Tara Cousineau, PhD

Clinical Psychologist, Kindness Warrior

Compassion

Notice Your Negativity Bias (Hint: We’ve all got one)

by Leave a Comment

Do you ever feel like sometimes you can be your own worst enemy?

You are.

You beat yourself up. Trip over yourself. Get annoyed with others. Cry at diaper commercials. Flip the bird. Numb yourself with Netflix. Or worse, create your own internal horror movie, usually with B ratings.

It happens. You are allowed to be human. 

Here’s the thing: We all have this inclination of the brain called the negativity bias… and it’s part of the human design.

The negativity bias is sort of what it sounds like but has a neuro-physiological basis. Think of it like a background surveillance system or operating system. Just like the heart beats and the lungs breathe, the brain is continually scanning the environment for danger… and all this happens below our awareness. 

The negativity bias prepares us for action and to get out of harm’s way. Better safe than sorry, right?

Now, the most common stressors most of us face in day-to-day interactions are typically not life threatening. The stressors are around being liked, performance, friendships and relationships, money, news, and the future—and the stories we tell ourselves about them. It’s our perception of threat that ignites the stress response. We tend to overestimate the perceived threat as if it’s “do or die” and underestimate our ability to cope. When your inner alarm switch is stuck ON, your body can’t easily recover without rest. You can feel worn down physically, mentally, and emotionally. 

But have you ever noticed how you interpret these kinds of stressors—whether it’s the stuff that’s happening in the real world or in your own mind?

Psychologist Rick Hanson describes 5 ways in which the negativity bias manifests:

  1. We scan for bad news as part of the human design (we can’t help it).
  2. We focus on the bad news and it becomes associated with pain and unpleasant emotions; we get tunnel vision.
  3. We overreact to it.
  4. We remember it. In other words, the experience or sensations fast-tracks into our memory banks.
  5. We can ruminate on the experience, reinforcing a negative feedback loop. I call this being caught in a “head spin.”

This negativity bias leads to cognitive habits like: overthinking, engaging in negative social comparison, perfectionism, procrastination, fixating on unhelpful thoughts and situations, and doing harmful or unhelpful things—usually to avoid the pain, like retail therapy, too much alcohol or other vices, social media stalking, oversleeping, or Haagen Dazs, to name a few.

Here’s the thing, no matter how intelligent, or kind, or confident you are, you can become negative, small-minded and mean without even realizing it—as you snap at people, become overly critical of yourself and others, and gripe with friends. It can be contagious, too.  Misery loves company, right? 

But in a state of personal distress and a narrow view with the negativity bias, it’s hard to get the clarity and empathy that will help you get perspective on things and be caring toward yourself and others. 

A great image to depict this tricky state is that of an arrow. (Think The Hunger Games.)

What’s the first arrow?

Some physical and mental pain is inevitable in life. For example, I work with many students. Here’s a common scenario: You worked really hard on a project, spent hours in the library and even went to the writing resource center. But you get a less than desirable grade, maybe you even bombed. Ouch. 

The first arrow is that unavoidable pain of disappointment or anger.  

But your tricky mind steps in to interpret the situation… maybe you go into self-judgement:  What is wrong with me? I must not be cut out for this job/school/program. I should just quit now. 

Or else you might go into blame mode:  That professor/boss/co-worker is terrible. What’s his problem? How could she? 

Or let’s say you ask someone you’re crushing on to get coffee or dinner and that person says, ‘No thanks.’ Immediately, your mind will insert an elaborate ‘mind movie’ about what is wrong with you. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

We add insult to injury with our reactions with those 2nd, 3rd, and 4th arrows. It’s those arrows—the ones we aim at ourselves—that causes so much of our suffering. (So unnecessary. Trust me.) But we can practice deflecting those arrows. 

It starts with noticing them!

So ask yourself when you might be directing unnecessary arrows at yourself. Just observe over the next week or so, without any judgment. Be curious about your mind. Observe your inner critic. Cultivate some self-compassion. After all, life gives us chances every single day to make different choices, to respond more patiently, and to get a bit of perspective.

Check out the next article on how to offset the negativity bias with a simple skill to practice (on positivity).

Also, you might consider my book and card deck on cultivating more love and kindness in your life—wonderful antidotes to those self-inflicted arrows!

Resource: Resilient: Find Your Inner Strength by Rick Hanson

Photo by Henrikke Due on Unsplash

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash

Rx when Parenting a Child with a Chronic Condition

by Leave a Comment

Heavy Doses of Compassion

A dear friend from ages past texted me that his son, who just graduated from high school, has cancer. My heart broke open in a millisecond. I was standing in a Sunday morning line for coffee. The news about his son stopped me cold. Life is so unfair. I couldn’t stop shaking my head in disbelief. The poor barista thought I was complaining about the service.

I met Tom when we were 17 on a school program to the United Nations. I like to joke that he was on the bus of smart Canadians and I somehow sneaked into the program. To apply to the program I wrote an essay about the former UN Secretary Dag Hammarskjöld, with a quote I found in a library book. I’m fairly certain that I was the only one in my town who applied. Now I find it interesting that the chosen quote conjures up the timeless suffering of mothers (of which I still have written out in my neat teenage handwriting). For a whole week we visited New York City, the UN, and went to the top of the World Trade Center for a view of Lady Liberty. The towers no longer exist, of course, and yet they will always be tied in some small measure to that adolescent flirtation, the ideals of humanitarian efforts, and the fragility of life.


It is said that the tears of one mother are the tears of all and the glory of one man is the glory of all men…

Dag Hammarskjöld, 1953

We now are parents and professionals living full lives in different countries marked by the trials and triumphs of being mere humans—we share the main headlines that might fit in a text message or over an occasional phone call. He’s a school principal. I’m a psychologist. He has boys. I have girls. And I wholeheartedly share in his current optimism: his son has a highly curable form of cancer.

I don’t want to offer up a cliché but I will: Perhaps there are few comparable experiences that collect the kind of battle wounds like the scars you get from child rearing. At the same time, there is nothing like the joy and pride that arise in the smallest of moments in watching your children thrive. You never think your heart can crack open wider and then it just does. It’s that very vulnerability that exposes us to the abyss that is human suffering. Deep love. Deep pain. 

A child’s cancer diagnosis is a shot to the heart.

I sat with my cup of my tea thinking about Tom and his son when I saw a family stroll in. They pushed a daughter, now a young adult, in a wheelchair. I wondered about her. A spinal injury? A congenital condition? Hard to say. Her hair was neatly brushed. She wore a shimmering cherry lipstick. It was carefully and lovingly applied. I was overcome with emotion.

I began to count. 

In my mind I lined up a dozen random parents I know in my community. How many had a child with a chronic or serious illness or condition? I summoned up a list of their children’s conditions: anxiety, addiction, ADD, autism spectrum, clinical depression, cerebral palsy, a congenital heart condition, kidney disease, and post concussion syndrome, including two deaths due to chronic childhood illnesses. That our community has been spared a youth suicide or fatal car accident or death by gun violence seems—statistically—a stroke of luck. I included myself in the line up of parents. We have a daughter with potentially lethal food allergies. Sophie is now 21 and has not outgrown them. I’m only mildly relieved that her boyfriend is an EMT.

How many of these parents suffer quietly with the plight of their child’s condition, or keep to themselves for the sake of privacy, or simply are heads down with caregiving that others don’t even know to reach out? I also imagine parents in other communities who don’t have the privilege of a well-resourced school system or medical access or aren’t able to rally funds for research or costs of care. The bottom line is that more needs to be done for families to foster the kind of resilience that may be needed for a long haul. Two colleagues (Lorraine Hobbs and Kimberly Arthur) and I recently published a journal article about the need to support parents with children with chronic conditions: The Role of Compassion and Mindfulness in Building Parental Resilience When Caring for Children With Chronic Conditions: A Conceptual Model. (Please read and share it.)


…both mindfulness and compassion have significant potential to support this process of working through adversity and finding ways to develop inner resources to cultivate acceptance, find meaning in the context of complex parenting challenges, and respond to the child and oneself with kindness in the face of persistent stressors associated with children’s chronic conditions.

Cousineau, Hobbs & Arthur, 2019

A Silent Suffering

We couldn’t write about our personal experiences in this kind of academic platform yet our hearts were totally in it. We have children with various conditions requiring different levels of care and attention. So we try to walk the talk and wrote the article. Here’s why: 

Parenting a child with an illness or disability is very common yet remains a silent plight for many. 

Close to 20% of parents have a child with a chronic condition or disability, which is defined as any condition that has lasted or is expected to last for at least 12 months. Personally, I think this is an underestimate due to under reporting and stigma. But let’s just say that 1 in 5 parents/families has a child with some sort of chronic affliction. (There are 83M families in the US and 15M single mothers.) Assume for the sake of my argument that you are in a room full of parents. The next time you are in a meeting at work or a school PTA meeting, or at a place of worship, or on a commuter train imagine that for every 4 seats the 5th seat has a parent facing a difficult illness challenge with a child—no matter the age of a child. Imagine yourself in his or her shoes. 

One memory that comes to mind is when my daughter Sophie was three years old and at preschool. She took a cracker out of a snack jar. Apparently another child with sticky peanut butter fingers had also done so. Her face blew up like a balloon immediately. The EMTs were called. She chugged some liquid Benadryl. She recovered. The school eventually became “peanut/nut free” to the chagrin of other parents. It was a common battle cry across American schools: “Why should my child give up his PB&J?” “That’s the only thing he eats and he has the right to have peanut butter.”  “Why should my kid starve?” Parents of the afflicted child would counter, “This could be a life or death situation. Surely you can see that?” “You’d rather see a child risk her life than to find something else for your kid to eat?” “Try carrots instead.”

Later the solution in the elementary school was to separate the food allergy kids from the others at lunch time, leaving Sophie at a table all by herself. She became a pariah, a social outcast. The social stigma was an unintended consequence, of course. And it was unacceptable.

BFFs on a Hot Summer Day

Then guess what happened? God bless the children to find solutions that parents or administrators can’t see. Her friends began to sit with her. Over time they became little vigilantes monitoring who had what in their lunch boxes. The girls made sure their parents knew about Sophie’s food allergies for birthday parties and sports events. They educated themselves. They watched the Epi-pen injection video and practiced puncturing an orange with a plastic model pen. Although we were all in a state of anticipatory anxiety, organically we cultivated a “community watch.”  Eventually, we all relaxed. When a local 15-year old girl died from anaphylaxis after a severe allergic reaction just days before her 16th birthday, despite the family’s careful precautions, the threat became all too real once again. (See Project Abbie at Harvard.)

Compassionate Action

My daughter’s situation may not compare to the plight of others. A food allergy is an episodic condition that is largely reliant on prevention and avoidance, yet can have a fatal outcome. Yet that’s not my point. Millions of parents are managing some sort of childhood condition every single day. Of course, the medical conditions and potential outcomes vary among children: Children may be hospitalized for depression or suicidal ideation, or suffer a physical illness or condition; or a child may be contending with developmental delays, mobility issues, aggressive outbursts, or chronic pain. There are IEPs and accommodations, specialists, and regular medical monitoring, and concerns about independent living in adulthood. It can be all consuming at times.

What is common is the persistent fear and distress felt by a mom, dad or caregiver. Whenever a child needs specialized care or attention, there is a slow wear-and-tear in the fabric of parenting. An unraveling may occur in parallel with a kind of constant mending, in attempts to emotionally or pragmatically hold it together. There is also the mental “code switching” between taking care of a child’s current needs and the anticipation or planning for the future “what ifs.”  It’s hard to be present when the mind is in a ricochet of tending tasks. Let’s not forget that many parents inevitably put their personal needs and goals on hold and may also be economically impacted. Even the most optimistic or well-resourced parents will find themselves in moments of despair or panic. That’s the only natural response. 

What I love about compassion-focused approaches to parenting is the recognition that biologically we are wired to protect and ward off threat. That basic understanding can begin to shift how we communicate and respond. I can’t blame the pro-PB&J parents. They want their children to have what they need to survive. They aren’t thinking about the other tribe of parents who also want their children to survive by avoiding PB&J at all costs. Our perspective narrows when we are threatened. The single focus is on survival. The emotions that drive defensive behavior include anger, anxiety, fear, or disgust. As I wrote in my last post, Lead with Love, when we notice which emotion regulation systems are activated (threat, thrive, care/connect), we can begin to respond to life’s experiences in more beneficial and grounded ways. We can respond in a more balanced way.  This is where mindfulness and compassion comes in. 

https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fpsyg.2019.01602/full

The approach we proposed in the article emphasizes relational compassion and self-compassion. All too often the sole or primary focus is on child medical outcomes rather than parental resilience. This is understandable but to use another cliché—the one about the oxygen mask on a flight—we have to help the caregivers put on the oxygen mask first. The point in our article is we believe that cultivation of safety, connection, and caring is essential in any communication, intervention, or resource created to support parents when caring for a child with a chronic condition. This helps to get parents out of the constant threat/survival mode and offer relief from the exhaustion that can come from empathy fatigue, persistent uncertainty, constant caregiving, or social isolation. This means growing both inner strengths and outer strengths.

We consider the mindfulness and compassion skills as a way to “bounce forward” rather than “bounce back”—because life will never revert to a previous way of parenting. Resilience is inherently about caring, connection and community. It also requires a kind of deep knowing that we all belong to one another. In this way we are responsible for the welfare of the collective “we.”  Parenting is hard under optimal circumstances. No family is immune from threat, loss, or disappointment. It can take some emotional courage to turn toward what is difficult and reach out to a family in helpful ways—especially when vulnerable children face challenges. The default is to respect privacy, or not impose, or keep a safe distance, or drop off casseroles. I get it. But we also have to stretch ourselves and connect with parents. We don’t know what we don’t know.

Take the risk: Ask them.

How may I be of help? Is there something specific I can do? What is important for us to know? Is it Ok if I check in every once in a while? We are here for you.

My colleague and friend Susan Pollak, EdD, just published a beautiful book called Self Compassion for Parents: Nurture Your Child By Caring for Yourself (The Guilford Press, 2019).  What’s on the cover? Two slices of PB&J!  That got me hooked. She wrote it for every parent, of course, who deals with the ordinary and extraordinary challenges of parenting. I particularly love the “Fierce Compassion” meditation and “Soothing Touch in the Heat of the Moment.”  I highly recommend it.  

Photo by Thais Morais on Unsplash


Lead with Love

by Leave a Comment

There’s a funny thing that happens when you start walking the kindness talk.  People seem to crave it. Recently, I’ve been asked to speak at various companies and organizations — from accounting companies to human services, from high net worth investment firms to public schools.  What’s the common denominator? I’d like to think this trend is about how we each can be more of the human we want to be: caring, wholehearted and generous. That’s part of it, of course. That’s the bright side of such a talk. But underneath is a deep need to understand what gets in the way. That’s the shadow side. 

We need to become friends with the shadow side. 

This is easier than you might think. The dark side of corporate culture reveals itself in the face of fear and threat — meeting deadlines, KPIs, profits, career advancement, and all the usual suspects that arise when real or imagined survival is at stake — at the expense of human connection and compassion. 

The paradox at the heart of this matter is that it’s okay to be competitive AND cooperative at the same time.  It’s more than okay. It’s necessary. It requires awareness in how humans respond to the world, through three emotion motivational systems espoused by the British compassion researcher and psychologist Paul Gilbert. I wrote about it in The Kindness Cure in chapter 10 (Emotional Paradox).

The paradoxes you can experience in your own mind are clashes between the “old brain/mind” and the “new brain/mind.” Your “old brain/mind” is the “base model” of human emotional regulation and hasn’t changed much over millennia. Its job is to serve your basic survival instincts as soon as possible and to seek out pleasure and comfort. It is speedy and reactive. The three main emotion regulation systems operating within it are:

• A threat and self-protection system that senses threats quickly and activates the fight- flight-freeze- faint response in your limbic system. This is like your home surveillance system.

• An incentive and resource-seeking system that propels you to seek pleasure, consume, play, strive/achieve, and mate. It’s like an Energizer Bunny scurrying about, looking for fun or success in life.

•  A soothing and contentment system that seeks balance, rest, and connection, and is strongly linked to affection, bonding, caregiving, kindness, and compassion. This is the calm and connect system, and it is a bit slower to come online, but when it does, it gives you a sense of overall wellbeing—like a baby’s snuggly or a rocking chair.

Your “new brain/mind” developed later in human evolution. It’s really smart. The newer model is more complex and allows you to work things through, compare, contemplate, mull things over, create, innovate, imagine, seek knowledge, strive for goals, and develop an identity. This allows for quick learning, exchanging information from among groups, and passing on these adaptive genes to future generations. Importantly, this sophisticated upgrade allows you to be aware that you exist and have a sense of self. Thanks to your “new brain/mind,” you can be aware of your awareness, unlike any other animal, and observe your own mind. This is, of course, both a blessing and a curse.

When your “new brain/mind” is pulled by the fears and passions of the “old brain/mind,” you can get stuck in unkind behaviors (toward yourself or others). This is the unfortunate bug in the system, so to speak.

Workplace Woes, Compassionate Action

This came up in a recent conversation. I was a guest on a podcast summit created by Mari-Lyn Harris, founder of Heart@Work, who I met via Linked In through what I call kindness spotters.  (We kindness warriors just find each other.)

Mari-Lyn has been figuring out ways to share the news about leading with kindness, to assist leaders in cultivating better productivity, profits and a happier workplace culture. She created a Virtual Kindness Conference and you can watch it (it’s free). The interviews include short and sweet conversations with experts about workplace culture. You can watch the interviews at Heart@Work or on YouTube.  I talk about befriending the inner critic at work and gathering positivity allies to counteract the negativity that even one nasty person can evoke. It takes commitment.  Of course, it helps when leadership/management adopts and embodies the values of caring and compassion as integral to company goals, even if you are selling widgets or crunching numbers. You might enjoy the series and have something you would like to offer to an ongoing conversation on kind leadership.

Here’s to growing a kind mind.

21 Days of Kindfulness: Get daily notes to your inbox for just three weeks — which is about the time it takes for a new habit to take root. I invite you to kickstart kindness in your life and share with a friend. It’s free. 

A Little Deck of Kindfulness: The card deck is here! (See the sample image above). Cultivate more kindness and compassion for oneself and for others. Order now! (in continental USA).


Facing Fears. Diving In.

by Leave a Comment

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. 

  • 21 Days of Kindfulness – Get daily notes to your inbox for just three weeks — which is about the time it takes for a new habit to take root. I invite you to kickstart kindness in your life and share with a friend. It’s free. 
  • A Little Deck of Kindfulness is here (see image above). Cultivate more kindness and compassion for oneself and for others. Order now! (in continental USA).


Courageous Conversations with Family

by Leave a Comment

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

Self-Kindness: Finding Refuge for Ourselves

by Leave a Comment

When I grew up I learned a lot about being compassionate and giving to other people. My mother is German and came over after World War II at age 19 as a nanny. Eventually, she married an American guy (for worse rather than for better) and had two daughters. We really struggled when my parents split up. She began to sell Avon door-to-door to make ends meet. We were even on food stamps for a time. She either made our clothes or whipped up outfits from the local thrift shop. Few would ever have a clue about much we struggled. This led to a quiet kind of shame, an imposter syndrome. Still, we were always giving. If there was something that we didn’t need and somebody else could use it, we’d just gave it away. My mom’s cosmetic customers ended up with our hand-me-downs and toys for their children. It was quite the network of generosity.

Of course, kindness, self-sacrifice, and a reduce-reuse-recycle philosophy were very important values. But in our family it almost went to the extreme. When it came to giving for oneself, or even wanting or desiring anything, it was fraught with guilt and anxiety. Sometimes I became angry about it, too. It seemed somehow unfair and I threw fits of frustration.

I realized only later when I started learning about the science of compassion that I had found ways as a child to be caring towards myself. Often it was in the form of running away from home. This meant bee-lining through the backyard into the woods with my stuffed animal, named Rango, and my Raggedy Ann sleeping bag. I had many forts under pine trees and also up in the thick branches of a weeping beech situated on a rich neighbor’s estate. Mostly I’d find a favorite spot in a hidden thicket and lay down on the soft pine needles, looking up through the long arms of the trees, and just rest. I’d take in the sights and sounds and the smells; and it was really only when it got too dark that I would sneak back into the house and up into my room. (Of course, my mother knew I’d do that.)

Without knowing it, I was recruiting my own physiology for self-soothing. I engaged the “calm and connect” pathways in my body, also known as the parasympathetic nervous system. I also had some courage.

This past winter I “ran away” to my first meditation retreat. It was a 7-day silent retreat for women. There was snow everywhere and it was bleak. We were not supposed to write in journals or read books, and of course there was no speaking other than in the conduct of some shared chores. The rebel that I am, I cheated a little bit. At the last minute before I left home, I brought with me a very thin book of poetry by Mary Oliver, Swan, that someone had gifted my daughter for her 18th birthday. I thought, “I can sneak this in with me.”

One night just like a child, I took out a flashlight and began reading. One poem cut me to the core. It spoke to me as if from a long hibernation. I recalled that earlier time in my life when I found refuge in the woods and wept. The poem is called “Trees,”

Heaven knows how many
trees I climbed when my body
was still in the climbing way, how

many afternoons, especially
windy ones, I sat
perched on a limb that

rose and fell with every invisible
blow. Each tree was
a green ship in the wind-waves, every

branch a mast, every leafy height
a happiness that came without
even trying. I was that alive

and limber. Now I walk under them —
cool, beloved: the household
of such tall, kind sisters.
〜Mary Oliver

Such tall, kind sisters. We need to find our places of refuge. A safe place. A sense of feeling bolstered up. As a young girl I had to learn how to bring compassion to my own suffering. I did it without even knowing it and because of that I didn’t appreciate the essentiality of this kind of self-love. Instead, I felt guilty about being such an ornery, temperamental child, of which I was often reminded.

Self-compassion is a psychological resource that we need to repeat over and over again. It’s about being on your own side, like a true friend. Self-kindness is a source of inner strength. As the psychologist Rick Hanson teaches, we need to absorb these nurturing and beneficial experiences so they get turned into lasting changes in the neural structures of the brain. He refers to this resourcing as filling the “neural backpack” with the supplies needed for wellbeing and true happiness. Self-compassion is one of those survival skills to carry along the journey of life.

Speaking kind words

One way that we can cultivate self-compassion and add it to the neural backpack is to come up with kind words for yourself.

You can write down simple statements such as:

I am okay.
I’m taking a stand for myself.
I trust in myself.
I am enough.
Even though this feels hard, I will be kind to myself.

Or, refer to yourself in the third person or imagine a wise being, an angel or spiritual guide, speaking to you:

You rock.
You can do this.
Your true nature is love.

The only caveats are:

Be clear. Be authentic and true to your experience. Use a kind tone.

You can ask yourself what do I need to feel calm in my body? How can I bring kindfulness to this moment? The answers are typically universal human needs. For example:

Belonging
Connection
Encouragement
Love
Respect

You can also bring to mind times when your were really on your own side. Maybe it was through a hardship, failure, or loss; or you found yourself speaking up to someone who disappointed or hurt you. If this it too hard you can recall a time when you were encouraging or protective toward a loved one or friend. Direct that gentle attitude toward yourself.

Write down your phrases. Once you have one or two, try them on. Find a few minutes each day to quietly reflect on the statements. Repeat them aloud or in your mind and let them sink in. Call upon them when you find yourself in a challenging moment. You may use more traditional loving kindness phrases, too. These are phrases of wishing yourself well and including your being in the circle of humanity:

May I be safe and protected
May I be peaceful
May I live a ease and kindness
May I experience joy and purpose

Feel what it’s like to be committed to your own well-being, to being your own BFF. Let the feelings, thoughts and intentions of being a true friend to yourself sink in and becoming a part of you. And repeat.

Credits:

Photo by Savs on Unsplash

Photo by Raquel Smith on Unsplash

Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash

I shall not be moved

by Leave a Comment

I shall not be moved.

On my wall hangs a signed copy of Dr. Maya Angelou’s poem Our Grandmothers. I bid on the 8×11” piece of paper at an auction at Boston’s Institute for Contemporary Art in 1993 when it was housed in an old fire station on Boylston Street. The ICA was raising funds for AIDS relief and research. I was a grad student living off loans and hardly in the position to bid on art.  But the Angelou poem on linen resume paper got my attention. A voice inside me said, “Hold up your auction number already!” Meekly, raised my paddle. To my surprise I kept poking up my hand. Do I hear $10? Do I hear $15? In the end I paid $100 (and twice that for the frame).

She gathered her babies,

Their tears slick as oil on black faces,

Their young eyes canvassing mornings of madness.

Momma, is Master going to sell you

from us tomorrow?

The poem is placed above my framed doctorate degree. After 25 years both documents are faded and musty. Whatever they are worth today, emotional or otherwise, they remain symbolic. Maybe more so today as a daughter of an immigrant mother from post WWII West Germany. I am a first generation college graduate. My husband and I are now launching our girls into the world. Not without some reservation, I might add. They are young women living in rather strange times in the very land of opportunity to which my mother fled and my husband’s French Canadian ancestors settled to farm or work in textile mills. I find myself apologizing for the burdens their generation will bear in spite of amazing progress. It seems we are taking some steps back. But what’s a mother to do?

So I turn to wise elders. Every once in a while I stand before Our Grandmothers with my chin angled and eyes squinting. Angelou’s poem is strangely beautiful, fierce, heartbreaking yet hopeful. (You can read it in full.) The poem was inspired  by an old spiritual turned into a protest song. I look up at Angelou’s words with a kind of reverence and also a basic incomprehension of the plight of slavery, of black women, and how history can’t help but repeat itself. Many images arise. The German holocaust. The Rwandan genocide. Syrian refugees. How dare I, however, relate to a poem about black women and generations of oppression. I will never pretend to know. Yet, a mother am I. Empathy, after all, enables us to imagine ourselves into the lives of others.

Yearning to Breath Free by Barry Blitt (c) The New Yorker July 2, 2018

As I watched the news about the children being separated from parents at the borderland, I am drawn to her poem again. In the haze of the summer heat, Angelou’s words mesmerize. Several stanzas scream out.

No angel stretched protecting wings

above the heads of her children,

fluttering and urging the winds of reason

into the confusions of their lives.

The sprouted like young weeds,

but she could not shield their growth

from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor

shape them into symbolic topiaries.

She sent them away,

underground, overland, in coaches and shoeless.

There was another line of text that moved me recently in a news story on the 4th of July: “Therese Patricia Okoumou, of Staten Island, was arrested after scaling the base of the statue and taking up temporary residence on Lady Liberty’s right foot.”

I clicked the news feed for more. Sure enough. Upon the grand topiary of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, was a small human figure seated at the folds of her green copper cloak.

I shall not be moved.

Captivated, I watched the footage. Who was this person? Here was someone who embodied the spirit of many people today, like me, resisting the irrational policies of our nation but with much more nerve. That she would not be moved was a thrilling example of compassion in action.

Just days before, like many others, I had joined in yet another protest march, #FamiliesBelongTogether. Volunteers were handing out bottles of water. Local leaders gave speeches. Chants of “This is what democracy looks like!” could be heard in waves. I held my worn out sign from previous marches.  I poked my arm up and down like an auction paddle. Be Kind, Be Brave. Dripping in sweat I lamented, Will this march make a damn difference? In the center of my poster board is image of a black girl under the title Women are Perfect. It was created by muralist Jessica Sabogal in partnership with Amplifier.org for the Women’s March in 2017. My husband had made easy-to-carry sign for me then.  It seems to have multiple lives.

Will this march make a difference? The lament circled in my mind. Maybe it was the heat. It’s exhausting to bear witness to the creepy erosion of basic liberties, the seeds of fascism finding root. Moving along the crowds I found myself behind a young man waving his poster, History Teachers Against Repeating History. Another sign appeared in the far distance: And then the children.

and I shall not, I shall not be moved.

I hopped on a concrete wall looking at the crowds. Impressed yet not quite hopeful. Then a mother with her daughter asked to take a photo of my sign. “Do you know the child in your poster is Maya? That’s her name and she’s seven years old. She’s a friend of ours. Her name is Maya.” The mother was insistent. “Her name is Maya. Maya.” Thank you for telling me.

Women Are Perfect (c) 2017 Jessica Sabogal

Back home I looked up at Our Grandmothers and wondered if the child depicted in Sabogal’s protest poster was named after the poet. The mother at the march really wanted me to know the girl had a name. It matters. At a poetry reading given by late Dr. Angelou she implored us to love our ancestors for they named us and loved us before we were even born.

Children behind wired fences have names, too.

Like the woman at the foot of Lady Liberty. Therese Patricia Okoumou. She was asking us to care. She was showing us that when people go low, we can go high.  Our grandmothers demand this of us.

The Divine upon my right

impels me to pull forever

at the latch of Freedom’s gate.

The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my

feet without ceasing into the camp of the

righteous and into the tents of the free.

I reconsidered my doubts. Every human has a name. Every step makes a difference. Every chant breaks the silence. Raising your hand up in protest matters. It’s what Dr. Maya Angelou called the nobleness of the human spirit. It’s what democracy looks like.

Lay aside your fears that I will be undone, for I shall not be moved.

 

 

Appreciation for Maya Angelou

 

Featured Image:
Luke Stackpoole

Love Thy Neighbor

by Leave a Comment

 

I joke when I say I belong to the church of Mr. Fred Rogers. People close me know how much I admire the late great TV host and often send me quotes, vids or articles about him. So when my husband and I went to the local community theatre to see the new documentary Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, it was as much about being a flock member of his media ministry as it was much needed relief from the recent weeks in our country. Images of children separated from their families and behind wired fences is nothing short of a battle cry for compassion, care and reason. Of course, children the world over are suffering in unconscionable ways. Somehow it hurts more when it’s closer to home and under our country’s watch.

We need you Mr. Rogers.

I was three years old when the first season of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood aired. I was five when I got a FAO Schwarz stuffed animal for Christmas, a spotted leopard named Rango. To me he was a kindred spirit to puppet Daniel Striped Tiger and he soaked up buckets of snot and tears. Decades later Rango was adopted by my youngest daughter, although not with the same passion I once held as a lifeline. Even one glance at the now floppy cub, who is relegated to a bookshelf, infuses me with a love so big that I grin with gratitude every time.

Fabulous reviews about this Rogers documentary abound and you will simply have to see it for yourself. It is a salve for our times. The subtitle is “A little kindness makes a world of difference.”  We all know that’s true. It’s just harder to implement on a moment-to-moment basis as seems warranted now.

When I say it’s you I like, I’m talking about that part of you that knows that life is far more than anything you can ever see or hear or touch. That deep part of you that allows you to stand for those things without which humankind cannot survive. Love that conquers hate, peace that rises triumphant over war, and justice that proves more powerful than greed. – Fred Rogers

Mr. Rogers didn’t creep me out like some say. I was the perfect age for his pace of teaching and doctrine of love. I needed calm and consistency in order to deal with big questions I could only feel rather than understand when my family was breaking apart. We might all benefit from slowing down enough to listen to our own hearts and hear our own breath.

Fred Rogers’ kindness was fierce and compelling, soft and hard, timeless and true. He respected children: their vulnerability, imagination, and curiosity.  He believed that what mattered — an enduring empathy and respect for the human condition — in all its variations, was also “invisible to the eye.” This is the subtle caring that inhabits the spaces between and within each other. I imagine this belief was also a nod to the 1943 children’s book, The Little Prince, that also impressed me so:

And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Mr. Rogers showed us that there is good in this world and we can be part of it: Love Thy Neighbor. Love Thy Self. His numerology was: 1-4-3.

I  L-O-V-E  Y-O-U.

This is heart work. We need his legacy and light to speak loud and clear. It’s up to us.

Your fellow lightworker,

Tara

More Matters in Kind