I started feeling “off” at the beginning of April, experiencing queasiness in both my stomach and heart. I soon realized that this is associated with the fact that April is the anniversary month of my traumatic fall two years ago and resulting broken shoulder, coupled with my father’s death four days later and my lingering regret that I couldn’t be with him in his dying days because I was hospitalized having the first of what would be four surgeries to repair my broken shoulder.

I’ve long believed – and have experienced – that anniversaries of significant dates associated with losses live in our body, whether we’re consciously aware of those dates or not. It’s as if our mind and heart know how to tell time. As trauma researcher, Dr. Bessel Van Der Kolk ^[i]has famously said in the title of his book, “the body keeps the score.”

In fact, when I used to lead hospice grief support groups, I would give the participants a one page calendar of months, and have them write down each date they might anticipate having a “grief spike.” It could be a birthday, wedding anniversary, anniversary of death or even something like Super Bowl Sunday. That way, they can prepare when they know a significant anniversary is coming up, with healing rituals, prayers, writing or other healing activities.

Although grief anniversaries can be distressing they can also be a time for introspection and growth. A recent literature review^[ii] notes:

[S]ome authors have also theorized that anniversary reactions may indicate normal reactions to grief unfolding over time. That is, with the understanding that grief may not be linear or time-limited, anniversaries are times that tend to remind the mourner of the lost loved one and invite them to process their grief more fully. If new experiences or appraisals can be associated with the memory, these may even be times of growth or positive change.

Now that I am more aware of the anniversary grief reaction I am currently experiencing, I intend to use it as an opportunity for growth and further healing. I know that some of my trauma still resides in my broken shoulder, which interestingly is on the same plane as my heart chakra. I will give my heart and shoulder extra love, with the intention to release the remaining trauma from my fall that resides there. I will honor my grief for my father’s death with tenderness, and will light a Yahrzheit^[iii] candle that will burn for twenty-four hours on the anniversary of his death. I will work to release more of my anguish and regret that I was unable to be with my dear father as he lay dying. This is still difficult for me, and as I write this, I notice the ache in my heart. I will hold that ache with tenderness and self-compassion, practicing loving-kindness meditations. This is a work in progress and I know I am on the path to healing.

^[i] Van Der Kolk, B. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind and Body in the Healing of Trauma. New York: Penguin Books

^[ii] Larsen, S. (2025). Anniversary Reminders and Other Recurring Trauma Reactions. https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/treat/essentials/anniversary_reactions.asp. Retrieved April 4, 2026.

^[iii] A memorial candle that Jews around the world light to commemorate the anniversary of a loved one’s death. .“Yahrzeit” means “years-time” in Yiddish

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I blow a kiss goodbye

As they wheel him down the hall.

I’m left in a space of not knowing.

I stare at my phone as if it could talk to me

And give me the answer I yearn to hear -

That he will be all right.

I wander aimlessly from bedroom to living room and back again

And fill my time with mindless tasks

As I try to avoid the not-knowing space.

My cat now purrs beside me with knowing sad eyes.

I let go, feeling her loving warmth and relax into open spaciousness -

Where everything is possible.

A friend recently asked me if I believe that we have free will. My response was “yes, but not yet.” So, if not yet, when? I believe it will be when we fully discover the true nature of our mind through the paths of meditation, contemplation and analysis. The Buddha said that we can attain enlightenment as he did, and be fully free through walking these paths and living them in our daily lives.

We come into this samsaric world with certain predispositions based on our genetics and environment – nature and nurture. We then develop habitual tendencies that become ingrained. In addition, from the viewpoint of reincarnation, we are born with the “karmic seeds” of the chronic predispositions that we have not extinguished through walking on and practicing what Buddha called The Noble Eightfold Path of wisdom, ethical conduct and mental discipline.

The karmic seeds and predispositions that have not been extinguished remain in what is called the “storehouse consciousness.” This is similar to Freud’s concept of the unconscious, where we act out in unhealthy or unbeneficial ways due to unconscious tendencies that have not been brought into the light of day.

The path to freedom/enlightenment includes working with these predispositions, through (1) becoming aware of them with eyes wide open, (2) working with them as they arise in our daily lives, (3) contemplating our habitual responses and gaining some insight and compassion about them, and (4) letting them go as we walk the Noble Eightfold Path.

Enlightenment is about letting go, one by one, of what we hold on to, including those predispositions and karmic seeds, especially our good old ego. It’s not a linear process, but a “long and winding road.” It’s a path with many obstacles, resulting from years of conditioning, resistance to change, deeply ingrained habitual tendencies and the defenses that keep them in place, and the stories we tell ourselves.

The good news is that our true nature of mind, our Buddha Nature and true freedom is always there, hiding under our habits and predispositions. It’s like the sun obscured by clouds. The sun is always there, even when it’s cloudy. As Buddhist scholar Alan Wallace has noted:

The basic idea in Buddhism is that by cultivating the mind,

we causally move toward greater freedom, liberation,

awakening, and one day in the future we will become buddhas.

The underlying premise is that every sentient being has the capacity

to be perfectly enlightened, every sentient being has the capacity to be free,

liberated from suffering and its causes.^[a]

The first step, as noted above, is becoming aware of our tendencies. For example, until I started meditating regularly, my chronic propensities, such as perfectionism and self-denigration, were simply a background noise. After becoming aware of these propensities through meditation, I was able to work with them and gain some insight and compassion about where they came from. It’s still a work in progress and I have a long way to go to be free of them, but I’m on the road to get there.

^[a] B. Alan Wallace, “Achieving Free Will: A Buddhist Perspective.” Mandala Magazine. January-March 2009. pp. 55-58.

“The worst enemy we have is our own fear.” That was the message on my Yogi teabag recently. What does this mean? I’ve been contemplating this question ever since receiving the message.

The Buddha taught in the Four Noble Truths that the cause of our suffering is fear. We fear losing or not attaining something we cherish, or fear getting something we don’t want. It’s all wrapped up in ego, which we cling to fearfully for dear life, trying to avoid at all cost life’s uncertainties and futilely trying to control them. As renowned Buddhist teacher Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche famously said:

“The bad news is, you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is, there’s no ground”.

Our futile quest for something solid to hold on to creates our suffering. Our egos can’t handle uncertainty and the groundless and impermanent nature of all phenomena (including our egos), and we act out in myriad unhealthy and unbeneficial ways, life, trying to control the uncontrollable.

Generally speaking, fear is usually the result of stories we’re telling ourselves about who we are, or about something that may or may not happen in the future. This is certainly true for me, as I navigate the uncertainties of aging, and the uncertainties of everyday life. As I contemplated the teabag’s message, I realized that reactions to fear are similar to reactions to trauma but may be more subtle – We either freeze, flee or fight. Even when fear is a reasonable initial reaction to something that arises, staying in a state of fear saps our aliveness and autonomy.

Contemplating the message on the teabag gave me an opportunity to examine how fear plays out in my own life. A recurring habitual tendency of mine is trying to look “perfect “to others in order to gain their approval, and trying to hide my human flaws or mistakes. I experience fear feel when I feel judged or seen as flawed (and who isn’t?!?) by others. I fear being rejected. I freeze or hide, or I panic and fight. That panic feels frantic, as I try to cover up what I perceive as an imperfection, cover up mistakes rather than take responsibility and correct them, or defend myself even if that defense is unjustified.

When I realize that these fears are the result of stories I’ve repeatedly told myself, I can let it go and relax. When I let go of my fear, I can see my reactions more clearly and respond more authentically. I can let down my sword and be honest. I can let go and relax into self-compassion and groundless spaciousness.

It has been almost a week since my fourth (yes, fourth) surgery to repair my broken humerus. Although I have moments of intense pain, I was pleased to discover that the ordeal of surgery and pain has not affected my good spirits. This is a far cry from my reactions after my previous surgeries, and I’m grateful.

I attribute this difference to all the healing work, Buddhist practice and all that I have learned in the last nineteen months since my traumatic fall, as well as the loving and compassionate support of my husband, family, friends and of course, my cat Alison. As soon as I notice the l urge to go into my head and judge or resist the pain, I return to my body. I breathe luminous blue light into the pain, and visualize the healing blue light filling my body, and then sending it out to heal all sentient beings. This is a sure-fire way to nip self-pity in the bud.

Through my practice and study of the Buddhadharma and Buddhist psychology, I have learned and experienced that our bodies hold our wisdom. So, I turn my attention to other felt senses when I’m jolted by a moment of intense stabbing pain. I don’t resist the pain, but feel it and then turn my attention to another sensation.

For example, if I’m eating an apple, I focus on the deliciousness of the apple, and feel gratitude for all that it took for that apple to get from a seed to my plate. Or, I take a short walk, appreciating the earth under my feet, the season slowly shifting from autumn to winter and the exquisite impermanence of each moment. Alison purring sweetly beside me as I pet her soft fur is good medicine too.

Music has always been a healing force in my life. Even as a child, I loved to dance around the living room, and moving my body to music always helps. Last night, as I was swept by a moment of sharp stabbing pain, I put on a favorite - Emmylou Harris‘ version of “Goodbye” written by Steve Earle. I listened to the melding of the musical instruments and rhythms with Emmylou’s ethereal voice, and allowed my body to sway and dance gently to the music, turning my focus from the pain to the sounds of the music and the pulsations in my body and my breath as I moved. The pain was there, but it didn’t overwhelm me. I felt joyous and alive.

My body tells me that there is ultimately no difference between sensations of pain and sensations of joy. It’s a question of staying present. Each moment – whether a pleasant or unpleasant one, happens in the present moment, moment to moment: Let it come. Take a breath. Feel it. Let it go.

As the time for another surgery to repair my broken humerus draws closer, memories of the past and anticipation of the future have been surging and colliding. Memories and images of my fall keep popping up, as well as worries about the surgery itself and what my recovery will look like.

It has been quite a ride, and I can use this time as an opportunity to let go of hope and fear, and return to the present moment. It’s time for the rubber to meet the road of all that I have learned in this past eighteen months.

As a result of my longtime Buddhist practice and leaning into my experience as an opportunity for healing and growth, I know that thoughts of the past and future are mere illusions. Being in my body, and not my head, is the key for me. When memories of the past come up, I can allow myself to feel them in the present moment. I can then more easily let them go.

And, in getting out of my head and into my body, I can also let go of self-pity, and instead, see this time as a time of transition, a “bardo” between pre-surgery and healing. William Bridges, in his book Transitions: Making Sense of Life’s Changes, calls this time the neutral zone, a time between endings and new beginnings. It is a fertile period of not-knowing, a time of reflection and contemplating one’s values and understanding what is important, and how we want our new beginning to be. That is my aspiration for this time of anticipation.

Anticipation

Thoughts of the past and future,

Hope and fear and all the rest.

Let them come, feel them, let them go.

It’s really that simple.

As a Buddhist psychotherapist, I have found that anger, when fully processed, subsides and transforms into fear or sadness or results in insight leading to compassion for self and other. The murder of Charlie Kirk and its equally horrific aftermath has provided an opportunity for me to work with my anger to further my progress on the Buddhist path.

As author, poet and Buddhist teacher Stephen Levine, eloquently said^[i]:

The investigation of anger…leads us directly to the love beneath, to our underlying nature. When we bring anger into the area where we can respond to it, where we can investigate it, where we can embrace it, it emerges into the light of our wholeness….Then anger is no longer a hindrance, but a profound teacher.

As I process my anger about the divisive and deceitful nature of the discourse following the murder of Charlie Kirk, I am experiencing fear, sadness, and also grief. I grieve for what my country once stood for. The black and white thinking that this administration encourages – us vs. them – is so toxic. I am clearly in the “them” camp, and feel disenfranchised by those who are supposed to represent me and all residents of the United States.

As an “an aspiring bodhisattva,” I try to have compassion for all beings, and wish them to be free of suffering. I must admit that it has become increasingly difficult for me to have compassion for Donald Trump. It is easier and less vulnerable to lash out in anger, rather than truly experience deep fear and sadness.

As I investigate my anger and try to have some understanding about Trump’s behavior, I see a scared little boy behind Trump’s tough guy façade. I can have compassion for that scared little boy. Sometimes Trump’s eyes seem eerily empty, a reflection of a person who has been called “an existence without a soul.”^[ii] Trump’s mother has been described as emotionally distant and frequently absent. His father has been described as a tyrant. I can imagine Trump’s father tauntingly calling his son a loser and telling him never to admit defeat. Dr. Justin Frank notes:

One of the things that you do when you’re feeling ignored and abandoned in some way is develop contempt for that part of yourself. You have the hatred of your own weakness and you then become a bully and make other people feel weak, or mock other people to make it clear that you’re the strong one and that you don’t have any needs.^[iii]

And then there are the enablers of Trump’s actions and those who support him. They too are driven by fear – fear of being bullied by Trump, fear of losing power, fear of the “other”, fear that the beliefs around which they built their lives will be shattered, fear of the ambiguous grays between the black and white. Compassion for all of these folks is a big challenge for me at present. I just have to keep looking at my experience and, with the ground of the dharma and my Buddhist practice, see where the path leads me.

^[i] Stephen Levine (1987). Healing into Life and Death. New York: Doubleday, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

^[ii] Dan McAdams (June 2016). “The Mind of Donald Trump.” The Atlantic, quoting Mark Singer, who interviewed Trump for a profile published as “Trump Solo” in The New Yorker (May 19, 1997).

^[iii] David Smith. (September 29, 2018). “Mommy Dearest: A Psychiatrist Puts Trump on the Couch.” The Guardian.

Lisa and I saw each other weekly for months during the clinical trial, and we became quite close. Because she was so upset, I immediately started consoling her, since putting others first as is my tendency.

That night, I couldn’t sleep, berating myself for my behavior back in the day. So, I called Lisa the next morning, and said, “wait a minute – I’m the patient here, and it’s your turn to console me. It’s all my fault for being such a bad girl in my terrible 20s.” Lisa immediately countered with “No, Beth. Those days helped make you the vibrant person you are today.”

It was the mid-1970s in New York City, urban decay on full display, especially in the summer. Gritty, dirty, putrid and so alive at the same time. The infamous New York Daily News headline – “Ford to New York City: Drop Dead”, as President Ford refused to bail the city out as it teetered on the brink of bankruptcy. Stifling heat and humidity topped off by a garbage strike, with the aroma of waste in the air, and the smelly and steamy old subways I took to work every day.

And in the midst of all of this decay was an improbable oasis on The Bowery, right next door to a flophouse – CBGB, the birthplace of the New York punk rock scene. I read so much about it in the Village Voice and Soho Weekly News. The bands – with names like Television, Talking Heads, Ramones, Blondie and more – sounded intriguing, a far cry from the folk and pop music I l tended to listen to. My curiosity piqued, I decided to check it out.

Outside CBGB, the punk rockers and wannabe punks from the outer boroughs and New Jersey mingled with the drunk denizens of the flophouse. CBGB looked pretty nondescript from the outside. A white stucco building with two dingy windows separated by a narrow door, and a white awning. Unassuming from the outside, and something entirely new on the inside.

My first time at CBGB was an awakening of something that was dormant inside me. I was such a good girl, always looking to my parents for approval and losing myself in the process. I walked in, with my short hair, tight black jeans, white tee shirt and white Keds sneakers, and sunglasses even though it was night, emulating Patti Smith whose androgenous sexuality was a magnet for many of us. The smell of beer, floors sticky from spilt beer and who knows what else, neon signs over the bar, and the best sound system anywhere. The Ramones were playing. Loud, thumping and totally alive. I was transported, and I woke up from my good girl dream as a nice Jewish girl from Long Island.

By day, I was a paralegal at a prestigious Park Avenue law firm, and transformed into a punk rock chick at night – kind of like Cinderella in reverse. My prince charming was the lead guitarist from a band named Jack Ruby, which was described by a record company exec who heard their demo as “The Velvet Underground in a car crash”. Chris was extremely tall and skinny, with a wild mane of hair. Jack Ruby’s music was raw and brutal, but Chris was sweet and so smart. He taught me so much about music, and I parlayed that knowledge into my career in the music business.

Chris would come to my apartment late at night, after his job at Colony Records, the legendary record store for connoisseurs on the outskirts of Times Square. I’d wake up from my slumber and, after talking about our day, and the characters Chris met at Colony, we’d start playing records, going from one track to another based on whatever association made sense in the moment. Chris loved all kinds of music, from the Velvet Underground and the Stooges to Brian Eno to ABBA and the Captain & Tenille. We’d eventually fall asleep, and in the morning find LPs strewn all around us. Of course, Chris wasn’t the prince charming my parents had in mind for me, and they never met him. We eventually drifted apart, but what I learned from him has stayed with me to this day.

Happily, my liver is now clean and healthy. And, what I experienced in my CBGB days does inform the person I am today, as Nurse Lisa said. I look in the mirror and see new lines on my face, marking my experiences in life. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

A boat reflecting in the water. What is real – The boat? The reflection? Both? Neither?

I was recently talking to one of my meditation students about the Buddhist concept of emptiness. We both decided that “spaciousness” is a better translation of shunyata, the Sanskrit word we usually translate as emptiness.

Spaciousness – the boat, the reflection, the water, the sky. I can let it take me anywhere I want. That’s the good news about emptiness or spaciousness – It makes everything possible.

The boat transforms into a magic carpet of rich brocade. I ride it across the sky, seeing suffering and also joy as I float from place to place. There is kindness everywhere. I spread beautiful flowers with brilliant colors and beautiful perfume as I travel, from continent to continent. Love abounds and overcomes suffering.

I then steer my magic carpet back to the boat. It lands gently on the deck. The captain asks me where I want to go. I tell him that I want to go home. He tells me I am already there.

After six weeks in a sling post-surgery, I was shocked to find out how weak I am. I just started physical therapy, and exercises that had been easy are now nearly impossible. Despite everything I learned on my “journey through calamity”, my shock gave way to despair after experiencing considerable pain this morning trying to do the exercises at home.

As my emotional disturbance started to subside, I was able to accept that this is my present reality. The word that came to mind as I worked through my process from shock to despair to acceptance is “equanimity.” In the Buddhist Mahayana teachings, equanimity is one of the “four immeasurables” or “sublime attitudes”, along with lovingkindness, compassion and sympathetic joy. Renowned Buddhist teacher Sharon Salzberg calls equanimity “the secret ingredient in mindfulness”:

Mindfulness means a capacity or quality of awareness where our perception of what’s happening in the moment is not distorted by bias, old fears, projection into the future, anything that may arise, holding on, or pushing away. The quality of awareness for true mindfulness needs to have balance. So in that context, equanimity means the balance that leads to wisdom. It’s only through mindfulness, with its secret component of equanimity, that we have the right relationship to our experience to see more deeply into it, to understand it more fully, and to develop insight.^[i]

As I accept my situation, simply as it is, it becomes more workable. Accepting my current limitations with compassion and equanimity, I can chart a course forward, moment by moment. For example, after relying on my partner and friends for transportation for six weeks post-surgery, I can now drive short distances. I also know that I cannot drive longer distances at present without pain and fatigue. It’s just what is. I also know that I’m not ready to do particular rehab exercises - that will come later.

Salzberg speaks of mindfulness as not distorting the present moment with “bias, old fears [or] projections into the future.” I was definitely caught in distorting the present moment. I got hooked by my old habit of being impatient and unkind with myself and started projecting with fear into the future. So, instead of simply acknowledging my limits when I exercised this morning, I tried too hard, and ended up in more pain than was necessary.

When I’m unkind to myself like this, it’s clear that my equanimity has gone out the window. The good news is that I become aware of it sooner through my long-standing mindfulness meditation practice. My practice has resulted in greater kindness to myself. I’m able to quickly notice my negative self-talk, and can let those thoughts go, like leaves floating down a stream. I aspire to continually remember the secret ingredient – the secret sauce – of equanimity as I move forward on my path.

^[i] S. Salzberg, “Understanding Equanimity: The Secret Ingredient in Mindfulness.” Tricycle Magazine, Jan. 2, 2024

I have been particularly out of sorts recently. What I am experiencing is a “grief spike” or “grief spasm”. As a grief counselor, I know that grief spikes are pretty universal, and just naming, validating and normalizing it can be helpful. Knowing that what I’m experiencing is normal helps me relax, and knowing that we all go through this in one way or another helps me feel less alone.

Grief spikes often happen around birthdays, holidays, and other significant days. Even the Super Bowl can result in a grief spike, if that day was meaningful to someone and their loved one. In fact, I suggested to my bereaved clients that they keep a calendar marking dates were significant for them. My clients could then prepare for that day in advance, perhaps with some kind of ritual or remembrance, so that they’re not caught off-guard if the day just sneaks up on them.

My father's birthday is coming up, the first since my dad’s death. At this time last year, I was planning what to get my father for his birthday and sending him a birthday card that expressed my love and appreciation for him. I will now have to find another way to remember and honor my father.

My current grief is exacerbated by other losses in my life. This is called “cumulative grief.” For example, I am still navigating retirement and leaving a job where I was giving of my skills and experience to benefit others. I started volunteering with a local hospice after my retirement, knowing it was something I wanted to return to as part of my retirement. This has unfortunately had to be put on hold as I recover from my latest surgery. I have had to pull back from other meaningful activities as well as I recuperate, declining invitations for events that I was looking forward to.

The good news is that now that I’ve named what I’m feeling a grief spike and cumulative grief, I can work with it, using all the tools in my big toolbox. The other great good news is that I know this is impermanent and will change, as my Buddhist study and meditation experience make clear. As I write this, I can feel the ebb and flow of my grief in the present moment. It is ephemeral and always changing, and this current spike will pass.

“Get this damn thing out of my arm!“ I exclaim when the pain in my shoulder grabs my attention. A four inch plate and twelve screws have held my fragile bones and tendons in place so that they could heal. It feels like there’s a metal alien inside me. I suppose I could be grateful toward this alien that looks like some kind of mutant spider, instead of being so annoyed with it and letting it get the best of me.

The good news is that I will kissing my alien goodbye in a few weeks. My shoulder is well healed, except for some pain and limited mobility caused primarily by the plate and screws. So, instead of getting grouchy, impatient and annoyed, I might as well develop a good relationship with my alien for the remainder of its time with me. This will help me envision my upcoming surgery in a positive light.

Naming my alien can help me create some distance so that I’m less angry about it, and more at peace about my upcoming surgery. For some reason, the first name that came to mind is Quasimodo, the hunchback of Notre Dame. Quasimodo may have been ugly and frightening, but he had a kind and compassionate heart. So, whenever I get angry at Quasimodo, I can remember his kindness in helping me heal.

Although I am well along in my healing process, I still have a few remnants of emotional trauma associated with my fall and previous shoulder surgeries. So, I will also use this time to envision that my surgeon will be removing not only Quasimodo, but also any lingering remnants of my trauma. Thank you, Quasimodo, for serving me well. It’s getting to be time to bid you a fond adieu.

Every November, I feel the change of seasons - from the vibrancy of Summer with its sun and flowers, to Autumn, with leaves taking one last glorious gasp in a burst of vivid colors.

The changing of the seasons this year parallels the change of seasons in my own life.  Spring started with promise,  longer days and flowers starting to bloom. The promise of Spring was dashed by a sudden fall out of nowhere, like a sudden Spring rainstorm. Hope returned with the fullness of Summer, my body and mind healing bit by bit.

And now, November. The pain has returned with the damp gray days, reminding me of my body’s new limits. My retirement marks an ending, and also an opening to a new beginning. I will give as much as I can, like the Autumn leaves giving us their vivid colors until it’s time to let go, abiding in the stillness of Winter.

I had been contemplating for quite a while whether or not to fully retire.   This is something I resisted for a long time, despite my age and health, as so much of my identity has been wrapped up with my job.  I have finally accepted that it is time.

My job as a clinical supervisor for crisis workers at CAHOOTS, Eugene‘s mobile crisis alternative to the police, has brought me great satisfaction and a sense that I was contributing to my community in a meaningful way. Nonetheless, like any job, there were pressures that come with working for and with others. It is simply not the right time of my life to continue to endure those pressures.

My favorite book on life transitions is Transitions:  Making Sense of Life’s Changes, by William Bridges.  Bridges calls the stage I’m now in the “neutral zone” – that space between an ending and a new beginning.  Because the groundless and uncertain space of the neutral zone can be uncomfortable, we tend jump into a new beginning without really considering what we want going forward.   As Bridges explains (p. 112):

One of the difficulties of being in transition in the modern world is that we have lost our appreciation for this gap in the continuity of existence.  For us, emptiness represents only the absence of something.  So, when the something is as important as relatedness and purpose and reality, we try to find ways of replacing those missing elements as quickly as possible.

So, my goal is to spend some time to slow down, letting myself be a human “being” rather than a human “doing”.  I can call on the experience I had while recuperating from my surgeries this year, when I had no choice but to be and not do, and remember how that experience felt in my body.  I can allow myself to take time to experience my feelings around the ending of my career.  And, I can take time to mindfully contemplate how I want to continue to share what I’ve learned from my rich experiences in life in my new beginning.

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I recently remarked to a friend that I am not the same person I was before my fall and my father‘s death. I am confronted with daily reminders of the changes in my life and identity – my limited range of motion, pain when I  move certain ways, seeing my surgical scar in the mirror.  Who am I now?

I have observed that I sometimes cling to my grief and pain, thinking it’s who I am now.  I  forget that I’m so much more than that.  When I let go of that clinging, I can see all  that I have learned so much in my journey through calamity.  When I look back to where I was five months ago and where I am now, I am proud of how much strength I have gained, both physically and emotionally.

Although I have moments when I think that my pain will never go away, I remember that everything is impermanent.  This process has also taught me to be more gentle and patient with myself.  As someone who has tended to be impatient and hard on myself, this has been an important teaching. As I become kinder and more compassionate toward myself, my heart has opened, and  I am more empathetic to the suffering of others. 

As I wrote earlier, one of the Buddha’s first teachings is that clinging to a solid sense of self is the cause of our suffering.  We often cling to what is familiar and who we think we are out of fear.  We are afraid of letting go into the groundlessness of not knowing. 

I’ve learned that I can only grow through courageously accepting not knowing.  Being in the groundless open space creates new possibilities for me me continue to heal, learn and grow. Clinging to who I think I am will only result in my staying stuck, with no possibilities for growth and healing.  When I remember that who I am is changing moment by moment, I am left with open spaciousness. Here’s a poem I recently wrote while contemplating my surgical scar:

My Scar

A four inch scar reminds me daily of my fall.

At first, it was tender and raw

Much like my emotions –

Shock and despair giving way to fear,

Then grief, sadness and understanding.

Weeks of incapacity, being not doing

Time to reflect.

Learning patience, acceptance, vulnerability.

Remembering impermanence.

The daily routines that grounded me were pulled out from under me.

I had given up my power.

My power is slowly returning.

I am a warrior determined to heal.

Patience becomes impatience until I remember

And return to patience and compassion.

My scar can bring tears of grief for all I have lost,

As well as appreciation for all I have gained.

Who am I now?

After reading my friend’s post, I realized that I have taken been taking myself far too seriously during this journey through calamity. I have let my broken arm become my identity, and tend to forget that I am so much more. Although it will take energy and attention to recover and heal from my injury,  there’s a lot more to my life than my arm.  Maintaining my sense of humor will be a big help as I continue to heal. 

A sense of humor can bring perspective to the most dire situations and enhance our compassion and self-compassion.  For example, the hospice team meetings I attended in my work as a hospice bereavement counselor were sometimes filled with laughter. We sometimes found it really funny, for example,  that so many of our conversations were about our patients’ poop. Our shared sense of humor and perspective created greater appreciation for our work and for our patients as being so much more than their illnesses and diagnoses. 

Maintaining a sense of humor has enriched my appreciation for everything around me and has opened my heart to feeling both joy and sadness, The direct experience of joy and sadness, without the overlay of concepts, makes me feel alive and connected to others, and the sense of perspective that accompanies those emotions prevents me from sinking into isolation, despair and self-pity. 

A guided pain meditation I recently discovered by Deepak Chopra has helped me keep my sense of humor and perspective.  In this meditation, Chopra instructs us to first bring our attention to an area of painful sensation in the body, and then bring our attention to the rest of the body.  Chopra calls the painful sensations an island, and the rest of the body is the ocean of awareness. The more that we let ourselves be with our ocean of awareness, the island of sensation grows smaller and less significant.

This will continue to be a perfect visualization as I continue to heal.  I am the ocean of awareness, and my painful sensations, emotions and thoughts are like ships sailing through that ocean. They come and go and are not who I truly am. I am not my arm.

I know that when I am fully present, there is no past nor future. Nonetheless, I find myself repeatedly going over the events leading to, and after my traumatic fall. I also find myself worrying about the future: will I need another surgery? Will I ever regain more function and less pain?  Although I know that these thoughts of the past and future are futile, it has been a challenge to let them go and be in the present moment. Feeling what arises in my body and breathing into that, rather than being lost in my thoughts, is key for me to come back to the present moment.

Reflecting on the trauma work I have been doing, with the support of a gifted therapist, I understand, with self-compassion, that it would have been impossible for me to stay in each present moment when I was still in the throes of PTSD:  When images of my fall and everything that ensued thereafter arose, I was thrown back to the past and relived the pain of what I experienced then. Now that time has passed and I have made considerable progress in recovering from my trauma, when those images come up, I can feel them in the present moment, breathe into them and let them go. What a gift!

Thoughts about the future have been challenging as well.  Being in this space of not knowing if I will need another surgery is not easy.  I could ruminate about that until the cows come home, but that doesn’t help at all. As the Dalai Lama has said, “If a problem is fixable, if a situation is such that you can do something about it, then there is no need to worry. If it's not fixable, then there is no help in worrying. There is no benefit in worrying whatsoever.”  Remembering these wise words, I can allow myself to feel the trepidation and fear arising in my body with compassion, and not get caught in an endless cycle of worry and rumination. Those thoughts about the future then dissolve into spaciousness.

Buddhist teachings often talk about going beyond hope and fear.  Doing so requires allowing ourselves to be in a state of not knowing, of groundlessness, moment by moment.  Author and inspirational leadership consultant Margaret Wheatley has described this beautifully:

All fear (and hope) arises from looking backward or forward. The present moment is the only place of clear seeing unclouded by hope or fear….Of course, trying to be present when everything around you is crashing down is not easy….Yet only in the present moment, free from hope and fear, do we receive the gifts of clarity and resolve. (M. Wheatley, “Beyond Hope and Fear”, Lions Roar, February 2009).

The present is indeed the gift.

I have found myself reverting to old patterns of unkindness toward myself lately. I’m full of “shoulds:  I should be able to do more with my broken shoulder; I should have been with my father when he died; I shouldn’t still be in pain…And on and on.  I thought that I had let go of my inner critic through therapy and meditation, but alas, it has reared its head again. It’s time for me to remember to use the tools I’ve developed to let go of my self-criticism and return to self-compassion and kindness.

 When I began my meditation practice decades ago, I became painfully aware of my critical voice. I realized that the voice wasn’t me, and was able to create space between myself and the inner critic so that it became workable.  In fact, I decided to name my inner critic “Bertha.”  Instead of resisting Bertha, I befriended her, listening to her voice as a wake-up call to be kind and gentle with myself.  I know Bertha was trying to protect me, but couldn’t do so kindly and skillfully. 

 In the process of letting go of all the “shoulds” on my journey through calamity,  I have come to realize that Bertha has been trying to protect me from feeling intense grief about my current limitations due to my broken shoulder, coupled with my grief about my father’s death and not being able to be with him as he passed. I can thank Bertha for trying to protect me from my grief and let her know that feeling my grief is necessary on my path of healing. 

I’m starting to use the tools I already have in my toolbox to once again befriend my inner critic and let go of all the “shoulds”.   As a result, I can safely feel my grief and sadness again, without the overlay of that critical voice.  My self-compassion and kindness toward myself is starting to return, little by little.

I’ve learned how to work with my longtime chronic pain mindfully, but working with this acute traumatic pain is far different. I have been working successfully, with the support of a trauma therapist,  to unravel my traumatic fall at the airport from my grief over my father’s death.  I now need to unravel my physical pain from my thoughts and emotions about it.

There is a direct correlation between my physical pain and my emotional pain.  When my physical pain is particularly intense, my emotional pain increases.  It usually manifests as fear and anxiety: Will I ever be able to fully use my arm again? Will my pain be with me forever? Will I need another surgery? Will I ever be able to do yoga and Pilates again? And on and on.

My journey through calamity toward healing includes calm abiding and mindfulness meditation -- on and off the cushion.  This involves returning to the present moment when thoughts arise,  knowing them to be insubstantial and fleeting, like leaves floating down a stream. Letting go into the present moment  includes feeling my breath and directly experiencing the sensations of pain in my body simply as energy, with nothing added. 

Zen teacher Shinzen Young has said “Pain plus resistance equals suffering”.  I try to remember and work with this as well.  My anxious and fearful thoughts are the resistance that causes me to suffer.  When I let those thoughts go, I can experience my pain simply as it is.  As the well-worn adage says, “Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.”

Using Shinzen Young’s teaching, the direct experience of pain is the focus of my meditation. For example, I might feel the sensation of burning or throbbing in the location of my pain.   As thoughts and judgments arise, I notice them lightly and return to the direct experience of pain. When I work with my pain in this way, I am fully in the present moment. My thoughts, judgments and resistance are gone, and so is the suffering that I’ve added to the pain with those thoughts, judgments and resistance. I also notice that the pain is impermanent -- it is ever shifting and changing.

Separating my current traumatic pain from my myriad thoughts and attendant suffering is much different than working with chronic pain. It’s a work in progress, especially when the pain is most acute.  I am determined to use these meditation and contemplation tools as part of my healing on my “journey through calamity.”