or there was nowhere else to go

             I stood in line at an Asian café, trying to make sense of the pictures and the characters on the menu board behind the counter.  Ahead of me, two women discussed their own selections in a language I had never heard before.  Its cadence and inflection was like nothing else and the words were completely unfamiliar.  When it was their turn to order, one woman translated for the other to the woman taking their order from behind the register.

            “Where are you from?” The woman behind the register asked when she heard the unfamiliar words.

            “Bermuda,” the translator replied.

            Bermuda?  I thought to myself.  As in the Bermuda Triangle? I didn’t know it had such a unique language.  I wracked my brain; searching all of my files to see what information I had on Bermuda.  Not much.  Strange.

            Soon it was my turn to order and I still had not figured out what was on the menu.  There was a picture of a noodle dish on the menu board.  Anything will work.  “Do you have something like Pad Thai?”

            The woman behind the register gave me a questioning look and opened up a notebook with everything they had to offer.  “Um, we don’t have that, but we have other noodle dishes.”  She showed me the list of noodle dishes, written in the same foreign characters.  It wasn’t Mandarin, Korean, or Japanese.  It was definitely not Thai, or Russian for that matter.

            Eventually I just pointed to something and hoped it would taste good.  As I waited for my tray of food, I looked around at the tables.  Every seat seemed to be taken.  Either the food was that good or there was nowhere else to go.

            When my food was ready, it looked fine, and I was hungry.  I weaved my way through the crowd and found one empty chair at a table where five people already sat.  I asked if it would be all right if I joined them and they looked at me vacantly for a moment and shrugged.  I took it as a yes, and settled down at their table.

            They were an odd bunch, I realized on closer examination.  There were three men and two women, grouped into pairs, with an odd man out.  Each of the couples fawned over one another and occasionally looked at everyone else around them in disgust.  The third man seemed to be their friend, exchanging a few words here and there, but he was not enjoying himself.  He was handsome, but not overly so.  He had a full head of brown hair, cut short, but not so short that it was a buzz cut.  He had sharp jaw-line and healthy physique, brown eyes brooding, but also kind.

            Suddenly the two couples turned to look at me.  About to take a bite, I lowered my fork and sat back, guarding myself.  In their eyes, all I could see was hatred. They reached out to me, as if to grab me, one holding a knife.  I have done nothing to these people.  They inched toward me with an evil purpose, eyes and intention unwavering.

            I slowly slid my chair back across the tile floor, looking around for an ally.  My eyes met those of the third man and he motioned for me to come with him.  Summoning up all of my strength and courage, I broke through the wall of evil and followed him out the door.

            It was dark outside, the stars and moon blocked by a blanket of clouds.  No light escaped the windows of the Asian café.  When did it become night?  How long was inside?  I had just gone there for lunch.  I shook my head, trying to straighten out my thoughts; nothing made any sense.

            “Thank you for saving me in there,” I offered.  “I have no idea what just happened.”

            Giving no explanation, the man put an arm around me and stared into the night.  I rested my head on his shoulder.  Having no idea who this man was, I felt safer than I had in a very long time.  We sat on the concrete steps outside the café for a long time.  Although no words were passed between us, I began to gain an understanding of his goodness and of his hopes and desires and his own past pain.

            The next day, I thought about what had happened.  It was all so strange and seemed completely unreal.  I tried to sort out the previous days events.  I went to lunch and there were two women speaking a language that resembled no other language in the world.  The menu was also written in a strange language.  I found a seat at a crowded table when, suddenly, the two couples started to attack me... very slowly.  And their friend saved me. Or was he their friend?  Maybe he was there for the very purpose of saving me.  We sat outside for a while and then he left.  As I continued my attempts to rationalize the events, they made less and less sense.  I have to find that man.

             Running errands around town, I scanned the streets and sidewalks for the man from the day before.  There were a lot of people going about their business; it was a busy day for everyone. 

             I stopped by the library, and the bank, and was heading to the grocery store when I saw him.  He was walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the street.  I stopped to watch him, wondering what I should do.  I wanted to talk to him, to be in his presence, but did he want to see me?  I didn’t know.  If I don’t go over to him now, I might never see him again.  I would never be able to live with myself if that happened.

            Straightening out my shoulders, I walked across the street with decisive intention in every step.  Walking up behind him, I hesitated again, wondering if I should really do this.  He looked ordinary in every way—just another busy person going about his business on a beautiful spring day.  But I knew he wasn't ordinary.  I have to talk to him.  I’m too close.  I reached out and tapped his shoulder.

            As he turned toward me, I smiled nervously.  “Hi,” I said.  “I don’t know if you want to see me, but…”

            Before I could continue, a smile spread across his face, eyes sparkling.  He reached out to me and enveloped me in a warm hug.  “Of course,” he replied.  “Of course I want to see you.”

            I closed my eyes, safe again in his arms.  I felt his warmth, goodness, kindness, and hopes intertwine with my own.

            “I feel as if I am twelve again,” he said to me.  And I understood.

an openhearted, kind awareness of the present moment

            Almost two months ago I started the Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) course at Duke Integrative Medicine.  Over the past year, I have worked with many wonderful health practitioners who have led me to a deeper my understanding of my own inner-workings.  As I gained insight into the connections between emotion, stress, trauma, psychological pain, and bodily pain, my therapist suggested I look into the mindfulness class.  At first, I wasn’t ready to commit to such an exploration, but after a few months went by, I took the plunge.  Mindfulness can be difficult because it goes against everything we have been taught or conditioned to believe.  Instead of pushing ourselves into a bigger and better future, mindfulness cultivates an openhearted, kind awareness of the present moment. 

            Duke’s MBSR class is based on a program created by Dr. Jon Kabat-Zinn, at the University of Massachusetts Medical School.  In 1972, he began conducting research on the mind-body interaction in healing, on clinical applications of mindfulness meditation practice for patience with chronic pain or stress-related disorders, and on the effects of MBSR on the brain and immune system. 

            Stress, especially prolonged periods of stress, can have devastating effects on the body such as elevated levels of glucose and insulin, a weakened immune system, increased blood pressure, and digestive disturbances.  Chronic stress depletes endorphins, the body’s natural painkillers, which can result in more headaches, backaches, and arthritis pain.  If stress goes unmanaged, it is associated with increased illness and mortality.  However, through cultivating the “relaxation response,” as opposed to the flight or fight response, a person allows the body to discharge tension that has built up due to constant stress. 

            Scientific research continues to illuminate the benefits of mindfulness.  Studies have shown that mindfulness can affect the structure and neural patterns of the brain by increasing activity in the left prefrontal cortical region of the brain, where greater activity is associated with increased well being.  Also, mindfulness meditation has the potential to improve immune function and levels of cortisol in breast and prostate cancer outpatients. The eight-week MBSR course has been shown to halve the incidence of relapse in depression in those recovering from a depressive episode.  In addition, the class potentially may increase self-compassion and reduced stress in participating individuals.  Increasingly, mindfulness practices are being integrated into patient health plans.

            Before beginning any mindfulness practice, the “seven essential attitudes” must be understood.  First is non-judging, by which one is an impartial witness to the constant stream of judging and reacting to both inner and outer experiences.  The habits of judging and reacting separate us from directly experiencing each moment of our lives.  When judging arises, don’t judge the judging; just acknowledge that it is present.  Next is patience, allowing things to unfold on their own schedule.  Patience leads us to maintain a stronger connection with each moment as it unfolds.  Third is beginner’s mind—thinking that we understand the present moment keeps us from experiencing its beauty and richness.  To practice beginner’s mind is to experience each moment as if we are experiencing the world for the first time, like a child feeling her first drop of rain.

            Also, as you become more aware of your life, you must learn to trust yourself and your feelings in order to understand what it means to be yourself.  Next, it is important to cultivate a non-striving attitude, to pay attention to whatever happens without striving to change things.  If there is a sense of striving, then notice that it is there, without judging.  In order to achieve your meditative goals, you must paradoxically back away and focus on accepting things as they are.  Next, one must cultivate this acceptance, this willingness to see things exactly as they are in the present moment.  The last “essential attitude” is letting go, or letting be.  Often, we cling to beliefs about ourselves, others, and situations, which obscure the true essence of each moment.  Through mindfulness, we learn to stop focusing on these ideas and just let our experience be what it is.  By becoming aware of the attitudes of non-judging, patience, beginner’s mind, trust, non-striving, acceptance, and letting go, you may already find relief from daily stress.

            Living in such a fast-paced, egocentric society, I think everyone could benefit from Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction—if not to gain insight into their own being, then to reduce their stress and improve their health.  I believe that if everyone practiced mindfulness, the world would be a better, more tolerant and caring, place to be.

one unsteady foot in front of the other

            Sometimes I can’t help but feel completely unsettled.  It feels as if I am missing some key piece of information that would clearly illuminate things.  Then, I would have the answers to the questions that I have been asking all along.  I would no longer feel as if the ground upon which I am walking is shifting beneath my feet, about to open up and swallow me whole.  I tread lightly on these unsettled days, tiptoeing around, so as not to disturb the forces in this world that are balanced just so delicately that I am left to place one unsteady foot in front of the other.

            I lie in bed, morning light washing over the sheets and blankets, keeping my arms and legs and body warm and safe, in a cocoon.  My heartbeat grows stronger and faster, with the engrained memories of my past.  I take deep breaths to calm my rising anxieties and remind myself that this is another day.  This could be the day when things change—when the pain melts away and my strength and energy return and life is sweet and full of humor and possibility….  I roll over onto my side and push myself up.  I commit myself to the day by touching my feet to the floor and accepting the weight of my small but heavy body.  Every day starts the same.

            I have hopes for which I am afraid to hope.  I hope for the ability to go back to school to explore the intricacies and insights of taught knowledge.  I hope for a meaningful career, something that makes sense to me where order can be made, so that I may support myself.  I hope to have money and energy left over so that I may socialize with friends and create art.  I hope for a family of my own—for a loving, supportive, and understanding husband, and bright, happy, optimistic children.  I hope that I can bear those children and raise them to be safe in their own bodies and minds.  I hope for a house with lots of windows through which I can see butterflies, birds, honeybees, and dragonflies, flitting about my flower garden.  I hope for a piece of land to grow fruit and vegetables and to have chickens, enough to live from, with trails leading through a forest by a stream.

            But I am afraid to hope for these hopes.  My body feels drained of energy and strength.  Some days I can walk three miles, while others I can barely walk to the end of the street.  Two years ago I hiked rim-to-rim of the Grand Canyon.  It was a stunningly beautiful and physically draining hike.  But I did it.  Then I hiked fifteen miles through Snake Gulch before beginning a 4,000 mile solo road trip, driving and hiking nearly every day over the course of two weeks.

            Last year I started working and living on a family-owned organic farm.  Up at the crack of dawn, planting, weeding, cultivating, through the height of the day, and falling into bed at the end.  I did that for three months.  Then one night I started burning up and couldn’t sleep and my pain and stress overwhelmed me.  I could hardly get out of bed for two weeks.

            It’s been almost a year since that episode.  I worked a bit at a local coffee shop, but I could hardly do anything else.  My energy waxed and waned and finally I couldn’t serve coffee drinks any more.  I realized that the only thing I could do, which is perhaps the hardest thing for me to do, was to devote my time to understanding why pain and fatigue had taken over my body so that, maybe, one day, I could hope my hopes once more.