Unbecoming Ourselves: Chapter 3
Observation
“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work,”
-Mary Oliver
I should be feeling better than this, now that Alex is home. He feels kind of like an outsider disrupting our routine.
I had been so desperate for him to come home, assuming his return would fix everything; fix all my pain. Instead, we are clashing. We are two helms trying to steer the same ship. I’m used to steering this ship alone now, and I feel agitated by the disruption.
Seeing the look on Jack’s face as his father first walked up to our house brought me to tears. “Daddy,” he said, gently whimpering, his little nose pressed up against the living room window. There was no proof his image of Dad was not just a mirage until we were wrapped in his comforting arms.
After waking from her nap, Everly was surprised by Daddy’s arms reaching for her in her crib. She grinned from ear to ear and her eyes sparkled.
Together again, finally.
The excitement and relief I feel as Alex returns home to us soon disappears. He is home, but he isn’t really here. He is physically here, but he is disconnected. We are outside enjoying the warm sun and gentle, cool breeze. I build a monster truck track in the sandbox, then the kids and I zoom toy trucks over the sandy ramps and obstacles. Everly giggles with the sweetest little voice and I look to Alex to acknowledge the tenderness of the moment, but he is gone behind his eyes. They are open, but they are not seeing.
“Where are you?,” I implore him.
He’s replaying another traumatic COVID death at work. He’s retracing his steps, asking himself if he did everything right in the resuscitation. He’s worrying about the family, how they will reconcile the loss of their father, their partner, their son. He’s angry at the owner of the meatpacking plant in Greeley that continued normal operation against public health guidance, leading to overcrowding in local ICU’s with multiple COVID patients.
I feel bad seeing how this is affecting him, but I also feel angry and resentful. I have so much pent up anger, and I don’t know where to direct it. Who or what am I angry at? The virus? The first person to contract the virus then begin the spread? President Trump for not encouraging isolation as advised by the Chief Medical Advisor? The news stations for spreading misinformation? My husband for temporarily moving out, leaving me feeling abandoned, so he could care for them? I am consumed by anger and frustration, wishing things were different than they are.
I understand that working in the ICU is Alex’s job, that there was an expectation he’d continue to show up to work in the midst of the pandemic. I resent that he chose being a COVID hero over being a husband and a father. He abandoned me, not just while he was physically gone, but even now while he’s home. I see him, but he’s not really here. In his mind, he’s still in those hospital rooms. His empty stare and disengaged interactions with us leaves much to my imagination. I create stories to fill in the gaps, and the stories exacerbate my pain.
He doesn’t want me anymore. He is choosing being a COVID nurse over being my husband. If he’s going to disengage with me, I’ll disengage with him too.
I bitterly move about the rest of my day, not making eye contact. I try to convince myself that I will feel less angry at him if I just pretend he’s still gone, if I expect nothing from him. But it doesn’t work. Every indiscretion I notice adds fuel to the flame. Every time the children try to interact with him and he gives a disengaged, half-listening response; every time I start a conversation with him, only to notice he’s disappeared mid-conversation; every time I want to share a tender moment with my partner and am met with an empty shell, I feel angry. I feel the tension rising inside me again, like I might soon explode.
We’re preparing lunch for the family together, and I’m making sandwiches. I ask him if he can slice some fruit for the side, but I don’t get a response. I spin around and see him standing there, staring at empty plates on the counter. I say his name, but he doesn’t move; he doesn’t even blink. His name leaves my lips in an irritated tone and in a much higher decibel. Snapping back to reality, he asks me to repeat what I said to him.
Once again, I come undone. This time, it is not into a heaping blubbery mess on the floor. This time, I come undone with rage. I accuse him of abandoning us, of leaving when we needed him most. I describe the pain and suffering we endured during his absence. I accuse him of choosing being an ICU nurse over a father and husband. I tell him that while I’m glad he is finally home, I still feel like he is gone.
He asks me why I’m attacking him, and urges me to focus on the fact that he is home now. He reminds me that this wasn’t solely his choice, that we made the decision for him to move out together. I am enraged by his distorted version of the truth.
Traumatic childhood memories are being replayed as I once again feel like someone has deemed me unworthy of love and belonging. Sometimes I feel like I never left that parking lot, like I’m still that scared girl, abandoned by her Dad after he chose a life without her.
Consumed by the anger that has taken over, I knock the kitchen chair over, and it goes crashing to the floor. I shout that him moving out was never the decision I really wanted, and he knew that.
My mother-in-law hears the commotion from the basement and guides the children downstairs with her.
I shout to Alex that if it were up to me, he would have quit his job, chosen his family instead.
“It’s not that easy,” he declares to me.
Bullshit.
I beg him to explain to me why his job is more important than me, than us. I plead with him to honestly tell me whether or not he still wants me, whether or not he wants this family.
He promises me he does. He tells me that working in the COVID ICU does not mean that he does not want to be with me. He describes how hard it is to see so much suffering at work, then come home and be what he needs to be for us. He apologizes for being disengaged and reassures me that he loves us, that he wants to be a part of the family.
I deflate upon hearing his words. My husband is suffering, and instead of being supportive of him, I’ve been angry at him.
I am a terrible wife.
The rage recedes from my body, then shame and sadness pour in. I burst into tears. I feel his embrace as I succumb to this wave of emotion. I notice how uncomfortable I feel with this level of vulnerability. I feel weak and defenseless. I recognize I’m experiencing discomfort with groundlessness, as my suffering is emergent from the lack of control I have over my life.
I hold onto Alex until I feel like I can stand alone again. The storm has passed, and we’ve found our way back to each other again. We collect our children from the basement, and apologize for scaring them. We explain that Mommy and Daddy were both feeling angry and should have talked about how we were feeling, instead of yelling and throwing things.
Good moms never yell. I am a bad mom.
Intrusive thoughts accompany me the rest of the day, telling me that I am a bad mother, and a bad wife. I can’t skillfully handle my emotions regarding the pandemic and Alex’s physical and emotional absence. I judge myself for having these emotions. I feel frustrated by myself, and I tell myself I should be able to do better; to be better. Labeling myself as a bad mom and a bad wife leaves me feeling paralyzed and helpless.
I lean on my sangha for support, a diverse group of Secular Buddhism podcast listeners. We have weekly Zoom meetings where we exchange support and relate Buddhist concepts to our lives. Recently, we discussed emotions, and our ability to recognize and name them. I learned there are over 100 emotions, but most people don’t recognize many of them. Noah challenged us to count how many emotions we can recognize over a couple of days, and how often we experience them. I recognized only two positive emotions, and two negative emotions: happiness, excitement, sadness and anger. After happiness, anger is the emotion I experienced the most frequently.
Anger dominates my negative emotions. Anger feels safe to me: if I shield myself with anger, I can’t get hurt. Anger lets me feel I’m in control. I consider that I might be transforming other negative, unwanted emotions into anger. I wonder what hides behind my anger, what emotions lurk behind that mask.
Attempting to reduce my self judgment after the fight, I set aside meditation time. The kids have had 45 minutes of screen time today, so I get 15 minutes of meditation time.
Good moms don’t let their children have more than one hour of screen time per day.
I am new to meditation practice, and I notice my mind is always very busy. I struggle to find even a moment where my mind isn’t racing. Noah says mindfulness is like a jar of muddy water. If we let it rest, after some time, the sediment will drop to the bottom of the jar and we will have more clarity. This clarity allows insight into our mind. I sit and let the thoughts slowly settle to the bottom, but soon discover I’m mixed up with thoughts again. While trying to withhold self-judgment, I set the muddy jar down to rest again. As I tend to judge myself, this process is very difficult and requires consistent practice.
I begin to scan my body, noticing what is present. My body hasn’t forgotten the fight with Alex. My brow is furrowed, my jaw is tight, and my shoulders are tense. I immediately recognize this emotion as anger, and attempt to mindfully stay with the sensations. I drop the stories I told myself, that Alex doesn’t love me and that I am a bad mother and wife. With loving awareness, I notice the physical sensations, without clinging or rejecting them. The stories try to creep back in, and I imagine myself gently setting them back down and returning to the physical sensations. After a few minutes of this practice, I notice all the tension has left my body. Anger is no longer present in my body. I noticed when anger was present in my body, and I noticed when it left.
For a few short moments, I discover more spaciousness in my meditation, more peacefulness in the present moment without disruption. Then, I am suddenly hit with a heavy sensation in my chest. My breath is shallow and rapid, and a tear rolls down my cheek. I feel uncomfortable, out of control, and vulnerable. The cause of this shift in sensation is unclear at first, but then she reveals herself.
There she stands; all three and a half feet of her. Her clothes are tattered, her hair unkempt, her eyes reluctant to make eye contact. She has bad posture, hunched over under the weight of emotional wounds. She looks like a younger version of me, at maybe seven years old. She introduces herself as Fear, and I instantly know she is the one hiding behind my anger.
I feel so uncomfortable in her presence, but I stay with her until my body relaxes. Looking into her eyes, she looks less scary now. I feel a kinship to her, realizing she’s accompanied me most of my life. I have carried fear with me into every part of my life. I carry a fear of not being loved; of being abandoned; of “failing” as a mother; of being deemed unworthy. I don’t like fear; I don’t know how to befriend my fear. It doesn’t feel safe. But my anger is hurting people, including myself.
The bell rings, signaling the end of my meditation, and I come back into the room. Sitting mindfully with strong negative emotions is new and difficult for me. I tend to react when I experience anger and fear, and this meditation practice gave me the opportunity to mindfully notice instead of impulsively react.
The four of us are eating pizza at the dinner table. Today was too emotionally exhausting to cook, so it is a delivery dinner night. Jack scrapes all the cheese off his pizza crust and shoves it in his mouth. It amazes me how a child can make delicious food look so unappetizing. I meet Alex’s gaze and we share a humorously disgusted face.
“Would you consider looking for another job?” I ask, trying my best to sound nonchalant.
I know this probably isn’t the best time to ask, but he admitted how negatively his job is affecting him, so I jump on the opportunity.
“I’ll look and see if there’s anything out there,” he says pessimistically.
While his response is less than reassuring, I take it as a win. I’ve spent eight years watching my partner suffer from job-related emotional stress. After graduating from the same nursing program, we both started working at a Washington DC hospital. He worked in the burn and trauma unit, and witnessed a lot of devastation and suffering. When driving into work together, we’d frequently see caution tape around housing areas near the hospital, then facetiously joke that he’d be taking care of that patient shortly; oftentimes, we were unfortunately right. He provided care for gunshot, stabbing, and burn victims. His job was to care for those patients during his twelve hour shift, but the work always followed him home. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve woken him from work-related nightmares.
I wonder if he realizes how much his career has affected his personal life. I see how tightly wound his identity is to being an ICU nurse. Reflecting on my own personal struggle with letting go of being a cardiac ICU nurse, I feel compassion for him. I remember the struggle.
I sit across from him at the dinner table, and feel pulled by two opposing forces; compassion for the man I love, and judgment of him for allowing his identity with his job to cause him so much pain and suffering.
Like the rising sun that exposes what was lurking in the shadows, I see my hypocrisy. I see how tightly wound my identity is to being a good mother. I see how much pain it is causing me, and how that likely also affects my family. I see so clearly how striving to be a good mother is a never ending race with no finish line. The weight of that exhaustion sinks in when I realize just how long I’ve been running.
I don’t want to be in this race anymore. I need to find an exit.
Here we are, two people stuck to their identities. I want to liberate myself, and he doesn’t even realize he’s stuck.
Buddha help us.
Where do we start to let go of our sense of self? Buddhist teachings and practices offer much here. We are thinking beings. We spend most of our day thinking about what happened before and what might happen later, about our desires and our aversions. Incessant, unexamined thinking leads us to strengthen flawed assumptions about ourselves and others. It leads us to believe each thought we have is true, without taking time to assess the legitimacy of each thought or belief.
The alternative to thinking is observing; observing sensations, emotions, thoughts, and the world around us. Meditation and mindfulness practices cultivate an aware and curious mind. We learn to welcome sensations as they arise, without judging, clinging, or rejecting.
Through mindful observation we realize that our thoughts are simply the products of mental activity, and not ultimate truths that we should believe. The incessant intrusive negative thoughts I experienced led me to believe that I was a bad mother. By practicing mindful meditation, I was able to open a space between “I” and my thoughts and feelings, and detach from the “bad mom” label.
Meditation and its benefits are well known today. We can now find many guided mindful meditations through facilitators, books, videos and apps. It can, however, be a daunting and frustrating task when beginning a meditation practice, if not approached in a skillful way.
Neuroplasticity describes how our brains’ neural networks change over time. Many scientific studies have shown significant structural and neural differences in the brains of long term meditators versus non meditators. One study demonstrated increased cerebral blood flow in the prefrontal cortex, parietal cortex, thalamus, putamen, caudate, and midbrain of long term meditators versus non-meditators (Newberg 2010). These areas of the brain are responsible for impulse control, ability to hold attention, relaying and integrating sensory input, consciousness and alertness, cognitive function, learning and motor control. The structure of the brain also appears to be different in meditators. In a literature review conducted by Fox et al, many studies showed an increase in thickness of the cerebral cortex and concentration of gray matter in long term meditators (2014). Whether meditation caused these changes in meditators is not yet certain, but the findings suggest we can change our brains. We know neurons are plastic, and we can strengthen our brains by exercising them. The evidence strongly suggests meditation is an exercise that strengthens parts of your brain.
Mindful meditation begins before we even sit down and close our eyes; it begins with our intention. If our intention is to be happy and forget about our problems, it will not go well. This is a common misconception of the goal and benefits of meditation. Meditation will not make our problems go away. We will still experience sadness, anger, disappointment, pain, loss, grief, and every other unwanted emotion. In fact, we will become more aware of unwanted emotions. Meditation does not magically prevent suffering, but it changes our relationship to suffering.
Everyone experiences discomfort and anguish in their lives; everyone experiences suffering. There is nothing we can do to prevent it. It may rain on a day we planned a hike; our vehicle may break down on the way to work; we could trip and fall and break a bone; we will likely experience loss of a loved one at some point in our lives; we ourselves may become ill unexpectedly; we could lose everything we’ve worked so hard for. Many of us believe the delusion that if we try hard enough, we can prevent suffering. The truth, however, is that none of us are immune. Wishing or asserting that suffering won’t happen to us won’t prevent it from happening, instead it magnifies our suffering when suffering does happen to us.
A friend of mine experienced a lot of childhood trauma and suffering. Unlike her siblings, still caught in the cycle of trauma, she strived for excellence in her education, career, and marriage. She made it her life’s work to learn valuable skills, break the cycle of family trauma, and create a peaceful home life for her children. Whenever major problems and struggles arose in her life, she asked me, “Why is this happening to me? I didn’t do anything to deserve this.” The truth is, she didn’t do anything to deserve this pain and suffering.
Pain and suffering happens to everyone, everywhere, by the nature of existence. By personalizing the traumatic events that occur and believing we only get what we deserve from the universe, we set ourselves up for unnecessary suffering. The truth resolves our confusion, as suffering is not personal. If we wish to heal ourselves, we must learn and accept that some suffering is inevitable. Acceptance, unlike resignation, requires us to acknowledge that suffering is a part of life. Accepting that suffering exists and will happen to all of us doesn’t propagate more suffering, it just changes our relationship to suffering. When we learn to accept that suffering is inevitable, the extra sting we feel of things “happening to us” fades. We no longer feel offended when suffering happens to us, because it no longer feels personal.
Once we acknowledge that wishing the suffering didn’t exist magnifies our suffering, we can put that resentful, angry energy into comforting and healing ourselves instead. This radical acceptance of the way things are is the necessary first step in our journey to healing. Accepting suffering as a part of life opens a space where we can observe our minds, and begin to recognize and name our unwanted emotions.
During meditation and throughout our daily activities, it helps to notice and examine our thoughts and emotions. Rather than clinging to them, positive or negative, we learn to observe them as impermanent states of mind. They arise in our bodies, and then melt away. Then when the next emotion, sensation, or thought arises, we observe it arising and going away. We can imagine distracting thoughts as a small child crawling into our lap; we can imagine gently setting those thoughts to the side and telling them, “I see you, and I will be with you soon.”
When we feel unwanted emotions arising, such as sadness or frustration or fear, our instinct is to push it away. They make us uncomfortable and we’re worried about what we might discover if we look at them closely. We aren’t really pushing unwanted emotions away, we are pushing them down inside ourselves to bubble up later in a harmful way. Those suppressed emotions could re-emerge as we struggle to maintain professionalism at work, unleash our emotions on our kids, or disengage from a partner we feel devalues us. By pushing away our emotions, we prevent deeper understanding and healing. Had I recognized the feelings of unworthiness that were coming up for me during our fight that day, I could have tended to those emotions, then skillfully communicated them to my partner so healing could occur.
Imagine you are laying in the grass on a warm day. You are comfortable and calm, gazing at the clouds. You notice different sizes and shapes, some fluffy, others streaky. You notice them, but you do not judge them. You do not think to yourself, “That fluffy cloud makes me uncomfortable so I’m going to pretend it’s not there.” Instead, you just gently notice the clouds, slowly drifting by, without judgment, without wishing one cloud would stay, without wishing another would go away.
This is how we sit in mindfulness meditation; observing our sensations and emotions as if they are just passing clouds. “I notice some frustration arising, and I feel a tightening in my jaw,” or, “I am noticing a feeling of joy arising, and feel my heart opening.” We notice when sensations and emotions arise, we scan our body to locate any manifestations of these in the body, then we notice when they pass.
Thoughts will also incessantly intrude into our intentional space of awareness. It takes practice to be able to notice emotions and thoughts without judgment, and to practice re-focusing on sensations. When beginning a meditation practice, it is common to sit for ten minutes with the goal of observing sensations, then hear the bell signaling the end of the meditation, only to realize we’ve spent our entire time thinking. This is where guided meditation can be useful, where a facilitator occasionally reminds the meditator to bring their awareness back to the present moment. Once we recognize our minds have strayed and we come back to our subject, such as the breath or sensations in the body, we do so compassionately. It doesn’t do us any good to beat ourselves up about becoming distracted. Regret and shame only add to our suffering. Our minds often run on default mode, where we are constantly thinking, so this is why it feels so unnatural for us to try to observe instead.
Painful emotions and thoughts will sometimes arise when we sit in meditation or practice mindfulness. The more we practice, the more we strengthen our ability to recognize emotions as they arise, including so-called “undesirable” emotions such as fear, sadness and anger. When we notice these emotions arise, we may experience shame. Shame can make us feel small, insignificant, powerless, and unworthy of love and belonging. Shame can be paralyzing and all consuming of our energy. Shame is a thief of self-compassion, robbing us of growth. When we experience shame, we ruminate on things we can’t control; things we’ve already done, or things that we are feeling and thinking. When we are stuck in a cycle of shame, we are unable to make changes, unable to grow. When my self-judgment was at its worst, I was stuck in an anger-react-shame cycle. Feeling angry without mindful awareness, I would react harmfully instead of respond compassionately, then feel shame. I was stuck in this vicious cycle, not realizing that shame was robbing me of personal growth. Shame tricks us into believing that we are incapable of change, and that the negative stories we’ve told ourselves about who we are, are true.
Mindfulness meditation presents us the opportunity to see ourselves as an outside observer. We may not necessarily like everything we see. We may feel tempted to turn away, to bury our heads in the sand, to remain ignorant. Observing ourselves may evoke difficult emotions, but that is very different from believing our thoughts and emotions. It takes great bravery to honestly look at our patterns of thoughts and behaviors, and it takes great skill and practice to skillfully handle the next step. When we notice shame arising, we can acknowledge its arrival, and gently let it know that while we are aware of our imperfections, we refuse to let it cripple us.
Observation gives us agency over our thoughts and emotions. We are the observer, and the thoughts and emotions are things we observe. We can create our own healing and growth by responding skillfully to what we observe. We can allow our thoughts and emotions to overwhelm us with crippling shame, or we can create tools with them. Our toolbox can contain special tools to recognize and skillfully handle our triggers, desires and aversions. We can take these tools into every situation in our lives, and act more skillfully, more in line with our core values.
We should observe our thoughts and emotions without attachment. Instead of telling ourselves “I am angry,” we should say, “I feel angry.” If an intrusive thought arises, such as, “I am worthless,” we should reframe that to, “I am feeling unworthy.” This subtle shift in language allows us to stop identifying with our thoughts and emotions. We should aim to be like an objective scientist, collecting data from an experiment. We can take note of thoughts, emotions and sensations without allowing ourselves to identify with them. It requires practice to observe in a non-attached manner, and the ability to execute this distinction is imperative.
Noticing and observing is the practice we must come back to time and time again to see things as they actually are, and not let the stories we tell ourselves govern our happiness. The story I told myself when my partner was disengaged, that he did not value me and I was unworthy of love, was unfounded and made my suffering worse. Meditation is one piece of the larger system of mindfulness. Formal sitting meditation is an essential practice to cultivating mindfulness, and it is equally important for us to also bring this heightened level of awareness into our daily lives as well.
Similar to mindful meditation, other mindfulness activities should evoke a sense of acute, sharp awareness and attention to the present moment. Mindfulness can be practiced any time, anywhere. While we are brushing our teeth, instead of letting our thoughts spiral, we can observe sensations. What do the toothbrush bristles feel like on my gums? What does the toothpaste smell like? Which section of my mouth am I brushing now? What is the quality of the amount of pressure I am putting on my teeth? While we are washing dishes, we can again practice mindfulness. What does the water feel like running over my skin? What does the water sound like coming from the faucet? What is the nature of the sound that comes from scrubbing a pan? What does the soap smell like? During meal time, we can also practice mindfulness. What does this bite of food taste like? Does it taste different on different points of my tongue? Is it cool or warm? Can I hear myself chewing, and if so, what does it sound like? What does it smell like? Do I feel satisfied yet, or am I still hungry?
We can ask ourselves throughout our day the simple question, “What is happening now?” This includes what we’re adding to, and what we’re missing from the current moment. Are we adding unnecessary suffering to the present moment by believing stories we’ve created? Can we create such an acute awareness of each moment that we can even draw our attention to the lack of suffering, such as the lack of a toothache? We notice when we are experiencing physical pain, but can we draw our attention to the moments when we are free from pain? During turbulent times in the beginning of the pandemic, my husband struggled to be present with what was happening now, yet many of those moments were opportunities for healing, and joy. We can enrich every single, seemingly dull moment of our lives if we simply ask ourselves “What am I doing right now?” In many Buddhist cultures, a bell is rung periodically throughout the day, as a way to draw attention back to the present moment. We can do this for ourselves in our own lives. We can ring a bell. We can set periodic reminders on our phones, put written signs around our homes and work spaces, or use any other reminder as a bell to draw our attention back to the present moment. This is the practice of observation, to constantly bring our awareness back to the present moment, time and time again.
At about four years old, my son had a habit of constantly putting his index finger in his mouth. We’d been to the dentist recently and thankfully, the finger sucking hadn’t caused any dental issues. I wanted to help him break this habit so it didn’t become a dental problem, and to prevent frequent illnesses caused by him unknowingly putting germs into his mouth.
I began by explaining to my son in simple terms he could understand why it could potentially be harmful for him to continue sucking his finger. I told him that I noticed he tends to do it when he appears bored, or there isn’t anything particularly exciting going on. What was once perhaps a calming technique for him when he was an infant, had turned into a mindless habit. I challenged him to try to notice every time he put his finger in his mouth, or was about to put his finger in his mouth. When he noticed what he was doing, I encouraged him to say to himself, “I just put my finger in my mouth.” I told him that once he noticed what he was doing and acknowledged it to himself, that he could then decide what he wanted to do. He could choose to keep his finger in his mouth, knowing the possible complications caused by finger sucking, or he could take his finger out of his mouth.
The first few times he put his finger in his mouth, I would nonchalantly say, “I just put my finger in my mouth.” His eyes would get big as he noticed his behavior, then he immediately pulled his finger out of his mouth. After half a day of me being the observer for him, he began to notice his own behavior. He’d start to put his finger in his mouth, then declare, “I just put my finger in my mouth,” and pull his finger away. At one point, he had his finger in his mouth, then upon realizing what had happened, left his finger in his mouth and shouted, “Mommy, my finger is in my mouth, what do I do now?” To which I smiled and replied, “That’s up to you.”
He stopped sucking his finger within three days. A habit he had had since infancy, gone in three days with the power of observation. By teaching him to observe his own behaviors and make his own decision about his behavior, he not only became more aware of his habitual patterns, but he had agency in his decision making about his behavior. The power of awareness is incredibly valuable. By resisting the trance of default mode and actively engaging in our lives, we gain insight and agency.
Within praise and shame societies, people are praised for “doing it all.” The exhausted mother of young children who also works outside the home, who comes home and is fully engaged with her partner and children and makes a homemade meal every night; the person who accepts extra responsibilities at work even when their workload becomes unbearable; the person who always extends their help to others even when they are drained; the person who never says no to get-togethers and immediately answers every text message, phone call, and regularly tends to their social media accounts. We emphasize the importance of being readily available at any moment. We want to appear as if we are always feeling great, always ready for action. We give and receive praise for appearing to lead idealized lives, and find ourselves unhappy as we strive for what is unobtainable.
We’ve only recently acknowledged as a society the negative impacts that unskillful consumption of social media and constant availability can have on our mental health. Contrary to what our amygdala may lead us to believe, we don’t have to immediately respond to every text message, we have the choice whether or not to answer a phone call, and we don’t have to attend every social outing. Sometimes by doing less, we are actually doing more.
Awareness of our thoughts and behaviors requires a moment of pause. I’ve been practicing as a nurse for eleven years, mostly in the inpatient pediatric and neonatal world. The best piece of advice I’d ever been given and therefore continue to spread to new practicing nurses is this: when you are so overwhelmed with tasks that you aren’t thinking clearly, you need to pause. We can only skillfully handle a limited amount of sensory input before we start making mistakes because we lose the capacity to be mindful or intentional with our actions. It is apparent why in the healthcare profession, working mindfully is imperative, because the lives of individuals are in their hands. If we ignore our brain's red flashing alarm bells screaming at us to slow down, we can make mistakes that can literally cost lives.
We are often overwhelmed by tasks and responsibilities, and we fall into the trap of reacting mindlessly instead of responding mindfully. Reactivity is like touching a hot stove; it doesn’t require higher level processing to make a decision about what to do next. The problem with reactivity, however, is that we don’t give ourselves time to incorporate important details in our decisions. As an employee, we are more likely to make mistakes when we’re moving too fast. As a parent, we are more likely to lose our temper and yell at our children when our nervous system is on fire. As a partner, we are more likely to say hurtful things when we feel hurt. In these scenarios of reactivity, we are not the only ones who could suffer consequences of our lack of awareness and mindful action.
Responsiveness, on the other hand, requires careful observation of our internal and external environment, assessment of the situation, and conscious action. When we are responsive, as opposed to reactive, we are much more likely to reach desirable outcomes. Workplace responsiveness may entail making well informed actions based on all the information we have. Responsiveness to a young child’s display of anger may materialize as maintaining a calm presence, allowing a safe space for the emotions to move through. Responsiveness to conflict in a romantic relationship could involve recognizing that anger is arising, and expressing our need for a break until we can calmly return to the conversation.
Responsiveness requires us to be able to look not only externally, but also internally to identify what is present for us. We are out of tune with our bodies, which is a tragedy, because our bodies often tell us what’s happening inside. When we regularly correlate our emotions with our bodily sensations, we learn to interpret what our bodies are telling us. A bodily sensation can trigger us to make time to pause, and to observe what’s present in order to skillfully respond to our environment.
There is an old parable about an alarmed rider on a wild horse galloping through town. A passerby calls out, “Where are you going?” The rider yells back, “I don’t know. Wherever the horse goes!”
When we aren’t aware of the emotions we are experiencing, we risk being taken over by them, letting those unnoticed emotions dictate our actions. Naming emotions is a tool that helps you be more responsive and less reactive. We tend to only be able to name three emotions, usually anger, happiness and sadness. These three don’t adequately describe all the emotions we truly experience. Some other emotions we may feel include joy, excitement, appreciation, contentedness, awe, pride, amusement, hopelessness, nervousness, disgust, stress, fear and frustration.
There is a lot we can gain by mapping out our emotions on our body. Throughout our day, we experience a whole range of emotions, and these emotions are expressed in our bodies. When we feel angry, we can bring awareness to the moment and pause, then take note of what we are feeling in our bodies and where. Perhaps it is tightening in the jaw, or a furrowed brow. Anger might feel hot, and it might have a color. When we feel fear creeping in, we can again take note of what we feel in the body and where. Fear might manifest as tension in the shoulders, or an upset stomach. Does it have a temperature? Does it have a color? Joy might feel like an opening or fluttering in our heart center. By bringing a moment of awareness to what we’re experiencing on an emotional and physical level, we begin the process of honoring ourselves where we’re at, and living our lives more intentionally.
Mapping emotions on our body takes time and space, inquiry, and reflection. Our bodies are connected to our internal world, and tells us about our internal landscape, even when we’re not consciously aware of it. By bringing an awareness to what is happening in our physical bodies and what emotions we’re experiencing at the time, we give ourselves agency in the ability to respond instead of being stuck in habitual reactivity.
Anger can be tricky, as it can mask other emotions such as fear. Fear tends to leave us feeling vulnerable, which our primitive brains recognize as a survival threat. If we have an aversion to fear, our bodies may process fear as anger. We may perceive anger as less vulnerable and more in control. Anger can, however, lead to reacting instead of responding, landing us in a more vulnerable, less controlled place. Any time we let emotions blindly lead us, irrationality leads the show.
By slowing down and paying more attention to what our bodies and emotions tell us, we can be more engaged with our lives and experience each moment more authentically. We discover more space for understanding, self-compassion, and engagement. We are no longer hapless riders on the wild horse of emotion, we are agents of change and intentional action in our own lives.
When we bring moments of awareness to daily activities, we can catch ourselves in habitual patterns. We wake up to the cell phone alarm, bring the phone to the bathroom with us, and check our social media accounts while we pee. We wait in the school pick up line for our children, grab our phones, and check our emails. We sit down for lunch, notice the flavors of the first and second bite, then get lost in thought about something someone said to us, or what we’re going to do when we’re done eating. We converse with a loved one, and think about what we’re going to say next instead of being present with their words.
Each moment of awareness we have, each moment we break the cycle of reactivity, creates an opportunity. Opportunity to put the phone down, drop the thoughts, be present with what is happening here and now. We can cultivate more loving presence and awareness in hundreds of moments in our day, when we’d otherwise be riding along in old habitual patterns. These tiny spaces let us rediscover our true selves, how we relate to the world and how we engage with it. We gain the opportunity to cultivate the curiosity of a beginner's mind. We gain the chance to make different choices, break habits, direct our horse instead of letting it direct us. Observation is the platform for curiosity, wonderment, and awe so we can participate in our lives in a more authentic, engaged manner.
Awareness/Journal Exercises:
Guided meditation -
Use one of the following guided body scans to gain more awareness of your body and develop or strengthen your observational skills. Continue with a daily meditation practice, utilizing either the guided body scan or the core mindfulness meditation from the previous chapter.
Keep track of your emotions:
The purpose of this exercise is to provide insight into your recognition and awareness of your emotions. For two days, keep track of all the emotions you experience. Next to each emotion as it arises, add a tally mark. At the end of the two days, ask yourself the following reflections:
Did the results surprise you at all? Why?
Did you recognize less than five emotions? How might learning to name all of your emotions serve you?
Map your emotions in your body:
The purpose of this exercise is to get you more in tune with what your body is telling you about your mental and emotional landscape. The more you are aware of what is present inside you, the more skillfully you can act. Draw or print an outline of a human body, and collect a few different coloring tools. When you experience a strong emotion, notice the sensations in your body. Color all the parts of your body where the emotion is manifesting in one color, then create a legend and label that emotion. You can also add what kind of sensation you are feeling there (ie tightening, opening, hot). Continue to map the emotions in your body until you’ve identified as many as you can. Refer to your body of emotions often, until you can identify what emotions are arising based on the sensations in your body.
Secular Buddhism Podcast episode that inspired this chapter
References:
Fox, Kieran C.R., et al. “Is Meditation Associated with Altered Brain Structure? A Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis of Morphometric Neuroimaging in Meditation Practitioners.” Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews, vol. 43, June 2014, pp. 48–73., https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neubiorev.2014.03.016.
Newberg, Andrew B., et al. “Cerebral Blood Flow Differences between Long-Term Meditators and Non-Meditators.” Consciousness and Cognition, vol. 19, no. 4, Dec. 2010, pp. 899–905., https://doi.org/10.1016/j.concog.2010.05.003.
These moments you describe, Heather, are so visceral. I remember my own challenges during the COVID pandemic, how I lost someone so close to me, how friends scooped me up to save me from loneliness. Your story brings tears to my eyes.