Tara Cousineau, PhD

Clinical Psychologist, Kindness Warrior

Blog

Facing Fears. Diving In.

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Sometimes I consider myself a late bloomer no matter what decade of life I am in. Recently, I tried my hat at stage storytelling. If you are familiar with The Moth, you will have some sense. But I was recently inspired at work. A few months ago I worked with several graduate students, who I consider our future leaders, innovators, and helpers. (Our hope!)  Each were terrified of making mistakes, or of being judged, or of not being perfect. They were worried about public humiliation and imposter syndrome. (We are immersed in a culture of ratings and rankings, so who isn’t?)

I coached them to get out there and speak, to try Toastmasters or storytelling, as a kind of “exposure therapy” or skills building to overcome their fears. Otherwise, if they don’t then WE are missing out on their bright lights. Because sharing their wisdom is a service to humanity. When they realized it’s not so much about them at all, but rather about channeling their gifts, a new recognition set in. It’s flipping the script of the inner critic. The ego can step aside and their message can shine through. Of course, this isn’t so easy at first. It takes practice to befriend a familiar voice of fear and to calm the nerves. 

In reality, it takes courage and self-compassion… and at least one person who has your back.

We teach what we need to learn, right? I realized that I had to do the same. I had to walk the talk. I went to a magical Writer’s Romp retreat with Suzanne Kingsbury, where I had to get vulnerable and share my writing by reading it aloud in a safe place (in a tent). She is the creator of Gateless Writing, a judgment-free and wholehearted approach to writing. Like Brené Brown tells: you only share your stories with the people who have earned the right to hear them. I took one brave friend with me. My approach is to take a few steps forward, building upon skills and experience, rather than jumping right in and hoping for the best. It’s like inflicting yourself with kind, small exposures. In my field of psychology it’s called “titrating” (or expanding the “window of tolerance”) and in education it’s called “scaffolding.” It might also be a kind of inoculation.

Gateless Writer’s Romp: Releasing the Inner Critic (as represented by the dinosaur pinata)

So after that romp experience I mustered up the courage to share with strangers, but again in a safe space. I signed up for a few storytelling workshops at MassMouth.org.

The scary part is the last day of the 3-session workshop. It’s like a recital and these “tellings” are held at Club Passim in Harvard Square. You invite your friends and family. You share a 6-minute story. I’ve done this twice now. The first story was about me and a former psychiatric patient singing a Frank Sinatra love song at a holiday party (he never knew that the song he picked had been my wedding song). The other was the moment I knew I’d become some sort of therapist after a humiliating encounter with an evil 6th grade math teacher.

I’m starting small and having some fun. The first time I lost my place but I recovered. I didn’t pee in my pants or walk off stage. I survived. Really, what is there to lose? I’m stepping onto a small stage with a friendly audience (with food and drinks) who are rootin’ for me and the other “tellers.” 

I’m taking a dose of my own medicine. 

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Say a little prayer

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When I was a little girl we prayed every night. My mom would tuck us in, me and my sister, and we would begin a litany of prayers in a sing-song rhythm, with a bit of pomp as my mother fluffed up our comforters and then padded us in like peas in a pod.


Our Father who art in heaven…
Hail Mary full of grace…
Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
… if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

This last one always scared me whenever I stopped to think about it later. Could I die in my sleep? Grandma Kee did and I supposed any of us might never wake up. That made me sad and I would cry some nights. Having lived many decades now, I find comfort in the idea of a quiet passing (someday). But back then we would finish the rounds with barely a pause, “God bless Mommy, Daddy, Tara, Tina” … all our family, friends, our dogs, alive and deceased. We also included our stuffed animals and baby dolls who were tucked in along with us. We always ended with a German phrase: Schlaf gut, und träum süß (Sleep well and sweet dreams).

All told, this ritual was rather inclusive for a child’s mind. (We covered the starving children around the world with grace at dinnertime.)

Eventually, I outgrew the evening blessings. Yet, prayer has always wound its way back to me in some form or another. A nightly ritual with my young girls included the required reading of Goodnight Moon or The Runaway Bunny, along with the grand German tuck-in and a sweet dreams.  In recent years, I’ve practiced loving-kindness meditation, which is a blessing of sorts. It has all the components of my childhood ritual of repetition of well wishing. With loving-kindness phrases I direct blessings toward myself, my loved ones, a benefactor, people outside my tiny tribe, those who are difficult (or with whom I struggle), and the rest of humanity. A large circle of caring. Music can also serve as this kind of expansive blessing. Just listen to Mary Gauthier’s heart opener Mercy Now. The difference is that I now dwell in the comfort of being part of a divine source, a universal alchemy of love, rather than praying to a separate god.

My mom, Omi, now in her 80s, will not let me forget about Jesus. As if I ever could—or would even want to. A few weeks ago I was on a 7-day silent retreat at Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts. I am not Buddhist, but I appreciate Buddhist psychology and mindfulness practices. These teachings are an important part of my orientation toward life and the healing arts. During the retreat I gave up my iPhone. I was able to forgo my birthday and mother’s day.  But just before I Ieft home my mother sent me a small gift, lest I forget my upbringing: A silver keychain, engraved with “Find Peace in His Presence.” It was, of course, blessed by her local priest. She added a sticky note with a reminder to attach it to my car keys.

This is very much like my mother. Earlier, when she could comfortably drive long distances and visit us, many tokens would appear: small bottles of holy water next to the toothpaste holder, medals of Mother Mary or St. Christopher in our coat pockets, prayer cards of various saints left at my children’s bedsides, and an assortment of angel ornaments and glow-in-the-dark rosaries.

To her credit she slowly became more tolerant of my “diversity” in spiritual thinking. In my home office, I have a small antique chest, an altar of sorts, as well as a fireplace mantle. On it are statues of the Virgin Mary, Nepali Goddess Tara, and a Buddhist bodhisattva Kuan Yin (all feminine deities of compassion and wisdom), along with a Buddha and a Christian cross. When she read my book, The Kindness Cure, she hoped that I would have included the word of God. The quotes from Father Gregory Boyle, Mother Teresa, or St. Francis didn’t quite cut it for her. That’s ok.  She has an unwavering faith, perhaps even for my conversion back to family tradition.

Faith, it so happened, was a theme of the silent retreat. One of the guiding teachers, Kamala Masters, offered a beautiful evening talk. These dharma talks are like bedtime stories. She described faith as a kind of “coming back” home. She was raised Catholic, too. When she was in her 50s she trained as a Buddhist nun in Burma for a year when her grown children had left home. It was a promise to herself to go deeper. Rather than look for strength outside herself, she began to look for strength from within, for an experience of compassion that was not just about sacrifice and caring for others but about inner connection and self-compassion.  I found her to be incredibly brave. When I was in her presence I thought, “Mom would like her.”

During the retreat we had been on a schedule of repetitions: walking, sitting, walking, sitting. Day after day, 5:30am to 9:30pm. My body was in pain by midweek, my butt bones bruised and my back muscles flared in spasms from an old injury. I found myself standing rather than sitting for a good part of the the week. These were moments that drew my focus to pain, a litany of complaints, stories of all sorts, and mental suffering. My attention was hijacked by an internal chaos that I’m usually too busy in real life to notice. (And my friends thought I would be having a relaxing week.)

There was some external relief during that retreat of virtual silence. Every afternoon a different guiding teacher taught an element of a loving-kindness meditation. It came at a tender part in the day, in the late afternoon, when I was on the brink of exhaustion or boredom.

Kamala Masters described a loving kindness meditation “like a gentle rain that falls on everyone, without exception.” I found great comfort in this. Whether I was immersed in my own dramas, or frustrated with people or situations in my life, or in the nation and world, seeing love like the spring rain outside of the hall melted away the physical and mental pain. At least for a few moments. Going through the rough part of this mindfulness practice—or life for that matter—is where we grow. When we direct kind attention or a loving awareness to all of our experiences we gain inner strengths and open our hearts. We bow to what’s difficult, as my teacher Jack Kornfield would say—to vulnerability, pain, oppression, anger, and all the uncomfortable emotions. We also open up to the beautiful emotions—gratitude, forgiveness, joy, pride, awe, love.  Until the discomfort inevitably arises. And then? We begin again. And again. Coming back to the rhythm of breath or cadence of a heart beat or sound of rain.

Or, like the reassuring orbit of a moon.

Kamala Masters read a poem by one of my favorite living poets, David Whyte. I felt in that moment, a great gift was shared. Maybe it was the simplicity of dwelling in a poem after such extensive quiet time. It felt so rich and then it was gone.


Faith


I want to write about faith,
about the way the moon rises
over cold snow, night after night,
faithful even as it fades from fullness,
slowly becoming that last curving and impossible
sliver of light before the final darkness.
But I have no faith myself
I refuse it even the smallest entry.
Let this then, my small poem,
like a new moon, slender and barely open,
be the first prayer that opens me to faith.

⁓ David Whyte

After the reading I thought I could bear a few more rounds of walking and sitting. As the week unfolded, the bearing part melted away and tentatively transformed to bearing witness to my own experience. There happened to be a beautiful rising moon during that week in May. One clear evening, instead of the slow walking, I stood staring up for a long, long time. I thought of my girls when they were little. I thought of me and my sister.

Goodnight, moon.

I remembered then the rote prayers of my childhood. And of faith and love, patience and kindness. My mother’s mementos. All the rough patches. And how much of prayer is about faith or how faith is a kind of prayer—a common yearning for love, caring, hope, ease and peace—deep human needs that belong to us all.

Then it was time to tuck myself in.

Bring some self-compassion into your day: 21 Days of Kindness

Check out: The Little Deck of Kindfulness, a 57 day soul-care kit.

Photos: Tara Cousineau 2019

Moon Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

Finding Inner Momentum

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If you are human, and I imagine you are, there are times when you have just really had it.  With a friend. A family member. A co-worker. The world. You may even get judgy. Like, why can’t he just move on? Why does she make it so complicated? Why are they doing this?  As if, somehow, they can magically read your mind and do the right thing.

Yeah, well. We can get caught under our own spell. And the truth of the matter is you will miss out on the things that are actually ok, the tiny beautiful moments in a day, and noticing that right now you are fully alive. I have found that one of the most helpful things with life’s hassles is to simply breathe. Breathe in some peace and quiet. When you notice your reactivity, try taking a deep inhale for yourself and a long exhale for the other. As Rabbi Rami Shapiro writes in The Sacred Art of Loving Kindness, “It is a way to take upon oneself the pain of the world and transform it into love.” Remember, even the difficult, exasperating people in your life are struggling. This doesn’t mean it’s ok to be on the receiving end of an insult. Boundaries are important. But it can help to imagine this person when they were small, maybe before their own challenges or conditions took hold. Glimpsing a sweet soul, deserving of love and belonging (as we all are).

The image I like to hold in this mini-meditation is of a see-saw or swing, with a childlike quality of putting in the effort to get going and then relishing the momentum.

It takes a few tries for the rhythm to kick in. And then… freedom.

Sit quietly and comfortably, perhaps with a hand on your heart.
Breathe in and out in a comfortable way.
As you breathe, bring to mind a sense of warmth, comfort, and ease,
or whatever you need in the moment. Inhale this soothing feeling.
Then bring to mind a person who is struggling and needs compassion.
After you inhale a comforting breath for yourself, on the exhale offer
the other person feelings of kindness, caring, comfort, and ease.
Then return to yourself, breathing in warm sensations.
Then switch back to the person you are visualizing.
In an even flow of in- and-out- breaths,
receive and give warmth and kindness.
Like a see-saw.
Back and forth, back and forth.
One breath in for me, one breath out for you.

Give it a try. Peace.

Courage Rising

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For the past two weeks I have been commuting to a new job.

  • Warming up the car in sub zero weather.
  • Hat, gloves, earbuds, lunch bag, and snacks.
  • A lanyard with an ID and building pass.
  • A highway drive to a parking lot, two trains, and a short walk.  

All told: It’s about 2 1/2 to 3 hours per day, four days a week, enmeshed with humanity. This is a big change for me. I am reminded of sending my youngest daughter off for her first day of kindergarten and she didn’t want me to take a photo. I was excited for her.  She was scared.

One of my intentional words for this year is courage. Researcher and storyteller, Brené Brown reminds us that the root word of courage, cour, means “heart.” Writer and social activist, Glennon Doyle, reminds us the courage also contains the word “rage,” where heartbreak can be turned into action. Both teach that vulnerability is a key to connection and transformation — and is necessary in order to be brave when facing the small and big moments in life.

The silver lining in the new commute is that I now have time to listen to podcasts. I find myself laughing aloud or shedding a tear. I use this as my time for meditation and education. In a recent interview about courage with Glennon Doyle and her partner, Abby Wamback (On Being with Krista Tippett), Doyle shared the following:

We say all the time with our kids, everything’s a pattern. It’s first the pain; then, the waiting; then, the rising — over and over and over again. Pain, waiting, rising. And when we skip the pain, we just never get to this rising.

Glennon Doyle

I loved this phrasing. Pain, waiting, rising. It reminded me of Fred Rogers as I was picturing my daughter with her little backpack all those years ago; and me now carrying my backpack and embarking on a new, uncertain journey. How we must we rise to the occasion in spite of fear. It has to do with the word “encourage,” which means to inspire with courage, spirit, or hope; to hearten. Mr. Rogers said,

As human beings, our job in life is to help people realize how rare and valuable each one of us really is, that each of us has something that no one else has — or ever will have — something inside that is unique to all time. It’s our job to encourage each other to discover that uniqueness and to provide ways of developing its expression.

in The World According to Fred Rogers

That’s how I feel about my work when counseling and coaching others. We are all sparks of the divine, and sometimes we need to shine our light on other’s hidden gifts with our presence, patience, empathy, and encouragement. Can we do this for ourselves, too?

First Day

The Gift of Paying Attention

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Every once in a while there is something that draws our attention in such a precise way that we see — an object, person, or experience — with simple clarity.  In such an instance we feel inseparable; or to say it another way, we feel fully connected and alive. That is what the late poet Mary Oliver did for me (and many others) upon reading her words about nature or her dogs or some mundane detail in an ordinary day. Her poems are like still life paintings. Or little reminders. She passed away last week. It was inevitable.

Pay attention is her great teaching. So this morning I asked her, What have you to teach me today, Mary? I randomly opened to a page in a slim volume, Swan (Beacon Press, 2010, p. 35).  Here is her short poem, When:


When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know
any of us, what happens then.
So I try not to miss anything.

I think, my whole life, I have never missed
the full moon
or the slipper of it coming back.
Or, a kiss.
Well, yes, especially a kiss.

Mary Oliver

I smile. A kiss. A moon. Well, isn’t that apt?  She leaves us the very week a glorious eclipse passed overhead, the last total lunar eclipse of the decade. A moon that Mary Oliver just missed. A blood moon, also called a wolf moon.

I turn to look at what may be her most famous line from The Summer’s Day, emblazoned on a piece of wood resting in an old fireplace in my home office, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” I wonder if people who come visit me even notice it despite the dust. Maybe they will now.

In gratitude to Mary Oliver and the power of the present moment. May we find comfort in loving awareness and connection to each other and our planet.

Rest in Peace, Mary Oliver (1935-2019)

More Matters In Kind

Find nourishment with Mary Oliver’s words:

An Undying Love

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Before the year’s end I was so excited about Christmas, soaking up the wonderful blend of rituals that my German mother was so good at conjuring up. I hope I am transmitting that kind of magic to my grown children and they to theirs. I will have to wait and see. Then my 81-year-old mother fell and broke her hip just before Christmas, the dear thing.  For weeks I drove back and forth to the hospital and the rehab place — contemplating her mortality as well as mine. Not exactly the sentiment I wanted to carry into 2019. And then again, thinking about death can also be the very thing that illuminates what really matters in life.

My mother is back home now and in fine form, directing her daughters with endless to-do lists — the kind that make you say, Just shoot me, already. Then I catch myself. We are entering a fragile decade.

In The Five Invitations: Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully, the meditation teacher Frank Ostaseski, writes beautifully about the grave losses as well as little deaths that happen in our everyday lives. I think about my daughters who are both off to college, the new wrinkles that appear when I weep or smile, and the absence of noise. He writes about an undying love:

Every time we experience a loss, we have another chance to experience life at a greater depth. It opens us to the most essential truths of our lives: the inevitability of impermanence, the causes of suffering, and the illusion of separateness. We begin to appreciate that we are more than the grief. We are what the grief is moving through. In the end, we may still fear death, but we don’t fear living nearly as much. In surrendering to our grief, we have learned to give ourselves to life.

Ask yourself:  What does it mean to live fully?

Matters in Kind

It so happens that a journalist interviewed me months ago about grown mothers and daughters. I had completely forgotten about it. Her story is on Today.com: 5 ways to have a better relationship with your mom. Reading my own words made me reflect:  I should listen to my inner voice more often.

Photo by Aswin on Unsplash

Sliding into a New Year with Love

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When I grew up Christmas Eve and the New Year were magical times because my German mother made it so. Real candles on the Christmas tree, shoes left at the doorstep (would St. Niklas fill it with candy or coal?), handmade wreaths, Linzer torte and pfeffernusse cookies, and of course, many rounds of Oh Tannenbaum and Stille Nacht.  Perhaps my favorite joy was carefully opening up the tiny sparkled covered doors on the beautiful advent calendars sent to us by relatives, with cherubs, gnomes, forest animals, and baby Jesus in a manger in a snowy field. It didn’t have to make any sense. Make believe has its purpose. It was the anticipation that mattered.  What little illustration would be uncovered? An acorn. A pretzel. A reindeer.

Sisters skating, circa 1970
Sisters skating, circa 1970


Inevitably, there was always a walk outside, a toboggan ride, or pond skating—no matter how cold. I look back now and see a wonderful blend of Nordic rituals, the winter solstice, and Christian traditions. It was a whole month of contemplation and celebration. Even when times were tough—which pretty much was every year—the festivities were laden with warmth, connection and hope for new beginnings.  

The Germans like to say, “Einen guten Rutsch ins neue Jahr!”  And so I, too, wish you a good slide into the new year!  

P.S. Kindness matters. Share how. Consider sharing my book with friends and family

Photo by Terry Matthews on Unsplash

Photo by Brigitta Schneiter on Unsplash

Courageous Conversations with Family

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One of the things I appreciate about a mindfulness practice is simply the ability to sit with uncomfortable feelings. That it’s okay and that it is necessary.

I was faced with putting my mindfulness practice to the test the other evening. A local group called Courageous Conversations hosted a book talk at the high school with Debbie Irving, the author of Waking Up White and Finding Myself in the Story of Race. I read the book earlier this year along with Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption by Bryan Stevenson, as my own commitment to understanding racism in America.

The auditorium was mostly filled with white people and that was the point. Irving’s clear mission is to educate white people by sharing her own awakening. I’m grateful that local groups in my town are “ripping off the bandaid” so people can face a very dark and uncomfortable history around racial oppression and the systems that have been designed to instill the divides: government, education, banking, housing, urban planning and so on. There are many things we do not learn in our history books or social studies.

Who benefited from the GI bill?

Who was Rosa Parks really?

Do you know about Black Wall Street in Tulsa Oklahoma and what happened there?

The most poignant and perhaps ironic moment happened at the end of the talk when a woman, who is of Native American descent, stood up. With a quavering voice she said that she would appreciate if the author would also include her people in her discussions. How it’s very painful for her to continue to experience being invisible, even in well intentioned conversations about people of color. She implored,

Where is red?

The room fell silent.

The history of Native Americans in Massachusetts, where I live, is heartbreaking. The pilgrims stepped ashore here after all. This significant event in our history was followed by a genocide no one wants to admit.  Several centuries later this woman stands up, forcing a brief reckoning for some of us. At that moment I had to call upon my compassion practice — for this brave woman and for everyone in that room who was bearing witness to the pain. But what’s next?

Tomorrow I will enjoy a wonderful day with family. I look forward to it. A thanksgiving meal is my all time favorite. Practices of gratitude warm my heart. There is so much to appreciate every single day. At this writing, some families don’t have homes to go back to as fires burn on the West coast.

As we gather there will be opportunities to acknowledge what’s happening right now in our own communities and in our nation, like racism. It’s about cultivating an expansive heart to hold the joys and sufferings. I was delighted when a mentor sent the following resources as if she knew I was writing this post. We need some instructions. This is not easy. But it’s essential. Let’s shine a light on our imperfect humanity and join hands for change.

Kindness is love in action.

Blessings to you,

Tara