her and tell her she rocks and thank her for all the little every day ways she showed me extraordinary love.  Cutting my grapefruit.  Making my lunch (yes, even through high school).  Telling me to “take a mental health day.”  Braiding my hair.  Driving me (and team mates!) to and from soccer practice.  The list goes on.   Flashes of these memories flood my heart.  And I pick up my phone to call her.  She’s asleep.  My heart can’t wait to tell her “thank you.”

Ordinary things done with extraordinary love.

Before having my two little ones, I wanted to do extraordinary things in this world.  I had specific ideas about what that meant.  None of them involved cutting grapefruit.  But the other morning, I thought about how now it’s my turn to embody this legacy of loving with great tenderness and attention in the ordinary.  And I am quietly grateful as I go about my afternoon.  I cut an apple for my two little ones, peeling the skin carefully so my little C. can easily chomp away.

beholding my little one

grandma...still lovingly regarding her honeys

Tips for Mindful Relationships # 5: Don’t Take it Personally

I finally arrived at my friend’s house after packing up the kiddos, turning around to get the toy my son had forgotten at home and wanted to give to his friend, returning an important phone call, packing my things to head off to work in an hour when my husband would meet me at our friend’s house and where I’d hand the kiddos off to him, and handing out snacks to the kiddos as we drove…and when we arrived there my friend was ON THE PHONE. Here’s what went through my mind in a millisecond:

{My heart slumping forward a bit}, “Oh, weren’t you ready and watching for us? It took so much effort to get here and I was so excited to see you and now it’s like that is no big deal. I really care for you and love us hanging out.” {Now anger kicking in, chest puffed up}, “Do you know what I did to get here?! You shouldn’t be on the phone!”

Hurt. Then anger. Then judgment.

Do you see the cascade of self-righteousness?! Separateness – a “me” and “them.” A distancing. My world becoming myopic as I felt justified to feel this way. My body becoming rigid. Embarrassing, eh?! But it’s true, this happens!

Has this happened to you?

There are situations like this every day over this way! Taking personally the driver who cuts me off or the check-out counter dude who throws my stuff in those flimbsy plastic bags that inevitably break when I’m walking up the stairs to our house or when Brian leaves his stuff on the island in the kitchen.

All of this happened in about 5 seconds. Then I noticed this internal reaction. I breathed. And I said to myself, “Don’t take it personally.”

The minute I said that to myself a whole cascade of new reactions happened.

Spaciousness. Lightening up. My grip on my anger and self-righteousness loosened. The lens of my view widened. “It’s not personal.” And I began believing that.

And then…even more good stuff… I softened and extended some compassion to my dear friend: “We’ve got to support each other as women, as moms. I’d want the same kind of allowing and spaciousness to just be where I’m at. I know how little time each of us has to ‘take care of business’, to make a phone call, to have a moment.”

And my heart then became gracious, supportive, and connected again to my dear friend, a fellow mindful mama in the trenches. My heart widened and opened so wide. And I loved her…and myself.

I decided to focus on my little C. busy investigating the coffee table. And I relaxed, delighting in my daughter and feeling connected again to my friend.

ALL IN ABOUT 30 SECONDS! I laughed. I watched how my relationship to the experience changed as I just breathed and said, “Don’t take it personally.” And for a moment, I was able to see clearly again. We’re all in this together. And offering spaciousness just to be exactly as we are is such loveliness. We all want that. Thanks to all of you who extend such lovely spaciousness to me, including my dear friend!

So here’s to “not taking it personally” when our partners leave the toilet seat up, a friend forgets to call, a co-worker acts gruff, or a stranger in line behind us bumps her cart into our heels. “It’s not personal.”

Tips for Everyday Mindfulness # 8: Drop the Story

I love how insight comes at random times. There we were, my fellow mama friend and me working out at the Y, BY OURSELVES with no kiddos at 7:15 at night, moving our tushes on the elliptical trainer, talking about life, what we are wrestling with, letting go of, what makes us mad, what brings true happiness…when, bam! It hit me:

“I am living my life from the story (or “stories”) I tell myself.”

In an instant I saw how I have wrapped much of my identity around a few stories I keep telling myself over and over again. Stories that I keep playing out in my relationships and let me stay “the victim.” Stories that I keep asking others to heal.

We do this, don’t we? We have an experience, we have an emotional reaction to that experience, we tell folks about it, and then a few more folks, and soon enough we are waaaay attached to the storyline.  We’ve wrapped our identity around who we are in that story. It can be stories from everyday living: “I’ve had such a day! The kids are in the backseat arguing, I have had to go pee for an hour now, I’ve had no break….” It can be stories that we’ve carried for decades of deep trauma, hurt, grief, loss.

In that moment with my friend at the Y, I felt grace move into my heart and I said to myself: “Enough. Drop the story.”

I knew which ones I needed to drop, was ready to drop. I could see how holding on to them had kept me from being fully alive. And full of delight.

Dropping the story is an act of kindness.

Letting go of your story. Not forgetting your stories. Not ignoring them or pretending they didn’t happen or harshly trying to push them away. This is about freeing yourself from how you define yourself, how you play the victim, and how TALKING about the story doesn’t get us any closer to being content.

Sure all that lets off some steam, it makes us feel affirmed…but it can be a slippery slope to “feeling justified” and soon enough we have wrapped who we are around our story.

Can we just BE WITH what arises in us and see it as a story we are telling ourselvea?

Can we just feel it in our bodies and watch it shift as we give it some compassion?

Can we just soften and, as Eckhart Tolle says, “Just drop the story?”

Can we stop asking our partners, parents, or this world to “see what I’ve been through” and see it for ourselves, give ourselves the sweet embrace we long for that no one else can give us, and fall into the arms of our own Self, completely accepting and kind and nurturing and say,

“Ahh, I am here, Dear One”

and say, “That has just been a story you’ve been telling yourself. Wake up now, sweet one, and, feast on your life?”

I believe there is a time and need for voicing/telling our stories. Every culture from the beginning of time has told “our stories.” The stories I am talking about here are the ones that we have based our sense of “self” on that actually rob us of a voice and hinder our “becoming.” The ones that keep us myopically turned inward.

We need to be heard. We need to tell our stories.

But there comes a time when we find that we are holding those stories much too tightly, clinging to a false sense of safety…and identity. There comes a time when it creates more suffering to hold onto those stories than it does to gently, slowly, softly, quietly, confidently stand at the river’s edge and allow the waters to carry them.

There is no forcing this. THAT would be harsh. There is only allowing, opening, and letting go when Life is calling us to wake up and we respond with no effort, with only the deep knowing that it is time.

The ache of being so awake

I am still feeling the effects of a silent meditation retreat weekend with Tara Brach, Jonathan Foust, Pat Coffey and Larry Yang (through the Insight Meditation Community of Washington DC). Even with a flooded bathroom sink, floor, and now basement, I’m chilled. We’ll see how long that lasts!

I have needed the silence. I hadn’t been on a silent retreat in five years since having my babies. I went into the weekend with no expectations. I knew that even just being quiet in a community of other like-hearted folks would be a welcomed gift for my nervous system. And that’s how I approached this weekend – as total gift.

When the retreat was over, I could’ve stayed the whole week. I had no desire to talk. But three days was about as long as I could be away from the kiddos right now. There will be plenty of opportunities some day for longer retreats. So I took a lovely British couple to the airport and then headed home.

Everything was “sensitive” – my senses, my heart. I felt…open. The bright orange road construction signs on Route 695 shocked me. All the cars seemed to be going at super sonic speed and it felt like keeping up would do violence to my soul. I noticed things. The little crack on the upper left hand corner of our car’s windshield. How each note of the soft music playing washed over me and in me. Water running down my throat. How Brian’s voice on the phone delighted my heart. The pain in my neck, forehead, and shoulders from sitting in meditation about 6 hours a day.

I knew I’d be getting home 15 minutes before A.’s soccer game. I knew I’d be going right back in to “life” – our life. And I welcomed it. But my heart felt…raw. Open. I knew that going to the soccer field and seeing a crowd of people again that my heart would almost burst – I’d notice people’s pain and joy. I’d notice their humanity – frailty, fear, courage, kindness. And I’d notice my own internal reaction to it all. And I “feared” the ache that might come with seeing so clearly. And I knew I’d have no words to explain it. Brian offered for me to stay home. But I hadn’t seen the kiddos, I wanted to just be with Brian, and I also wanted to see a dear friend there. I knew she’d accept me however I was.

I’ll be sharing in future posts about the meditation experience, but I wanted to start with this: there are moments in our lives when we are aware that we are seeing the raw truth of reality; when we sense the utter fragility and yet simultaneously the tenacity of life; when we are so filled with love or awe or sorrow over something quite simple; when we feel so deeply connected and moved by another human being – even just while sitting on the bus next to a stranger; when we know – deep in our bones – that we are seeing so clearly in this moment…. the ache of being so awake could burst open our hearts. And that can feel scary. Embarrassing. Raw. Silly. It could appear weak.

But I am learning that there is no other way to live and be true to one’s self, to be on our deathbed without regret, to be fully alive, than to let the heart awaken and feel it completely. Being moved with compassion – for ourselves and others.

So ache on, little heart of mine. Burst open, little heart of mine. Be moved. Be tender. Let the tears fall. Say the words rising up. Extend your hand. And appear foolish. But happy – in all the moments of opening and connecting with others…and in the last moment of the last breath in this life. A life lived awake and offered to others. So this is my deep hope for myself…and everyone. Please keep me seeing deeply, dear friends, even when it aches. And I will do the same for you.

Mindful Moment: a thousand hearts in my heart

After I picked up A. from preschool this afternoon, my little honey says, “Mom, ya know what?”

Me: “What love?”

A.: “I’ve got a thousand hearts in my heart.”

Me: “That’s lovely, A.”

A.:  “Yeah.  That means I love everyone.  Do you know that? {Pause.} Do you have a ‘thousand hundred’ hearts in yours?”

Me: “Oh my love, some days, some moments, yes, I do. ” {wishing there were more times when I’d get out of my own way, get out of my prideful way, and open my heart – wide open.}

A.: “That’s a nice way to feel, isn’t it, mom?”

Me: {with my heart bursting} “Yes, it is.  When we have those feelings of loving everyone and everyone is in our heart.  It is a lovely feeling.”

It was one of those moments that we all have when kiddos speak such wisdom that it “rights” our hearts, shifts the ground we walk on, and roots us again in what is important, true, and holy. I drove home with a lighter heart.

He reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years ago.  It’s about what can happen when I/we just breathe and allow and open and soften.  (Thanks, Hafiz and Thich Nhat Hanh for inspiring me):

Little Did I Know

Little did I know
when I was breathing in and said,
“I am breathing in”
and when I was breathing out
I said, “I am breathing out”
that
my
heart
would
s
o
f
t
e
n

so much so that
each person
became

my beloved.

Lisa A. McCrohan, ©2009