Awaken Engage

15 minute writing timer. Set. Go…

“Take a step back.” This is a fascinating idiom in our common vernacular. We associate it with getting a bit of distance from what is right in front of your face, what is consuming your focus, what is grabbing you, what is connected to your reactivity, and so on.

I’ve been working with this idea for quite some time as part of my practice and I enjoy experimenting with it and testing it out in situations throughout the day.

Connected to taking a step back, I also have been noticing my heart opening and closing throughout the day, trying to be aware of the subtle sensations in the body that are cues that I am closing and subtle sensations that are cues that I am opening. More and more, I can feel myself closing before I’ve completely shut the door, built a wall, dug a trench, created an “other,” and all the things we do when we close our hearts to life.

Watching the Super Bowl gave me a great chance to practice. I have just enough of an interest in one of the teams to root for them and hope that they will win and that the other team will lose. I’m not neutral when it comes to the outcome. So, that gives me the tension that I need for the experiment to carry emotional weight and require effort on my part.

In short, my underlying intention while watching the game, in addition to just enjoying time with family and friends, was to notice when my heart began to close, to notice when I became reactive, and to step back now and then to watch it and watch myself as if watching a movie.

The game was a tight contest the whole way through and filled with tension and drama. And, it was long. In fact, it was the 7th longest game in NFL history. So, lots of tension, lots of drama, and all of that for a long time.

Perfect!

As background, some of the cues I notice in my body when I am beginning to close my heart and become reactive in a competitive setting like this are that my breathing becomes shorter, my jaw tightens, my eyes become laser-focused, my temperature rises, and my body posture closes off. I also notice that my inner and outer voice become deeper, louder, more critical, more us vs. them.

Now, caring about a team also allows for good-natured fun with my brother-in-law, wife, and kids. We love each other and enjoy the chance to engage passionately over something that we have in common.

For my experiment, I wanted to see if I could notice my body at different points in the contest and “take a step back” into the seat of centered awareness through which the whole scene is passing.

During one of these step-backs, I chuckled when my mind suddenly remembered that it couldn’t remember last year’s Super Bowl enough to feel anything about it. Or very many other ones. It was fun to think that in a year, this moment will have passed and with it the ups and downs I was feeling in my body.

During other step-backs, I noticed my shortened breathing, tense body, and then responded by enjoying some long breaths, moving my body, and opening my posture.

30 seconds left….Okay, gotta finish this.

As I reflect back on the experience as a whole, I notice that stepping back didn’t take away from the emotional enjoyment and depth of experience in the moment. In fact, it was richer. I was open to more of the experience since I was consciously responding more than unconsciously reacting more of the time.

It was fascinating and I likely will remember this game even more than others because I was less tied up in reactivity that takes me out of the whole moment, and I was more involved with all that was happening as it happened and who it was happening with.

Amazing.

Time.

15-minute-writing timer. Set. Go.

When I was younger, I was impressed with track records in events like the 100 meters, high jump, triple jump, long jump, etc.

Fast. High. Long. Quick.

I wouldn’t have been able to tell you even the rough range of a great time for finishing a marathon. I didn’t like watching marathons.

Nowadays, I pay a lot more attention to the records and feats and achievements and legacies that require consistency and commitment through the years.

I look for people who have played the long game and who have found meaning in the mundane.

Because the long game is all about finding meaning in the mundane. It’s not flashy, it’s not all that attractive to others, it is often misunderstood, it is overlooked, it is hard work without a constant dose of gratification, and it is deeply humbling.

That’s what attracts me these days.

My best days aren’t behind me. My best days aren’t ahead of me.

My best days are today. Here and now. Here. Now.

My best day is today. My best moment is today.

Years ago, I would have given up on this writing/publishing/podcast project on days like today when the words come intermittently and clumsily.

Today, I’m excited to watch it all unfold and see how I handle the adversity of dull, mundane, seemingly uninspiring moments.

I like what I see. I like what I am being.

Oliver Burkeman says “The ability to tolerate minor discomfort is a superpower. It’s shocking to see how readily we set aside even our greatest ambitions in life, merely to avoid easily tolerable levels of unpleasantness…When you expect an action will be accompanied by feelings of irritability, anxiety or boredom, it’s usually possible to let that feeling arise and fade, while doing the action anyway. The rewards come so quickly, in terms of what you’ll accomplish, that it soon becomes the more appealing way to live.”

I like that I am sitting here writing, noticing the effort it is taking, listening for wisdom, extending understanding and compassion to myself, pushing myself to perform, and valuing the learning and shaping and growing that is happening.

All stuff you only get to see and enjoy the fruit of if you play the long game.

1 minute left on the writing timer and it occurs to me that this all should have been fairly evident to me having grown up on a farm where you are always playing the long game, finding meaning in the mundane, working hard without constant doses of gratification, and living in deep gratitude and humility that comes from knowing you are just playing a part and that the game depends on so much more than you.

So, just play your part.

I’m just playing my part.

And I like what I am being.

Time.

Burkeman, Oliver. “Oliver Burkeman’s last column: the eight secrets to a (fairly) fulfilled life.” The Guardian.

15 minute writing timer set…and…go….

“I would gladly take this from you if I could.”

I remember hearing these words from my mom and dad and even my grandparents while growing up. They would say them when I was sick or going through a hard time. And I remember thinking that they were nuts. Why would they want to take away my pain?

Even if I questioned their sanity, it was a window into a deep love that I didn’t really understand until I had my own kids.

I would so gladly die for my kids and take away all pain from them if I could. There isn’t even a slight hesitation.

I find myself saying the same words to them and my wife and my parents and my loved ones now.

But. 

I have to say that I am glad my parents and grandparents were not able to take my pain as their own. Yes, it meant the world to me that they would care so much as to be willing to sacrifice their comfort.

But the painful times shaped me, they helped me grow, they were and are my teachers. I truly would not be who I am without going through the pain.

And I wouldn’t be who I am without going through the pain with the deep knowledge that I was loved so much that more than one person in my life would gladly trade places so that I might experience relief.

A good friend related an emotional story about when he was a child and saw a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. He thought it was hurting and so he helped it by pulling the cocoon apart. Instead of flying away, the butterfly’s wings were not strong enough and it died. Even many years after this, my friend still feels the emotional weight of that moment.

It’s a story that many are familiar with but it is signifiant nonetheless.

The struggle to break free from the cocoon is part of what strengthens the butterfly’s wings so that it can fly.

The struggle, the discomfort, the pain - it is all necessary in the story of growth and life and freedom.

Over the course of the last 24 hours, I have felt such longing to take away my children’s pain as they go through all the things that teenagers go through.

I want to rescue them. I want them to get to the other side. I want them to fly and be free.

And I also know that these experiences are helping shape them and form them so that they can fly and be free and get to the other side.

So, I hear myself saying, “I would so gladly take this from you” even while I know that I cannot.

And I also know that even if I cannot rescue them, it matters so deeply that they know I would if I could.

Time

15 minutes writing timer is set. And…Start…

“Soul would have us go where we fear to go in order to learn who we are intended to be.” (Michael Meade)

Fear is a thing. An object. Some thing that is perceived. As a thing, it comes and goes. It has a life span. We notice it coming, we notice it when it is in front of us, we notice it when it is in our bodies, we notice it when it is occupying our minds, and we notice when it goes.

This is wonderful news.

In March of 2020, I was one of the early Covid cases but couldn’t get medical attention because I didn’t have a fever. I also didn’t have high enough O2 levels, but that was before any of us were really thinking about it.

So, one night, as I was downstairs away from the family, I “suffocated” and lost consciousness over and over and over, unable to call for help. Wide-eyed and gasping I would come to consciousness only to go under again. Somehow, I made it through that night.


Fairly terrifying. Actually, beyond terrifying. I personally believe that I was gone several times that night and got to come back. You know, the bright-light-on-the-other-side kind of gone.

The beginning of the experience actually occurred when I was lying down earlier that evening doing a Yoga Nidra session and felt like there was an elephant on my chest. I got up gasping but just attributed it to some fear-induced panic from a lack of sleep and the constant news cycle of a catastrophic epidemic.

For many months afterward, all I had to do was lie down and I felt like I was suffocating again. Doing Yoga Nidra lying down was a particularly strong trigger.

Since then, as I have noticed the fear of suffocating come and go, I have welcomed it as a part of my practice/journey, I have been with it and felt it in my body, I have let it go, and I have let in hopeful messages and connected my breathing to thousands of repeated positive experiences.

I haven’t really thought about suffocating in years.

Until I began doing Wim Hof breath retention exercises earlier this week.

It has a been another experiment of going toward the fear, turning the lights of my awareness on it, examining it, feeling secure in my body, grounding, and using the many techniques and strategies that I have learned and now teach others.

As part of this method, you intentionally hyperventilate for, in my case, 35 inhalations/exhalations. These are quick breathe-in and breathe-outs. At the end of the 35th exhalation, you hold the breath out for as long as you can. Once you inhale, you hold the inhale for 15 seconds and then begin the round of 35 inhalations/exhalations again. I do 4 cycles and I do them before I ever get out of bed in the morning.

Before experimenting with the Wim Hof method, I don’t remember ever holding my breath for more than a minute. But, I consistently average about 1:40 seconds over the course of the cycle of 4 and today I hit a personal record of 2:11.

However, I have begun to notice fear creeping in as I hold the breath past a certain point. I am the Wim Hof app with Hof’s voice and music in the background and I now know what little chimes and cues mean and they are becoming associated with certain levels of comfort and discomfort.

Some of the discomfort is connected to the remnants of trauma left in my body from March 2020. I didn’t really expect to see them, but I’m feeling them and noticing them.

And, I don’t need them anymore. They are things in my body that are connected to an experience I am not currently having.

By pairing my present secure awareness with these rising sensations and accompanying thoughts, I am noticing that the remnants are moving out of the body and the triggers continually diminish.

The fear doesn’t have to stay. I can let it go.

Fear is a thing. I have firsthand, direct, personal experience with PTSD, traumatic brain injuries, and post-traumatic brain injury syndrome. I have seen many faces of fear, I have been debilitated by fear, I have feared fear.

The lessons of these past 8 years and the lesson of my life have been that fear is a thing. It comes and goes.

I remain.

What is different now is that I am safe and secure with myself. I am unchanging loving awareness in which the ever-changing flow of life arises, including fear. And all of the changing phenomena in life have become my teachers - teaching me to be who I am intended to be.

As Michael Meade reminds us, “Soul would have us go where we fear to go in order to learn who are intended to be.”

Let it Be. Let it Go. Let it In.

Time.

Writing and publishing a public-facing exhibit and podcast is more of a challenge than getting in a tub of icebergs.

A little known way to completely quiet the mind of all sensical and meaningful content is to decide that you must write some of that content every day and share it. Thoughts be gone.

I’m now setting a writing timer for 15 minutes to up the ante here. I now have 14:22 left.

I began the day by taking a photo of an almost-empty peanut butter jar, feeling it had something to do with what needed said. Well, I think that jar will still find its way into the writing room, but not now.

Now, what is finding its way in is the realization of the importance of short-term, attainable, challenging goals in my life. I love these little challenges and I’m finding that I keep adding more and more to the list. 

On my nighttime city walks (mornings are for foothills walks) I am challenging myself to see this familiar place as if for the first time and photographing the journey.

Tonight (yes, these are now being written the night before - gasp!) I felt just as inadequate about facing that challenge as I do this one now. 

Why?

Because there is this guy in my head who has a thousand different voices and they are all conspiring to tell me to keep quiet, stop sharing, and step away from this before I humiliate myself.

Even now, sitting here typing and reading this aloud, I have a faint sense of that voice. 

It’s good curriculum.  I know that. It’s good to put myself on these rather low-risk edges where I can push through the “wall” and the “noise” and find out who I am and what I can do in the process. 

There’s a good bit of fear of failure and rejection in those voices.  Just labeling them is actually calming down the nervous system in the here and now. 

How about I take a couple of physiological breaths? Breathe in through the nostrils and fill up the lungs, then a little bit more in…and exhale. Another…..

Ahhhh…one of the quickest ways to activate the PNS (parasympathetic nervous system) and feel a sense of calm and grounding in the body. Just ask Andrew Huberman. He taught me.

Nervous system in a calmer state, prefrontal cortex lighting up, thinking/writing resuming...Emily comes into room. Well, hell, that just threw this almost-found-a-flow all out of whack. Back to a couple of breaths. I’ve only got 4:21 seconds left. That went rather quickly.

But I’m doing it. I’m pushing through something that is challenging. Doing it.  

Not only is there something on the other side, there is something here and now. 

I’m coming into direct contact with the fears and insecurities that often work more intensely and yet quietly in the background, influencing my life in subconscious and consequential ways.

I’m glad that I’m flushing them out. 

Fear is a thing, after all. 

And I am the one noticing it rising and falling.

I am. 

I am noticing and welcoming and being with fear and also welcoming the sense of accomplishment of writing tonight when I absolutely did not want to do it. 

27 seconds and counting and I’m here being and listening and living.

Deep breath.

Time.

As I write today, my mind is quiet and still, like a placid lake on an early summer morning right before the sunrise. Very still. Very quiet. Smooth. Indistinct. Undisturbed. Gentle. Calm. At ease.

There’s not much to say. It’s quiet in here today. Very quiet. Very still. Smooth. Indistinct. Spacious. Open. 

Like a pebble plopping, a thought drops.  

And is immersed and surrounded by spacious, quiet waters. 

Pebble plops. Thought drops. 

Now floating down until it rests on the lake floor. 

A few ripples begin their journey outward in all directions. 

But they are small, quiet, easy, ripples.

And soon the lake is glass again. Very still. Very quiet. 

Open. Inviting. Immersive. Calm. Smooth.

Cool, quiet, still water.

There’s not much to say. It’s quiet in here today. Very quiet. Very still. Smooth. Indistinct. Spacious. Open.

Cool, quiet, still water.

Pebbles of thoughts plopping in here and there, floating down, down, down. 

Resting on the lake floor.

A few small, quiet, easy, gentle ripples.

Glass again. 

Very still. Quiet.

Quiet in here. 

Very quiet. 

Very still. 

Smooth. 

Indistinct. 

Spacious.

Open.

Not much to say. 

Resting.

Here.

Why did I decide to do this 30-day writing/podcasting challenge? I don’t completely and clearly remember…and it’s only day 5. What I do recall is that I was looking for another challenge to meet Andrew Huberman’s criteria for optimizing growth and not calcifying by thinking we have “arrived” at something that is permanent in a world of impermanence. The criteria: 1) the challenge has to be something that involves resistance and requires will power to do; 2) the challenge has to be daily; 3) the challenge has to be done (i.e., you have to just do it). 

I’m still doing daily ice baths, but they are not meeting the first of the criteria. I now want to do them and they’re not hard. I like them. I would miss them. And, maybe someday what will be hard and require willpower will be choosing to refrain from them. 

Writing daily like this is currently ticking all of the boxes for this exercise in continual growth.  And, I committed to doing it. So, here I am doing it. 

Flush. 

Now that my purpose and intentions are re-established, I’ll get on with it.

What is present today as I write is actually quite a wonder to me, and that is how much more compassionate and understanding I have become toward myself. Over the past 8 years, I have become much more loving toward myself, more patient, and more caring. I can say that I have become almost a complete stranger to self-hatred and self-loathing. 

It hasn’t always been that way. In fact, I think that much of my life was spent desperately trying to find some sense of peace with who I am by getting other people to be okay with me and happy with me. I never had the sense that I was enough and relied on performances and accolades and recognition and affirmation from the outside to try to fill that hole. 

In my younger years, if I made a mistake or if I felt like I hurt someone, even if it were unintentional I would beat myself up, lambast myself, say horrible things about myself, and so on. Because, “How could you have done such a thing?!!! You must be…..!!!” The effect was that I was often so lost in trying to put the pieces of my fragmented self together that I really struggled to show up in relationships in a strong enough way to actually move forward, hear the  person’s grievances (if there even were any), and stay present in a way that showed availability and emotional responsiveness. 

So many of my moves in relationships were based on how I hoped the other person would respond and I tried to figure out what I could do to get them to respond the way that I hoped they would. 

I doubt that it is strange or unique that it took the almost complete disintegration of my identity (as I had known it before the brain injury) to bring me to my current state of being. 

Sure, I still get caught at times. But, I know when I’m getting caught and when I’m caught and I’m working with the caught part to listen to it, nurture it, challenge it, teach it, and move it into right action as soon as I know what it is. 

What I almost never do anymore is attack myself. 

I make a mistake. Or, I hurt someone. I own it if I am aware of it. I respond as best as I am able. I make amends. I stay present and keep my heart open. I let the other person have their response as best as I can. I watch my own boundaries. I stay present with my voice and speak my truth.  I stay true to my heart and keep it open. I stay safe with myself.

Each morning as I awake, I hear “Good morning, my love.” I am hearing it and saying it as one voice. An unexpected gift in the days and nights of deep darkness in the early stages of the brain injury. A grace.

What this hasn’t meant is that I’ve become any less caring or responsive. In fact, I care more, with deeper regard, with wisdom, with insight, with love that doesn’t have strings attached - at least, not as many and fewer and fewer.

I can’t guarantee that anyone will feel any certain way or that they won’t misunderstand. I’m learning to let others work with their own curriculum, trusting that they have the right response to every situation.  

I don’t have to control the outcome nor can I.

But I can show up for myself and for those I love and am in relationship with. Imperfectly? For sure. But I am growing and growing and growing and growing. 

And I am enough.

Last night, I met a spotted tiger. He was in the bushes down the hill where my basketball had rolled. I was late for the triple jump competition on the other side of the hill and was in quite a hurry to gather my ball which was bouncing farther and farther away. By the time I saw the tiger he was already seeing me. His head made a slow movement in my direction and in a short moment he had covered the distance between us. He took higher ground and I stood transfixed upon his massive and majestic frame. Our eyes locked. No contest. I was very satisfied and at peace with whatever might transpire next. I noticed a peace-full-ness inside that even this spotted tiger could not move me from. He could not eat it, he could not chase it out of me. It was going with me wherever I went.  

Obviously, he didn’t eat me. But he did show me around and sent me back up the hill with my basketball along a beautiful stone wall that I made a blockbuster hit song about as I skipped next to it. Somehow the lyrics and melody didn’t follow me into the fully waking state or I’d be typing them and singing them.

What did follow me is that peace. 

For many years, I experienced sleep paralysis. At least 4-5 times a year, I would “awaken” to some menacing apparition. A witch walking by our apartment window and casting her paralyzing spell on my body. A demon-like beast sitting on my chest, choking me. A hand holding me under water, holding me down. A shadowy figure sucking the air out of my lungs, bearing down on me with red eyes. The whole works.

I think that I finally got tired of it and just decided to let it all happen. Okay. Here we go. Take me if you need to. I’ll be right here.

And it did. A few more times. And then I suppose it just got old and I needed something else to work with. 

Like spotted tigers.

I’m not sure how much sleep paralysis had to do with fear - perhaps I just needed to change the angle of my head on my pillow so I could breathe better. 

But there was certainly an element of fear involved. I would often be somewhat terrified of it happening again and didn’t really enjoy it.

Until I just faced it. Or surrendered. Or let go. Or opened my eyes to what it was that was noticing that fear in the first place.

Stepping behind it all and noticing that who I was/am is unchanging loving awareness in which the changing flow of life arises. 

Spotted tigers, included.

That unchanging loving awareness is akin to equanimity. Unshakeable peace.

What the fear does is shake off the shakeable.

And it reveals what is solid and pure and true and timeless and changeless and peace-full.

Perfect love. Perfect peace. And perfectly spotted tigers.

One of my intentions over the past few years has been along the lines of “I accept myself as I am and the world as it is. I am at peace with myself as I am and the world as it is.” Embedded somewhere in this intention is the idea of taking myself less seriously, accepting my imperfections, and coming to terms with my shortcomings.

In a yoga nidra certification training several years ago, my teacher shared a message with me…in front of our whole group. We had just finished a learning module and during discussion I made some “profound” remark that got lots of head nods and affirmative vocalizations from the rest of the group.

I was near the back of the group, soaking up the attention, and my teacher was sitting in front of us all.

Smiling broadly and gazing at me, he said, “Dave, you know I love you.” Bigger smile. Warmth. Care.

I nodded my head. Eyes locked on each other. Everyone else’s eyes locked on us.

“Dave, you’re special…….But you’re not that special.”

Hahahaha!

We all laughed. Heartily. He held my gaze. He looked at me with love, the kind of love that cares deeply enough to provide course correction for a student who was trying to stand out, to be separate, to be different, to be elevated.

He was getting at the idea that, yes, I am (we are) special and, at the same time, we are not separate.

We are distinct individuals who are also not separate from one another.

Here is when I might write and talk about oceans and waves. You know it. You’ve probably heard it.

But it doesn’t make it any less profound, so, okay, here goes:

Picture yourself standing on an ocean beach, taking in the scene.

Waves rising and crashing and rising and crashing. Over and over and over and over.

Where does a wave come from? Is any wave exactly the same as another wave? When does a wave become a wave? When is a wave separate from the ocean? Where does the wave return? What does the wave become when it returns?

You’re special, but you’re not that special.

You are distinct and unique, but you are not separate.

Kabir says it like this:

“I have been thinking of the difference

between water

and waves on it. Rising,

water’s still water, falling back,

it is water, will you give me a hint

how to tell them apart?

Because someone has made up the word

‘wave,’ do I have to distinguish it

from water?”

I love this idea of connection! I love the thread that ties together distinct-but-not-separate.

But, if you could have been inside of my head and body last night at my daughter’s volleyball tournament, you might have been rightly confused.

To be fair, I’ve come a long way in my relationship with my competitive side. A long way. I no longer throw pool sticks at people when I lose or refuse to go in from recess because my team didn’t have its last at-bat. I no longer put in ridiculous hours of practice and dedication just to prove others wrong. I don’t really spend time fantasizing about beating so and so and using perceived slights as part of my drive to perform. I no longer care as much about what people think and what I think that they think…

I’ve come to see that competition is about relationships and that it requires an agreement and commitment on both sides. An agreement to stay engaged with each other and, at the same time, to try your hardest to accomplish your individual/team goals. Both are necessary. Tennis doesn’t work if we’re both on the same side of the net. And, it doesn’t work if one person leaves/gives up.

You know what it feels like when someone stops competing in a game. It sucks the enjoyment and satisfaction out of the whole experience. We don’t show up to gyms and fields and game nights in our homes if there isn’t an”Other”. We need this “other”. At least, some semblance of it.

Otherwise, it’s like a balloon with holes in it. A rubber band that has been cut in two. A scissor with one blade and handle. A night without day. Up without down.

There has to be tension.

But not too much tension.

Balance.

Distinct, but not separate.

I relish and delight in competition when both parties are doing their best to win and also, at the same time, accepting and appreciating the fact that they are in a relationship with another being (other beings) whose presence and effort in this game actually make it meaningful and possible. This is incredible and fulfilling and connected to the natural order of things that we see in the world.

Ok. So, back to the volleyball tournament.

There I am watching my daughter play and I am experiencing a number of emotions.

Pride. Joy. Excitement.

Until.

Until the other team starts really celebrating, and especially when they celebrate after our team makes a mistake. Over-celebrating.

Some of the girls on the other team seem to be really into this mode and I’m noticing that I am getting quite riled up inside.

I don’t think they were really gloating or taunting, but it triggered the thing in me that I would like to think I have gotten over in my late 40s.

Some part of it is obviously still there.

A little fire, at first. And then I notice I’m creating some stories about these players and their coach and what there parents must be like and how they’re like this because they’re kids from the suburbs whose community supports such and such political position and how that political position is ruining our country and turning people into haters and gloaters and bad sports who need to be beaten here and now in this volleyball game so that they will see that they are wrong and that we are right and we will Win.…

Oh. My. God.

Hahahahahahahahahaha

I notice the monologue happening and just start to laugh.

Distinct. But not separate.

I take a deep breath. Laugh some more.

Haha.

Wow.

Another deep breath.

What a story I was creating about the “Other”. A story in which they are distinct AND separate. They are not me. They are not us. They are them. Them. Them. Them.

Others.

It happens so subtly sometimes.

And, if we’re lucky, we have teachers and guides who can help us step behind it all, notice it, laugh at our imperfections, humble ourselves, and then course-correct.

For me, that meant interrupting the story last night. Deep, deep breath. Noticing my body’s response. Moving my body into a neutral position. Signaling to my nervous system that all is well. Zooming out and seeing both teams at the same time. Zooming out and seeing both sides of parents at the same time.

Re-engaging the pre-frontal cortex.

Distinct. But not separate.

In a battle, but sharing many of the same goals.

On different sides of the net, but dependent on each other to create meaning out of this moment, out of this time, out of this season.

Lucky and blessed to have each other so that we can be the necessary tension for growth and development for one another.

Distinct and wonderful in our distinction, but not separate.

Isn’t that just oh, so good?!

“I have been thinking of the difference

between water

and waves on it. Rising,

water’s still water, falling back,

it is water, will you give me a hint

how to tell them apart?”

I forgot about this part when I began this new project of writing and publishing each day. 

The first time I was aware of what we might call the ever-present-constantly-talking narrator, I was in my pre-teens and on a long-haul trip with my uncle Mike, an audiobook-loving truck driver affectionately known as “Tigger.” I had never listened to an audiobook before and as we made our way across hundreds of miles of landscape, I found incredible delight in being enraptured by All Creatures Great and Small by James Herriott.  

I also noticed that something quite strange was happening. 

At some time after the third or fourth hour of listening, I noticed a voice in my head.

It wasn’t a voice I was familiar with.

It was the narrator’s voice from James Herriott’s audiobook!

Cadence. Accent. Tone. Syntax. Diction. Grammar. 

Not mine.

Not mine, but this voice was now narrating everything and I was watching and listening. In awe.  I remember observing this all as if I were in some kind of wonderful dream. A new friend had come to visit me and he was showing me the world from a whole new perspective. 

After awhile, awe slowly turned into awful. “Okay, that’s enough. I’d like to get back to experiencing life without constant narration. Can you leave me alone? Do you really need to keep talking while I’m going to the bathroom? Eating? Sleeping? Can I shut you off? Where is the switch?”

Since then, many voices have visited and taken part in narrating life as they/we/I see it. And  I have learned to be somewhat discerning about what I let in the doors of my senses by way of literature, film, art, and the company I keep  because I am not always a huge fan of the narrators.

Something about hearing other narrators really turns up the volume on my own inner narrator who is also quite the chameleon - or maybe parrot is a better reference - and thinks it’s fun to take on the voice of whatever and whoever I have been present with.

Which brings me to this morning. And the voice that got all activated and excited and observant and reflective as soon as it found out about this writing project. Throughout the night, in the places between fully awake and dreamless sleep, this voice was expounding upon, deliberating with, connecting to, and giving lengthy exposition about every thought, breath, movement, and moment. Mix in the narrative styles of several movies I watched last night, and it has been quite a scene in here! 

Story upon story upon story.

To be honest, when I awoke at 4 a.m. this morning, I realized that I had also awakened something else and that this challenge may be more difficult than the ice baths. The last time I was this engaged with this uber-narrator-friend, it wore me out and I just stopped telling and writing stories altogether. I got so caught up and lost in the stories that I began feeling like I was only half-present in life…that life was just story fodder and that if it couldn’t be retold and expressed then it might not really matter all that much. 

I realize I’ve gone quite meta here. And that is quite the point. 

The difference at this point in my life, though, is that I know how to relate to the narrator in ways I didn’t before.

I arose from bed this morning, put on my swim trunks for the ice bath, and sat in silence for 10 minutes. 

The narrator was frantically writing it all down and then re-telling it. Yeeesh! I thought. This is going to be fun!

And, it was. I began to breath in and out, feeling the breath. Then I began the mantra: Breathing in, I calm myself; breathing out, I smile. Breathing in, I calm myself; breathing out, I smile.  Over and over. Breathing. Smiling.

Soon. I noticed how quiet it had gotten inside. Very still. 

As soon as I noticed, the narrator came online and said, “Oooooohh! This is such good stuff! I’ve got to write this down so I can share it!”

Hahahahaha! So good. So fun!

I chuckled and then went back to feeling the breath and dissolving into the senses. 

We can’t think and feel at the same time. I learned this as a way to deal with chronic pain in the worst of the TBI years. I’m lucky because I had to practice these practices to stay alive. Here, now, when I am much more regulated and stabilized, these practices are getting honed and used to more fully engage with life as it is as I am. To engage with the narrator as much as I like, and to experience deep spaciousness, rest, quietude, and silence as I come to my senses and follow the breath.

These practices can seem trite from afar. But, up close and from firsthand experience, they are one of the doors into our true nature of unchanging loving awareness in which the ever-changing flow of life arises.

I can enjoy the narrator and I can shift my awareness so that there is just silence.

I can come to my senses. I can get in an ice bath. I can feel and follow my breath. I can move my body and hike and watch a sunrise with people I love. And I can watch the narrator writing and telling stories. 

Some of them, I’ll listen to and maybe write down and tell you.