Category: General Learning

Earlier this week I was speaking with a friend that I truly love. She was describing to me a disappointment that she was feeling. It was about another person, a family member.

It seemed to me that my first job was to listen. That’s what friends do, often. Listen to her words. Listen to her story. Listen to what is underneath the story.

I hoped that I would be a helpful friend in the moment. My friend was, in her words, grumpy. I saw that she was hurting. I think I was helpful. Because I was willing to listen, connect, and engage. Not because I needed to fix something for her or in her, even though a part of me wanted too.

My friend’s was the kind of disappointment that many of us might relate to, and, that I believe comes from an understandable place. A desire to be included. A desire to belong. A desire to be seen. A desire to be supported. All of these were unmet in some way for my friend.

As I searched for the story underneath, it occurred to me later that my friend was taken by her disappointment. In short, she was becoming her disappointment. It was becoming her. Rather than her being simply aware of her disappointment.

I recognize that these are subtle nuances. After all, perhaps for it to be genuine disappointment, you need to become it for a while. Lean in to it. Surrender to it. I don’t believe this was happening in this instance.

An alternative is awareness of disappointment. Awareness of the emotion that is present. Not, cold, emotionless robot-like observation. It’s much more compassionate than that. It is a bit like a temporary balcony seat to one’s own behavior, actions, and thoughts. It is the observer of self position. The awareness creates an understanding, and I believe, choice. My role as friend and listener becomes one of helping to hold the temporary container that enables this kind of seeing.

Becoming disappointment, as I watched it in my friend, reminds me of the image of a pin ball being bounced around in a pin ball machine. There is some predictability, but there is a lot of sudden, unpredictable movement. A zing fast to the right. A bumper to bumper speed derby to the left. It leaves most of us at the whimsical fate of the pin ball.

I don’t believe we are destined to such fate, however. Part of the maturing human life is improving the ability to see outside of self and further inside of self. To know that I feel disappointed (a thought and emotion) but that I am not the embodiment of disappointment (unwanted and unhelpful occupation).

Well, these are longings from my heart. In friendship. Of course, those point back to me also. There is much that I become aware of as I witness my friend.

 

Today I woke at 7:20 a.m. The sun had already risen and was beginning to bend through my bedroom window. The birds were well into their chirping morning conversations. I was relieved that it was not the middle of the night.

You see, having returned from New Zealand last week, my body is still trying to adjust to the time zone here. It is 18 hours different. It’s easier on my brain to think 6 hours different and disregard the day ahead part. Or to not think of the time shift at all.

During the day, I’ve been fine. Nap ready at some point in the afternoon. But that is typically true for me. Ten minutes does wonders for me.

The nights have been more challenging. On Saturday it was falling asleep at 11:45 pm, but waking up at 12:15 (sounds like a good Kiwi nap, right) and being up for three hours. The night before it was not being able to get to sleep until well past 2:00 am.

The joy this morning, the relief, was that I’d slept through the night. A full eight hours. An occurrence that signals that I’m now back. That I might find my way back to reliable sleep and rest, accompanied by more fully energized days.

There is plenty of simple joy in the experience of being in New Zealand. There is also simple joy of a night’s rest. And there are times when it’s just a simple joy that is needed. Good to remind myself of that through the most basic of experiences, a good night’s rest.

The stones come from a beach in Napier, New Zealand. The candle, as you can see, is a simple tea candle. It burns for about five hours. The piece of wood is drift wood, from an 2010 trip to Kaikoura on NZ’s South Island west coast.

This morning, they are placed on my kitchen counter. The backdrop is regular life. Car keys. Dish towels hanging form the oven handle. A package of buns for sandwiches later today. Regular life meets symbolic artifacts.

There are times when I, and I believe most of us, need fewer words and more ritual energy. I’m in one of those times. Yes, the stones are Zen like. I have a set. My son has a similar set to mark our New Zealand trip together. We collected them from the beach. The candle is stilling to me. A simple fire to gather around, and act that feels very instinctive. It is a call to stillness. To the integration of memory, current experience, and perhaps some future intent.

For the moment, however, this combination is enough to remind me of, and enjoy, a stillness as I weave my way through many emails, projects, and commitments that could occupy many uninterrupted days. That’s what happens after long trips. Stones and candles often help me to do just this.

 

 

I suppose this is a good followup to yesterday’s picture of balanced stones. This is a larger stone I balanced this week, maybe 12 inches tall on an outcropping of rocks at Scorching Bay, looking into the Wellington Harbour.

It’s great to balance these rocks. Perhaps because to balance the outer requires a balance on the inner. I enjoy this as a kind of practice. Artful, and centering.

And, then again, balance can be a bit over-rated also. Perhaps over-used. Over-valued. Balance often shows up as an invocation to restore right relations between work and life. Good. Without being too cute about it, it is the out of balance that is often the edges that are most fruitful for many of us. Not necessarily in the moment. But with the help of some friends, or even, dare I say, alone, that our personages evolve. We grow. We learn not to fear. We learn to adapt a perspective of continually sensing and reorienting.

Regardless, it is good to keep it open, eh. Not to fixed in any one place. I find this to be true.