Shiny Pennies

When I was little, about 4 years old or so, my beloved grandfather gave me shiny pennies as a treat. I never equated them with currency. It never occurred to me that they could be traded for any sort of goods. I simply thrilled at the beauty of them. I can still feel my heart beating happily when I think about them. They were bright and shiny and special, mostly because they came from my Grandpa. I knew they were gifts of love and I cherished them.

This morning, as I sat in meditation, I found myself wondering what I had done with all those shiny pennies. I remembered receiving them. I re-experienced the joy in my heart and the warmth of my grandfather’s love. Still, I had no recollection of what became of the pennies. I didn’t have a piggy bank. I had no special purse or hiding place. I don’t even remember pushing them into pockets.

It’s funny when a thought takes over a meditation. Regardless of my years of experience, there are times when a thought or a memory inserts and simply refuses to drift away. I have disciplined myself to return my awareness to my breath. But there are those times when the shiny pennies are just too compelling. They grab my attention and won’t let go.

This morning was just such a time. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself … a little tow-headed girl, arm outstretched, palm up, fingers open, eyes closed. I heard my Grandpa’s voice, “Put out your hand and close your eyes. Get ready for a big surprise!” Then became now. I felt a familiar anticipation running through my veins. I re-experienced the elation of feeling the small, cool circle of copper in the center of my tiny hand. Eyes popping open, smiles bursting into giggles. What began as a mindfulness meditation transformed into a moment of magic and I once again experienced the innocence of pure, unconditional love. It was blissful.

I am reminded, too, of my early years of meditation when bliss was a pursuit, not a natural occurrence. Like many beginners, I followed the “rules” of meditation to the letter, expecting the payoff to be swift. Bliss would be mine if I sat quietly in a comfortable location with no distractions, emptying my mind by attending to the ebb and flow of my breath. Inhale. Exhale. No matter what my mind presented, I would dutifully go back to my breath and effortlessly achieve Nirvana. This went on for years! The only thing missing was the state of Nirvana.

I blamed myself. I judged myself a failure. I cursed my mind for its refusal to open the gates of Bliss. But a funny thing happened on my way to Nirvana, I began to notice that day-to-day life ran a little more smoothly, minor frustrations failed to escalate to major melodramas. I stopped cursing other drivers on the freeway. I learned to tolerate discomfort. Sadness was sadness and joy was joy. While no Nirvana, it was, I had to admit … nice.

After a time, nice is … nice. Meditation is a practice not a pursuit. Moments of bliss arise. Some are remembered. Some are spontaneous. All are shiny pennies. They needn’t be collected. They aren’t for commerce. They are moments of innocence, of pure unconditional love of the self by the Self.

May you open to the love that is your birthright. May you notice the shiny pennies at your fingertips. May you free yourself from the pursuit of Nirvana and enjoy life’s many moments of bliss.

~ Namaste ~

My Dad, My Inspiration

             

           
My dad died recently at the age of 90. He was an enthusiastic lover of life and as he aged he was frequently heard to say, "Aging ain’t for sissies." Having reached my 60’s I know what he meant. My body
keeps changing. My memory isn’t what it used to be. My morning ritual brings me literally face-to-face with the passing of time as my mirror reflects lines of experience around my eyes and the effect of gravity on my cheeks, both sets of cheeks. Because we live in a culture that exalts youth I feel a twinge of anxiety arising with every creak of my joints. I ask myself, Mick Jagger style, “Am I tough enough? Am I rich enough?” In short, I wonder if I have what it takes to keep pace in this youth driven world. 

There are countless “remedies” in the marketplace today for aging, from anti-aging lotions and creams to hair thickeners to Botox and plastic surgery. The war on aging is raging. Like any war, it’s expensive and the weapons manufacturers are profiting. But, let’s get real … no matter how much we spend or how valiantly we fight, this is a war that cannot be won, nor should it. To win the war against aging paradoxically means to stop living.

Age we must. But we need not lose our vitality, our strength, our endurance. Aging does not require shrinking back from life or shriveling into rigidity. We can remain genuinely youthful as we age. Youthfulness is marked by vigor and enthusiasm not by flawless skin, plump lips and thick heads of hair. Fortunately, we have at our disposal a virtual fountain of youth-fullness … yoga. 

As a longtime yoga practitioner and teacher I have witnessed the power of yoga to  safely improve strength, increase flexibility, enhance mental functioning, boost overall wellness, and heighten enthusiasm for life regardless of age or prior yoga experience. By following instructions carefully and going at one's own pace, trusting that improvement occurs naturally and cannot be forced, every yoga practitioner reaps these rewards. Within a matter of weeks significant improvements in physical well-being, mental acuity, and attitude toward life can be enjoyed.

My hope is that everyone who reads this will practice at least some yoga today. It's easy! Simply sit or stand still, become quiet, listen to your breath, feel how that breath moves through your body, generate a feeling of gratitude for this simple capacity to focus your mind and enjoy the result. Regardless of our age or level of fitness we can lift our spirits and embrace life just as it is.  As a culture, we can shift our focus from raging against aging to living wisely and youthfully into our advancing years, respecting our bodies, invigorating our minds, and inspiring the generations that follow. 

“Age is simply the number of years the world has been enjoying you.”

~ Anonymous ~

Become Recognizable

My heart stopped today. No, I didn’t have another heart attack. What did happen was this…

I was walking through BWI airport, excited to take a short break from work when my eyes got “gobsmacked,” as we used to say in my home state of NJ. Overhead, stretched across the entire width of terminal B, hung this sign:

First, my eyes stung. Then my brain hurt. Breath caught in my throat, a shiver ran along my spine. Then it happened … my heart stopped … and fell … in sadness. 

I am sad for the woman in the photograph who proudly displays her “unrecognizable” self as an improvement over the very real and hefty self we see to the left. My apologies in advance to her for any comments I might make that she might find offensive. I’m sure she had good reason for undertaking the depicted transformation … but, that actually brings me to my point.

Who are we as a culture when perfectly human humans are compelled to undergo all manner of drastic plastic surgery in order to feel acceptable? What does it say about us when becoming “unrecognizable” is preferable to being recognized as one of the many fantastic varieties of our miraculous human species? Further … how do we come to terms with our vanity when we find it celebrated on massive banners in public places?

I am sad. I am angry. I am befuddled. I am disheartened. Seeking consolation, I am moved to recall Hellen Keller, “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched -- they must be felt with the heart.”

To the hefty woman on the banner, I say this … something about you touched my heart. You are beautiful in my eyes. I know that can’t mean much, as I am a mere stitch in the fabric of our culture. But, I wanted you know.

To the culture that cruelly pressures perfectly beautiful humans to subject themselves to drastic measures hoping to achieve unrealistic expectations regarding physical beauty, I quote D. H. Lawrence, “Beauty is an experience, nothing else. It is not a fixed pattern or an arrangement of features. It is something felt, a glow or a communicated sense of fineness.”

I was surrounded today by some of the finest individuals I have had the pleasure of sharing space with. On Southwest Airlines flight 562, in the row in front of me, a plain looking woman perhaps in her seventies noticed the woman seated next to her had passed out. She alerted the flight attendants. The flight attendants sprang to action. An announcement was made, “If there is a doctor or any medical professional on the plane, please come forward. We have a passenger in distress. We need your help.” Within moments three passengers arrived to help, an emergency nurse, a cardiac nurse, and a general nurse. For the next 30 – 40 minutes, these beautiful humans tended whole-heartedly to the woman in distress. Hands were held, hearts were opened, smiles were offered, good-natured jokes were shared. Most importantly, the beauty of human caring was abundant. No one noticed anyone’s weight, size, shape, color, or fashion sense.

Eventually, the plane was diverted for an emergency landing. There was some indication that the woman might be suffering a heart attack.  An entire plane of passengers, eager to reach their destinations offered silent support by withholding self-interested grumblings. Hearts united in concern for the woman who, now stretched out in the aisle, shifted into and out of consciousness, her husband looking on in stunned concern.

We landed. An emergency team entered almost immediately. An unrehearsed choreography of helping hands and caring hearts successfully discharged the patient from the plane. There is no accounting of the numbers of beautiful humans who made it possible for that single one of us to receive the care that may have saved her life. But, I offer this observation … the beauty present in that plane today arose from within each and every individual. There was nothing crafted about it.

My heart poses these questions …

Why is it that we do not have banners stretched across airport terminals celebrating the innate beauty of the human spirit in all its shapes and sizes, ages and stages? What would it take to release from the tyranny of the “beauty industry?” How do we develop the collective will to refuse to be bullied into drastic plastic measures designed to mold us, one and all, into Barbie and Ken versions of our former selves?

I offer these suggestions …

Go to your mirror. Look yourself in the eyes. Deeply. See yourself for who you are … a unique and beautiful expression of the miracle of human life. Accept yourself as such. Then, please, go out and look at others through those same accepting eyes.

Let’s reclaim our hearts. Let’s acknowledge our innate beauty. Let’s choose to be recognizable.  

From Darkness

"Call Up The Light" by Dee Gold 

Call up            the light 

         

Spring has finally sprung but it has been a long, cold winter -- more for some than others. I posted a few weeks back about two friends who had suffered undue agony this winter …

… one, who lost a beloved son in a freak auto accident. Many of you have asked about him and his family, offering loving support for me so that I might be of some help to them. Thank you. It has meant so much to me to hear from you. I am honored to report that I have been of some help and that, while the pain of this loss will undoubtedly continue, my friend and his family courageously face each day largely because of a stunning outpouring of support from around the globe. You are a part of that support.

 … but, the other friend is the subject of today’s post …

I am writing about Steve, depressed and suicidal, who is now seeking help at a highly regarded treatment center. I am writing about Steve because he asked me to do so. Steve is a retired successful businessman who once enjoyed a reputation as a powerful New York attorney. He wants people to realize that mental illness can happen to anyone. He hopes to help remove the stigma and to inspire people to seek help without shame should mental illness strike. Steve recently e-mailed me, “Time was that it was slander (or libel) per se to state that a person had cancer. That time is long gone, and I would like to see the same acceptance of mental disease as an illness that can be treated.”

Having suffered depression myself, many years ago, I believe that this illness has a kind of consciousness. I think it wants to be known and understood even while it constructs stout defenses against love, joy, and the concern of worried friends, and even while it skillfully weaves an emotional environment of hopelessness and self-loathing. Steve and I want you to understand some things about living with this dreadful disease -- one that strikes 7% of U.S. adults every year, making it one of the most common mental disorders in the United States.

I’m certain each of us has either suffered some form of depression or knows someone who has. It’s my hope to offer some insight into the nature of the disease. I want to acknowledge how difficult it is to relate to that state of mind when we aren’t suffering it. I will offer a few suggestions for supporting a loved one through a depressive episode. Most of all, I seek to honor my friend Steve by attempting to give voice to the darkness that prompted him several weeks ago to lock all his doors, pull down his shades, and turn off his phones, keeping company for weeks with only the voice of his depression. It's a voice I’ve come to recognize in friends and family members and, at times, in myself. It might sound something like this:

There’s no reason to get out of bed today … or ever. You have nothing to live for. You will never be strong enough or skilled enough or anything enough to be useful or loveable. You are worth more dead to those who love you than alive. Just end it.

Steve alerted friends of his trip down the rabbit hole of depression via e-mail and requested that we not call or visit. This message was closely followed by his report that he had successfully procured items that he could use to commit suicide -- an obvious cry for help, I thought. I began searching for flights and arranging my schedule so that I might take time off to see him. I e-mailed my plan to visit. He replied, “Please don’t come.” I recognized in his short reply the language of depression. Translated, it might have offered something like this:

You see what you’ve done? You’ve made her worry about you, you worthless slug. She’s willing to rearrange her life, spend money she doesn’t have, and put up with your repulsive whining … for what? For the great nothingness that is your life? Do not let her visit.

The voice of depression is laden with shame and guilt. It is loud and relentless. It is punishingly painful, especially in the darkness of night when it replaces dreaming with debilitating ruminations. Depression is the evilest kind of brainwashing because it comes from within. Wounded, lonely, and bereft, the victim of depression ultimately concedes and at times voices aloud what he's been hearing inside. “The only way to stop this unbearable pain is to end my life.”

I’ve come to realize that the voice of depression speaks in code:

Don’t call or visit = I’m lonely and scared.

I’m unlovable  = I want to know that I’m loved.

Just end it  = I am in insufferable pain.

I know how to respond to “I’m lonely and scared.” I know how to show my love. I have lived through insufferable pain so I know there is light at the end of that tunnel. When I translate the language of depression I am able to respond empathically, even when that means not visiting or communicating only through brief e-mails, as I did with Steve. I am able to tolerate long lapses between communications. I have come to understand that the depressed person needs my trust, my belief in the strength of his survival instinct and my ability to endure the depressive episode while continuing to offer my love, even from afar.

I understand, too, how embarrassing and shameful it feels to reach out for help and to accept it when it arrives. Steve asked that I make clear in my blog post that a depressed person who asks for help sometimes is answered, even by friends, with awkwardness or denial (e.g. “Oh, come on. Buck up. Things can’t be that bad.”) There are times when the victim of depression is met with a cruel abandonment. The voice of depression is expert at translating these reactions into self-degrading ruminations that offer nothing but sleep deprivation, possibly the worst aspect of depression because it weakens the will to live. Why else would it be used as a torture device?

So, what can we do? How can we help?  Having lost a close friend to suicide years ago, I can honestly say that the only thing to do is to bravely acknowledge the depth of pain felt in depression. We can listen carefully. Do our best to translate the language of this horrible disease. Try to find the courage to keep an optimal distance while showing loving support. Realize that no one chooses depression and they cannot will it away. Understand that treatments are available and they sometimes fail. Express our caring again and again and again, simply and quietly. Tolerate our own discomfort for as long as it takes.

Steve’s depression seems to be slowly lifting. He is beginning to express glimmers of hope. His sense of humor is making a timid comeback. He speaks of recovery and he’s looking forward to a trip to Africa that he has planned for a year. These are signs of life.  Signs of courage. Signs of victory.

If you or someone you know suffers from depression you might find useful the Depression Page on the NIMH website: http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/depression/index.shtml

Please share your comments and experiences below.