At times, to walk is nothing more than shaking out that negative energy. In Happinez magazine, travel journalist and philosopher Anne Wesseling shared an anecdote about the Inuit: When they’re really angry, they furiously leave their home on foot and holding a stick. They continue to walk, walk, walk, cutting across the landscape in a straight line until they feel their anger subsiding. On the spot where they are able to let go of their anger, they plant the stick in the snow, as a witness to the extent of their outrage. Then they walk back home. Perhaps we could start carrying pieces of chalk in our pockets to do the same?
If hiking suits you, you can turn it into a lifestyle. Hiking is a total scene; there are countless books, clubs, trails, and coaches. There’s no reason to immediately become all serious, or mindful, and meditative about it, though. Don’t force overly ambitious or lofty goals on yourself if you don’t feel like it. No “I will walk at least seven miles” or “When I return, I’ll have come up with a solution.” Don’t sweat it. Just pull your hoodie over your head, kick yourself into gear, and take a few steps.
Walking versus Running
Running is a tried and tested means to get out of a negative mindset, but hiking is a little less arduous on your body. Especially when you’re full of adrenaline, it is a good idea to not “whip up” your body even more, but to calm it instead. When you are nervous or under a lot of stress, you don’t want to end up with even higher energy. Moreover, all you need for a stroll around the block are some shoes and perhaps a coat; you can go for a walk on a whim, no matter where you are.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
// Giving Up Is an Option
You don’t have to continue to muddle through
It can feel like an incredibly painful split, the realization that you’ve thrown in the towel while everyone, including yourself, is shouting, “Don’t give up!” I, on the other hand, am a fan of giving up, at least now and again. There’s nothing wrong with recognizing that the path you had in mind apparently isn’t your destiny. That it’s costing you more than it’s giving you. So you note that, in spite of all your good intentions and serious efforts, the thing you wanted appears or remains unattainable.
Giving up can be a powerful decision. When you’re able to be honest with yourself, you can let go of your rigidity, detach yourself from all those “shoulds.” Giving up isn’t defeat. You are liberating yourself from expectations and judgments. It can be such a relief! But, but… can you give up and still make progress? Of course you can! Giving up doesn’t mean you have to let go of your goal. Rather, it may be time to reassess that goal, to explore other avenues, to check detours.
It may be time for a time-out.
What a waste, you might be thinking. A waste of all that time I put in, the energy I put out, the money and effort I’ve already invested. A waste of a dream. To some extent, I blame the current zeitgeist and all the ideas about designing your own life and directing your own success. That mindset has become so dominant that, deep down, we believe we deserve what we want, while reality is far more erratic and illusive.
More often than not, perseverance is driven by ego. Maybe you know the heartbreaking stories of mountaineers who wanted to attain the top of Mount Everest at all costs. Using their final reservoir of strength, they reached the summit. They made it—or should that be “achieved” it? The climber is now officially a hero, a true go-getter. But most mountaineers who die don’t expire on the ascent or at the top; they die on the way down. They’ve pocketed the desired result, but all their strength has been depleted, all their oxygen used up. On that merciless and cruel mountain, it’s often not a fatal event or inclement weather that causes climbers to collapse, but rather extreme exhaustion, something they didn’t anticipate after reaching their goal.
Perseverance for its own sake is highly valued in our culture. Just consider the many “inspirational” quotes reminding us of this fact: “Winners never quit, quitters never win!” or “Pain is acceptable, quitting is not!” or “Fall down seven times, get up eight!” or “No pain, no gain!” All nonsense.
Of course, perseverance is important. Sometimes you have to push yourself beyond what you think you’re capable of. That’s how growth happens: try, and try, and try again. The key is recognizing when you’ve hit a wall. At what point are you buzzing against a windowpane over and over again like a fly, never even noticing the glass? Oh, I know very well how that feels. When it comes to love, I’ve had to learn that lesson countless times, and the same goes for other aspects of my life.
Giving up requires self-examination and being able to recognize (and accept) what is. You and only you can know whether the energy you’re putting toward your goal is balanced with the energy you expect to receive when you reach it. Discovering that your energy is stagnating and that you’ve reached a stalemate can be painful and raw. Saying goodbye to a dream or goal is a moment of grief. Allow yourself to be angry or disappointed. By the time the fog clears, all that will be left is space. Space for something new, something better.
When Should I Call It Quits?
When you suspect you may be persevering for the sake of achievement or habit or ego, try asking yourself these questions. Depending on your answers, it may be time for a detour:
Is this something I want to achieve or something I feel I should achieve?
Does my motivation for this goal come from the outside or from within?
Who would be happiest if I reached this goal?
Who would be the most disappointed if I didn’t?
How would it feel if I let go of this?
What would take its place?
// Advanced Complaining
Bitching, moaning, and whining
Life will always find ways to be unkind to you. When you think about it, there really isn’t a way to escape the tormenting that’s part of this temporary earthly existence. You will get wrinkles, you’ll be disappointed, you’ll lose what is dear to you. Even if you start a utopian commune with only like-minded people on a remote mountaintop, you still won’t be spared the headwinds of adversity. Things happen, both good and bad things. And complaining about it is pretty futile; fundamentally, it doesn’t make much of a difference. Whining is not the most attractive look, and when you don’t give it some structure, it isn’t particularly constructive either.
Having said that, a nice, comprehensive jeremiad does have its pluses, if only because it’s exhausting to always be the controlled, well-balanced, and polite version of yourself. Once in a while, you need to vent. Oh, what a relief it can be to blow off steam! Sometimes everything that is bothering, annoying, grieving, hurting, touching, and irritating you needs to be discharged. Once in a while, it can feel so nice to open the windows to let out all those stuffy grievances and free up space for fresh, clean air.
Complaining doesn’t need to be pointless if you handle it wisely, employing it as a release of everything that’s irrational, melodramatic, unfounded, primal, unreasonable, and nonsensical. I compare it to weeding the garden of your mind: Weeds keep growing, whether you like it or not, and if you don’t do regular upkeep, they can overgrow your garden and obstruct the light for all the plants you actually want to grow there.
That nagging, whiny voice just wants to be heard once in a while. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to listen to and sometimes pretty funny; sometimes it can fill you with compassion, and in the best case, you’ll listen to yourself and think: Oh, so that’s what’s bothering me. Perhaps you hear your inner child, who has learned how to behave but now wants to claim a moment for unreasonable defiance. Maybe it’s your caring self, who thinks you could’ve taken better care of yourself. In the residue of your protest you might find a pure insight.
Turn that junk drawer in your head upside down and survey what’s inside: Which thought is worth keeping, which should be somewhere else, and which can be discarded? I often find it’s satisfying to combine this mental spring cleaning with physical exercise: Scratch on a sheet of paper, squeeze a
pillow, tear pieces of cardboard, run a mile.
Advanced Complaining in Practice
Venting to someone may be nice, but consider the time and place. Birthday parties, working colleagues, a complete stranger on a train: perhaps not the right moment, perhaps not the right audience.
Direct your diatribes back to the facts and to reality. It’s easy to land in a ditch when putting the pedal to the metal. Moderate, shift gears, and hit the brakes in time.
Don’t make complaining an unconscious habit or a go-to strategy to distract attention from yourself. Vent your gripes, but be fully mindful of what you say and how you say it. Turn your dissatisfaction into an exercise, not an attitude.
Remember: Voicing your grievances should give you air, not add more to the weight you’re carrying. The energy should be released, not absorbed.
Look for a partner in crime. For years, I worked with someone I could call on when I occasionally wanted to blow off steam, without consequences or any particular outcome. Afterward, I would return to the issues of the day relieved and with more perspective. All she’d do was shrug her shoulders and tell me I was right, no matter what. Most of the time, that was all I needed.
Smile at yourself and smile about your unreasonableness. Sometimes complaining is just like stand-up comedy. Try listening with that perspective: If you don’t identify with what you’re going on about, it can be hilariously unreasonable. Remember: You are not your thoughts.
Once you’re done venting, ask yourself the final question: So, now what? Is there something you need to announce? Do you need to examine something? Maybe the answer is “nothing,” and that’s fine too. Put an end to it. Be done with it. Let go.
// The Beginner’s Mind
The freedom of not knowing
The famously charming and adventurous Pippi Longstocking once declared, “I have never tried that before, so I think I should definitely be able to do that!” While somewhat foolhardy, this is also a wise sentiment. Zen Buddhism would call this “the beginner’s mind” or shoshin. The best definition has probably been given by Zen master Shunryu Suzuki (1904–1971): “If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few.”
The beginner’s mind is an attitude of openness, of eagerness. It’s a combination of being present in the middle of the situation, involved and with full attention, while simultaneously floating a little above it, detached and unbiased. It’s like the mind of a child: attentive and intense, as if everything is happening for the first time. A beginner’s mind can help you slow down and observe what is happening without judgment or preconceived ideas. It is a gratifying attitude that brings a feeling of calmness and control.
Ever since I was introduced to this notion and began to apply it to my life, I’ve been experiencing more space, more freedom. I’m no longer living a life of exclamation points, but rather one of question marks: a life that is dynamic, open, and fully aimed at possibilities. Consider these words Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in a letter to an aspiring poet: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
When you think you know something for certain, when you are fully convinced, you pretty much always sacrifice an amount of objectivity and perspective. When looking at a problem objectively, with a beginner’s mind, you will leave out a lot of interpretation, assumptions, and opinions.
What use is it to learn or to gain experiences and insights if you are forced to put them aside anyway? I asked this question of Zen master Bernie Glassman (1939–2018), whom I was fortunate enough to interview. He answered that the more knowledge you gather, the better, that you could see knowledge as something you fill up a large backpack with. Learn as many languages as you can, go for any diploma you can obtain, and read every book that interests you. The problem begins once you get attached to what you know, if you approach life armed with only one particular piece of knowledge. Only when you’re open and present can you reach into your backpack for knowledge that can help you to act lovingly.
And then it helps if your backpack is fully packed. Knowledge is beautiful and valuable, but knowing a lot doesn’t automatically mean you possess the right knowledge. With an open attitude, you can acquire knowledge without being dominated by it. When you understand what a situation calls for, it will automatically become clear to you what is needed. Not knowing isn’t the end; it’s a wonderful beginning.
In practice, having a beginner’s mind means taking a step back. And that isn’t always easy. After all, our brains are filled with countless well-trodden paths and ingrained ideas, all aimed at helping us reach conclusions or solutions at lightning speed. It’s good that we don’t apply our beginner’s mind to everything we do; this saves us from considering twenty-seven ways to tie our shoelaces, cook spaghetti, or cross an intersection. It’s comforting to know the one way to do that. This “knowing,” however, tends to dominate our mind. We may think we have a solution for everything. And that’s where the frustrating, cosmic game of cat-and-mouse begins: We think we have an answer to everything, and then we experience something we can’t comprehend or place, and we are thrown off balance.
Your certainties are the bars that keep you locked in your own box, while there’s a whole wide world outside. The beginner’s mind helps you stay open to what is, without immediately interpreting or rejecting it. It’s a mindset that requires a little practice, but nevertheless one that leads to a lighter life.
// On Grief
Saying goodbye is real, and it f*king hurts
“It happens to everyone. But you feel it alone” is the most striking remark on grief I’ve ever read. It’s a quote from Helen McDonald’s H Is for Hawk, a book she wrote when she had to say goodbye to her father. Grief is a common thread in human life. Even though we associate it with death, the irreversible goodbye, grief is actually part of quotidian affairs, like dropping a beautiful vase or the cancellation of the weekly lunches you’d been having with your best friend because she moved to the other side of the country. It’s the essence of our existence: We arrive and we leave; things come, things go. Yet we passionately resist that impermanence.
The passing of things remains a profound, painful, heartbreaking lesson. Those who take the spiritual path will acquire insights in order to detach themselves from this suffering, but I suspect that, for most of us earthly souls, grieving will remain a lifelong struggle. Grief is part of us.
Farewell and loss: My very worst days are characterized by these sentiments. I’ve felt grief in my body, in my soul, and it’s paralyzing. Many nights on end, I lay awake, haunted by the sensation that the Velcro connecting me and someone I loved was slowly tearing loose: my mother, to whom, due to her dementia, I was forced to say goodbye, little by little, or a great love who turned out to be a passerby. Grief leaves little room for other things; even eating or sleeping are pushed to the background. It’s an invisible bell jar that is placed over you and that keeps everything and everyone at a distance, while life outside continues as usual. “Numb” is the word we use to describe this feeling.
Grief is one of the most difficult emotions for me to control. I’ve always found it hard to deal with transience. Things that pass, imperfection, and frayed edges form the heart of my practice, and not without reason; for me, that’s where the biggest lessons in life are to be found, and that’s what attracts my interest time and time again. Perhaps it’s in part because grief was the first truly overwhelming emotion that crossed my path; I lost my best friend at age twelve. Over the past twenty-five years, I’ve often thought that I had adequately healed from
that experience, that it “hadn’t left a mark.” To a certain extent, that is the case: I’m still here, standing strong. Even so, my heart has a scar. I had just entered middle school and hadn’t experienced anything yet, and at the same time, I’d experienced everything. Grieving as a child is extra complicated. Till this day my heart burns when I think about that period.
Grief is a daily phenomenon. With each day, we die a little. Life’s path is riddled with holes from things falling away. Grief is the answer to the loss we experience, and that sense of mourning starts the moment you are born and leave the safety and comfort of your mother’s womb.
Anything you grow attached to, you can lose. Those who are interested in spirituality know that when it comes to topics such as grief, saying goodbye, and letting go, the lessons are not hard to grasp intellectually. Things become a lot harder when you try to apply that knowledge to your heart. Let me phrase that in a more concrete way: You can understand that the pain you experience is caused by your resistance to what is, but that doesn’t make it any less f*cked. It’s the essence of Buddhism: The cause of our suffering is desire, and nirvana is detachment from those desires. Our pain is caused by our own thoughts and actions. Everything is transient, so being enlightened implies that you fully surrender to that impermanence.
If you want to look at it this way, grief could be one of the least “spiritual” emotions you could experience. But to make the case for a life in which we accept and adjust to what is, I’d also like to argue that all emotions have a right to exist—grief too. Grief has a bittersweet beauty to it: When you become aware of the impermanence of things, you also become aware of the value and beauty of the moment. Accepting that nothing is permanent is the perfect landing strip for the present moment. Grief itself is also moving. Grief comes and goes. Grief is, like your bad days, a dialogue with life. It can offer you a master class in self-knowledge and resilience.
The Handbook for Bad Days Page 10