(Judging. Judging.)
Wait a minute. That’s my Shit talking. I’m judging this woman—I’ve never even said one word to her.
I sit with this for a few minutes as I focus back on my breath, and then I start to recognize that I’m actually feeling hurt under all the judgment. I’m hurt that Grey-Bob Woman moved away from sitting beside me. I’m taking it personally.
And then—in a flash of, well, insight—I’m struck by this wave of understanding and compassion for Sari Woman, whom I was so annoyed by earlier. I suddenly see how hurt and insecure she might have felt when she realized I’d moved because of her—how, on some level, she probably couldn’t help all the moving she was doing, either.
Just like me.
Immediately following this realization, I’m quickly struck by yet another insight, suddenly seeing a reflection of myself in Grey-Bob Woman. I’m realizing how my intolerance and my impatience with both others—and with myself—has shown up as a recurring theme in my life, resulting in me constantly leaving relationships and, thus, isolating myself. And I realize how I often suffer so much because of it. In this moment, I feel a wave of empathy and compassion for Grey-Bob Woman.
Our Shit’s exactly alike.
Now I see the first big “lesson” of the retreat—how the overlapping circles of our experiences interconnect. I’m reminded that we’re all mirrors for each other. And, for the first time during the retreat, I’m momentarily taken out of my pain as I’m flooded with gratitude for the gift of seeing all this so clearly.
Monday, May 6
Day Three
It’s Monday. Midmorning. And it’s time for our small group meetings with our assigned teachers. I’ve been assigned to Trudy Goodman’s group. Trudy is the founder of Insight LA, a meditation center—and I’m looking forward to meeting her.
I fill my water bottle from one of the coolers outside the meditation hall and make my way through the cactus garden toward the rows of modest cottages up ahead. A paper sign reading “Trudy G.” hangs off the back of a folding chair at the end of a short driveway, and I walk toward the screen door.
“Come on in,” I hear a gentle voice call from inside.
Trudy, a kind, airy, motherly looking woman with long, wispy auburn hair sits with two other people in a small circle in the center of the room, one of whom I think might be my roommate because I recognize her cascades of fiery red locks. The other person in the circle is a distinguished-looking man in his early fifties with bright baby blue eyes.
Trudy smiles and flips through our registration sheets. “Well, we’re all here, so let’s begin, OK? How are things going so far? Who would like to go first?”
Our eyes all awkwardly dart about, not sure where to land. And then I get the uncharacteristic impulse to pipe up.
“I can go.”
I explain the anguish I’ve been in since I woke up Saturday morning—the double whammy of the raw throat and the debilitating menstrual cramps. How I recognize I’m basically struggling with struggling but there doesn’t seem to be much I can “do” about it.
Trudy looks me in the eye with concern. “Are you resting at all?”
The question throws me off.
“Well, um, no. I didn’t realize resting was an option.”
“You need to rest, dear. Take a nap during the afternoon walking meditation after lunch. You must take care of yourself.”
“So it’s OK to veer from the schedule?” I stare at her with a look of bewilderment on my face. I’m genuinely unclear.
“Yes!” She’s staring back at me intently again. “I’m telling you—as your teacher. You have permission not to follow the schedule. Please rest! You must take care of yourself. Always. It’s the most important thing you can do.”
“Oh. Well, I think I can manage that…” I eke out a smile and feel myself starting to relax.
Her permission not to follow the schedule—to do what’s best for me in order to take care of myself—is something I need to hear. Much like how I felt I needed permission before letting myself move positions in the meditation hall.
Hmm…feeling like I need permission tends to be a recurring theme for me in the outside world as well.
“OK, who’s next?” Trudy looks around the circle.
“I’ll go.” The gentleman with the baby blues lifts his hand from his knee. He has the air of a high-powered businessman: a quiet confidence and stoic stature. Qualities I recognize in myself.
“I’m Roger, and these past few days have been…” He looks down at his hands. “Well, I’m finding that I’m very emotive, something I’m not really used to being in my daily life.”
He continues staring down at his hands, gently tapping the tips of his fingers together. “The loving kindness meditations we’re doing…well, I seem to be quite moved by them.” His eyes become glossy as tears begin to well.
I can feel my chest start to swell, my own tears wanting to leap out of my eyes and leak down my cheeks. But I hold them back.
IT’S INAPPROPRIATE TO CRY RIGHT NOW. KEEP YOURSELF TOGETHER.
(Judging. Judging.)
I politely dismiss the judgment of how I “should” be acting and relax my mind, allowing my heart to feel touched.
Once again, I see myself in another person. I see myself in this man. Something is shifting for him, and his heart is beginning to blossom and open before our eyes. It’s beautiful to witness. And I can relate to it as well.
Something significant shifted within me when I first discovered the heart-opening practice of loving kindness about two years ago.
Up until then, the deliberately steely exterior I had chosen to don had done a great job of protecting me in the “real” world—keeping outside danger and pain mostly at bay. But, in an effort to “protect” myself by shutting out the danger and pain, I had also inadvertently shut out a tremendous amount of love and connection. Because of this, depression and anxiety took hold, causing me to withdraw even further into myself, thus creating a vicious downward spiral of continuously closing off to both the outside world and myself.
Through the discovery and subsequent regular practice of loving kindness (coupled with personal therapy), I slowly learned how to shed the protective layers of emotional armor I had built over the years. I started accessing the warmth, compassion, and vulnerability at my core, which ultimately helped me love myself—and others—on a whole new level.
Loving kindness helped reintegrate a part of myself that I had unwittingly lost. It quite literally brought me back in touch with my heart.
Tuesday, May 7
Day Four
Tuesday afternoon. I’m mid-meditation, hacking and wheezing. Tears are streaming down my face. I’m still in agony. I’ve endured three and a half days of it. The cramps have died down a bit, but my throat is still on fire, and I’m doing nothing but focusing on the stabbing pain every time I swallow. I realize I need to somehow find a way to surrender to the discomfort. To accept it. Stop focusing on it. And stop fighting it. But I can’t seem to access how.
There has to be a way through this—if I can just give myself the space to see it.
I take a deep breath, open my eyes and gaze down to read the words etched in ink on the inside of my left wrist: “This too shall pass.”
I got this tattoo (my first) when I was living in New York City—a few years prior to beginning my mindfulness practice—during one of the many lows I regularly surfed whilst spending time stuck in Shitsville. Frequently finding myself fixated on only the negatives in my life, the tattoo served as a “permanent” prompt to help me keep some semblance of a larger perspective: reminding me that, even though it might not feel like it, everything in life—including pain—is impermanent, and life won’t always be as miserable as it might feel in any given moment. And in this particular moment, it was feeling pretty gnarly.
OK, focusing on the pain isn’t helping in the slightest. Maybe I can widen my perspective here….Is there any part of me—ANY PART—that d
oesn’t hurt right now?
I close my eyes and start conducting a body scan in an effort to help guide my attention to more neutral parts of my body and away from the pain in my throat. Beginning with my toes, I can feel a subtle tingle—almost like when my foot is falling asleep, but without the discomfort. Guiding my attention slowly up through my ankles and calves, I notice these areas don’t hurt, either. And I can feel my body begin to soften into the growing sense of gratitude.
Then, within moments, a series of visions of several people in my past who’d all caused me a great deal of pain begin flashing in front of my eyes—including my ex-girlfriend. But, instead of pangs of anger or resentment, serene feelings of forgiveness wash through my body. The unbearable pain in my throat begins to diminish, and I experience a profound thankfulness for the relief these feelings of forgiveness provide.
Unclear if this is something I willfully made happen—or if it’s simply something that arose from the space created when not fixated on my pain—I try to move away from analyzing it (Analyzing. Analyzing.) and instead gently guide my attention back to my body and the sensation of the breath at my belly.
In…
Out…
In…
Out…
Focusing on the sensation of my belly expanding and contracting, I begin to notice the moment right after I’ve expelled all the air from my lungs—the “limbo” just before inhaling. I then notice how I’m not consciously controlling when my belly starts expanding on the in breath. It’s just naturally happening, much like my heart beating, without me “making” it happen.
For the first time since I started meditating, I can clearly see how I’m not in control of everything that my body experiences. And then it dawns on me:
If I’m not physically in control of my pain, then what’s the use infighting it or trying to push it away?
A newfound sense of self-liberation washes through my body as I practice just letting the pain “be.” It still hurts to swallow—but now I’m actually allowing myself to simply feel it. I’m no longer clamping down on it or trying to force it to go away. Doing this begins to create enough space for me to notice and feel the positive feelings of relief and gratitude emerging when the painful sensations aren’t as intense.
It then occurs to me that I’ve been taking the state of “no pain” for granted and have believed this is how it always “should” be. And I see how clinging to this belief has caused me unnecessary emotional suffering above and beyond the physical pain.
Resisting my pain has only been making it worse.
This new perspective shifts everything.
Wednesday, May 8
Day Five
Wednesday afternoon arrives, and I’m scheduled for a one-on-one meeting with Noah Levine, founder of Los Angeles–based Against the Stream, a Buddhist meditation society. I arrive at his cottage a few minutes early. A giant black SUV is parked in the driveway, and I see a half-smoked cigar and an ashtray perched on the railing of his porch.
THIS GUY THINKS HE’S A ROCK STAR. ISN’T THIS WORK SUPPOSED TO BE ABOUT GETTING RID OF OUR EGOS?
(Judging. Judging.)
“Come on in.”
I turn to see a tall, husky man with a shaved head, covered from head to toe in tattoos. He’s standing in the doorway, dressed like a B-boy in a “Buddhist Atheist” T-shirt and baggy shorts, propping the screen door open with his high-top-sneakered foot as he tucks a smart phone into his pocket.
I look down at the ground, feeling awkward. “I’m a little early…”
“It’s all good. Welcome.” He motions for me to come inside.
I follow as he takes a seat on one of two folding chairs set up directly opposite each other. He glances down at my registration sheet.
“Jennifer, yes?”
I nod with a smile. It feels awkward to speak when I could just gesture instead.
“So, how’s it going so far?” He places my info sheet to the side. Looks me in the eyes, studying my face.
I sit there for a beat, my heart starting to swell—a flood of emotion. Tears start welling up, but I don’t choke them back like I did in my small group meeting. Instead, I let them flow freely as I recount the journey I’ve taken with learning how to be with my pain and explain how grateful I feel for the lessons learned.
He listens, nodding, and I feel a deep sense of relief in sharing my story with someone who truly empathizes. I also feel the strong urge to thank him for creating Against the Stream, but my Shit suddenly pops up:
WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? YOU’RE GONNA LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT IF YOU GET ALL MUSHY AND THANK HIM. IT’S BAD ENOUGH YOU’RE CRYING IN FRONT OF HIM. PLUS, HUMILITY’S NOT YOUR THING. KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT. THIS GUY’S GOT A BIG ENOUGH EGO—YOU DON’T NEED TO INFLATE IT EVEN FURTHER.
(Pride. Pride.)
Despite the litany of excuses swarming around the inside of my mind, warning me to keep quiet, the desire to be humble and thank Noah continues growing in my heart.
I should tell him how I feel. If I share my appreciation and gratitude with him, nothing bad can come out of it.
The impulse to share my appreciation feels “right,” so I go for it.
“I want to take this opportunity to thank you for creating Against the Stream. When I first moved to Los Angeles and was struggling with dependency issues, your center was a huge help to me. I’m very grateful for the work you’re doing in the world. Thank you.”
He listens with kind eyes and comments on how happy he is to hear I found the support I needed. The tears continue flowing freely, and I notice myself starting to get self-conscious and feeling embarrassed for the amount of them.
Grabbing a tissue from a nearby box, I attempt to clean myself up. “I’m sorry for all the crying. It’s something that seems to be a regular part of my life these days…”
“Are you sad?”
“Sometimes, sure. But I’m not feeling sad right now—quite the opposite, actually.”
He passes me another tissue. “It’s a brave act to cry when we’re touched. A true spiritual warrior cries when they see or hear truth. It’s a sign of strength, not weakness, you know.”
I nod as I finish wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I wish I could do something to help people see how mindfulness can positively impact the quality of their lives—it’s done so much for me in such a short amount of time.”
“Just keep walking the path you’re walking, Jennifer. There’s nothing to ‘do.’ Just continue being who you’re being. You’re positively affecting everyone around you, whether you realize it or not.”
More tears as I feel his words in my heart and realize their truth.
“Come visit and say hi when you’re back in LA. It would be nice to see you.”
The light crunch of footsteps on gravel grows louder behind me, bringing me back to the moment, and I realize my time with Noah has come to an end.
Humbled, feeling renewed and filled with gratitude, I stand up.
“I will. Thank you, again.”
Thursday, May 9
Day Six
I wake up centered and focused, feeling grateful for the continued ease in my practice and the joyful lightness in my heart as I make my way to the meditation hall and take my seat. Howard “Howie” Cohn, a sun-kissed man with a slight stature and a warmhearted glow, sits at the front of the room, explaining that he’ll be leading us through a guided meditation, intended to help us open to a new level of “letting go.”
Closing my eyes, I listen as various meditation bells intermittently ring from different locations throughout the hall, and my sense of physical space begins to expand. My body feels as though it’s starting to dissolve. And after a few minutes, I can no longer feel where my hands exist. I know they’re physically on my lap, my fingers intertwined. But I don’t actually feel them there. No tingling sensations. No heat or coolness. Nothing.
Further scanning my body, I realize I’m no longer sensing the rest of it from the neck down, either. There are lit
erally no physical sensations at all.
The bells continue reverberating throughout the hall as I experience a profound stillness. Feeling almost “one” with the cushion, I start getting the overwhelming sense that my physical body is not “me” because I don’t actually feel it.
Then, all of a sudden, a rush of energy shoots up through me, like the feeling you get as you start lifting out of your seat on a roller coaster. It feels like I’m about to “take off,” and I immediately recognize it as the same sensation I used to get as a child right before I felt like I somehow “lifted out” of my body.
HOLY SHIT. STAY GROUNDED. THIS ISN’T NORMAL!
(Panicking. Panicking.)
My eyes pop open. My heart starts racing. Gazing around the room, I see it’s all still there. I’m still there. I haven’t actually “gone” anywhere.
I’m OK….Stay connected with the breath. Everything’s going to be OK.
Eyes still open, I look down at my body. I’m aware it’s there, but I still don’t feel it. And the usual non-effort it takes to move my hand doesn’t budge a muscle.
Another pang of fear shoots up through the front of my torso as my mind flashes back to being a young girl around eight or nine years old.
Recurring experiences, similar to this moment, used to happen fairly regularly back then. When I started to fall asleep at night, it felt like “I” somehow left my body—and when I eventually felt “back in my body,” I remember often not being able to move. I felt paralyzed, unable to call out for help for what seemed like hours before I regained control. I was terrified. These occurrences eventually stopped, and I haven’t experienced anything like them since.
That is, until this moment.
I see how this meditation has helped me “let go” in a new way, and I sense that a part of me is clearly afraid, traumatized by the similar experiences I had at such a young age with no method for coping. But despite any fear that might have been kicked up, there’s a part of me that’s also feeling curious.
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