February Highlights.

Two weeks ago after a disappointing and difficult interaction, I could feel bitterness and resentment boiling up inside of me. I teach this concept that emotions need motion- a simple and effective way to process and release negative or tense emotions is through movement. So I laced up my shoes and forced myself outside to take a walk in the sunshine. The fastest way to pull myself out of a self-pitying, depressive slump is to overhaul my brain to focus on gratitude. It sounds so trite. But it works. I made my way through the neighborhood, noticing the new cherry blossoms and magenta magnolias announcing spring. The tiny daffodils and rose bushes blooming. My scowl softened. I continued to walk and remembered. Remembered when I wanted all the things I currently have. A job that is so extremely fulfilling and collaborative and creative and helps people. A place to live that is quiet and has amazing light for my plants. Inner peace! Mentors and teachers who inspire me in my art, meditation, and writing practice.

“Excuse me!”

My thoughts were interrupted by an older woman with salt and pepper hair walking her labradoodle across the street. I looked up.

“I just wanted to tell you that you are so beautiful!”

I was caught off guard and placed my hand on my heart. “Thank you!”

Gratitude had transformed my entire being. Today’s art stemmed from an overflow of gratitude as I recalled all the big and small delights from this month. It’s a great practice. A practice- meaning something we intentionally choose to do. A practice- meaning it’s something that doesn’t necessarily come naturally. A practice that over time, changes everything we see into a generous and beautiful gift.

My Teacher, My Trail.

“Do not believe that he who seeks to comfort you lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. His life has much difficulty and sadness and remains far behind yours. Were it otherwise he would never have been able to find those words.””

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

It came at 6:03am Friday morning. My eyes were sleepy when I opened up my email and read the news. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of shock, numbness, grief, and anger at the unfairness of it all- is there one word that encapsulates those feelings?

“This is not a death sentence and I am not dying,” he wrote. Bullshit, I thought. We are all dying. Our bodies are mortal. They break down. We heal and break down and heal and break down until one day we breathe our last breath.

I cringed at the thought that he was physically and mentally suffering from his recent diagnosis, yet hid it so well each week to sit with me for an hour as my teacher, my mentor- catering to my needs and my concerns. Rilke’s words rang true when the truth of his diagnosis emerged in that email.

And yet. The gifts he often spoke to me about- the gifts layered in the pain, the grief, the upheaval - how else could he speak so poignantly about acceptance and suffering without knowing it firsthand himself?

The meditation cushion was our common ground. Our sanctuary. A rejuvenating, clarifying torture that cracked me open and slowed me down enough to come back into my body. Feel my breath. Observe all the manic thoughts that danced around- my to-do list, who I needed to call back, that illustration I wanted to finish, remembering I needed to schedule my eye appointment. To watch those thoughts jostle inside my monkey mind, and lovingly come back to the breath. Without self-judgement. Without drama.

He asked for us to not reply to the email. To respect his need for solitude and rest.

Today I went to the trail to immerse myself in the healing sanctuary of nature. To send him loving intentions with each step, with each breath. To honor what he’s taught me.

And it was there on the trail that I met him.

I sighed a long exhale when I reached this signpost. Yes. This is what he has taught me. How to access that sacred, quiet place where thoughts cease to exist- the Void body.

This practice will guide us through the grief of losing him, and others we love, when that time comes. This practice has nurtured my own growth and self-awareness, guided me through working with difficult patients, introduced me to new friendships, and continues to rescue me from falling into old unhealthy patterns.

And it will guide me through to my own last breath.

“I am not dying.”

Yes.

You are teaching us how to live.

How Are You, Really?

I found myself texting, “How are you?” to a friend I haven’t talked to in awhile. Immediately, I tapped my cursor and held the delete button down long enough to erase that oversimplified, broad, and generic question. Usually we get the response, “Good, but busy,” only to have them throw the ball back to us and ask, “How are you doing?”

In his article “The Disease of Being Busy,” Omid Safi writes,

In many Muslim cultures, when you want to ask them how they’re doing, you ask: in Arabic, Kayf haal-ik? or, in Persian, Haal-e shomaa chetoreh? How is your haal?

What is this haal that you inquire about? It is the transient state of one’s heart. In reality, we ask, “How is your heart doing at this very moment, at this breath?” When I ask, “How are you?” that is really what I want to know.

I am not asking how many items are on your to-do list, nor asking how many items are in your inbox. I want to know how your heart is doing, at this very moment. Tell me. Tell me your heart is joyous, tell me your heart is aching, tell me your heart is sad, tell me your heart craves a human touch. Examine your own heart, explore your soul, and then tell me something about your heart and your soul.

2020 taught us to not take anything for granted. Hugs, travel, dining inside restaurants, concerts, carpooling, visiting loved ones in the hospital. Time is finite. So let’s not waste this opportunity talking about the weather. I want to hear about how it felt to say goodbye to your mother who lives in Bali over WhatsApp and the heartbreak you felt watching her funeral on Zoom. I want to know what it’s like to homeschool two kids while going through a divorce, and how you find the strength to wake up every morning in the midst of such emotional and physical fatigue. I want to hear about how magical it was to birth a baby in the middle of pandemic and hold her in your arms after two heart-wrenching miscarriages, or what it means to be the primary caregiver for your father with pancreatic cancer, or what it feels like to be in your body in your life at this exact moment.

If we can pierce through the minutiae and superficial, we can finally begin to touch down on all that is real, all that is pure, and all that it means to be human.

How is your haal?

An Open Letter To the Person Who Broke Into My Car and Stole My Chapstick.

Frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed. I didn’t realize I had so many tampons stored in my glove compartment. I admit, you threw me for a loop, having just sent my friend an enthusiastic “Leaving now!” text and excitedly rolling out my suitcase to my car, sleeping bag and pillow in my other arm, only to find out that you’d been there before me. All doors left slightly ajar with the contents of my center console and glove compartment scattered on the ground and passenger’s seat. I felt discombobulated and violated- my car had been turned inside out without my permission. Maps of California and Oregon that my mom insisted I carry, despite me telling her I’d never use them because I had google maps. The $2.99 yellow rain poncho gifted to me from a friend after a rainy forest hike where I got drenched. My annual San Mateo county parks pass I’d received in the mail just the day before. Old swimming workouts written on lined paper in Ziploc bags that made me miss the pool.

I carefully placed the contents of my car strewn about the cold concrete back into their place- the Ceravie lotion, my Advil container, a stick of concealer and eyeliner for emergency touch-ups after late nights. After scanning everything, I realized you needed my car charger, phone mount, and the Ann Taylor sunglasses my sister had gifted me the Christmas of 2018- the ones that made me feel so chic and stylish, and also…my chapstick.

Driving to my friend’s house, I played Jahnavi Harrison’s song “Hari Om: May All Be Blessed.” On repeat. Until my breath slowed and my nerves calmed down and I could think straight. I sang along with it, again and again, reveling in the calm piano sequence and praying that prayer. I sent you blessings, too. May you be blessed, in whatever difficult situation you’re in.

I thought of you as we hitched up the brand new Airstream to the SUV, hooking the heavy metal chains in an ‘X’ and connected the metal swaybars and attached the pins, plugging in the lights and attaching the trailer mirrors. How this was something that maybe you’d never get to experience if you were struggling to meet your basic needs. You came to mind later that evening when we set up camp and arranged wood and kindling and leaves into our fire pit. Have you ever sat in front of a campfire and watched the kindling and oak leaves burn and turn a fiery orange as they disappear into the night sky? Or looked up into the dark sky long enough for your eyes to adjust, revealing a thousand more stars?

I thought of you as I felt the damp and dark coolness climbing inside of rock formations and the heat and elevation while propelling myself up steep stairs etched into the mountain. While cresting the ridgeline and admiring condors circle gracefully above. How this was a delight you hadn’t experienced if you needed to creep around at 4:35 am to gather the random contents from a stranger’s car. You came to mind as I was enjoying the sound system inside the Airstream, in between Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers songs, and in the middle of the night when the heater kicked on while I was inside of my toasty sleeping bag. Were you warm too?

Thank you for reminding me of my privilege and how much I have in comparison to certain individuals. For showing me that items are easily replaceable, and that experiences and memories are what matter the most to me. Thank you for leaving my lined notebook unharmed and unscathed- it had some poems and ideas that are meaningful to me that I would’ve missed.

I wish you well. Hari Om- may all be blessed, including you. And last but not least, I hope you enjoy and use my chapstick. The peppermint tingle is delightful, isn’t it?