Tara Cousineau, PhD

Clinical Psychologist, Kindness Warrior

meditation

Tuck Yourself in with Loving-Kindness

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When life seems to continuously illuminate the suffering and injustices in humanity and one can only bear witness, it’s time to say a little prayer.

When people distrust science and neglect public health prescriptions, it’s hard to know what might evolve humanity toward greater goodwill toward one another and the sacred ground upon which we tread.

When history seems to repeat itself, valuing power over rather than empowerment, well, just maybe, a little love and kindness could nudge our nervous systems to favor a caring response rather than a callous one. And we need to look within to a still quiet place to find it.

Try a loving-kindness meditation

It’s fascinating that the intervention research on an ancient Eastern tradition known as mettā or loving-kindness meditation (LKM), indicates beneficial outcomes on mental and physical health. Mettā, a Pali word, refers to an unconditional friendliness or good heartedness. The traditional practice is simply a well wishing in ever widening circles of care using a series of phrases. Meditation teacher Sharon Salzberg greatly influenced the introduction of this practice to the West, with her book Loving Kindness and many teachings since. An LKM typically begins with a blessing toward someone you cherish who evokes feelings of warmth and tenderness, a smile. Then you extend the blessing toward loved ones; toward a neutral person or stranger; toward a person you may have difficulty with; and finally, extending goodwill toward all beings.

May you be safe.

May you be happy.

May you be healthy.

May you live with ease and kindness.

In some way it reminds me of the 1970s Catholic church tunes. I remember singing along with the folk music ministry groups, looking up to these young people who looked like Sonny and Cher, cloaked in bell bottoms and tasseled vests. Songs like Be Not Afraid and Blest Are They still evoke an upswell of compassion in me. Decades later I’m comforted by the wisdom singer-songwriter Mary Gauthier with her panoramic song Mercy Now, with stanzas that stretch compassion from the deeply painful and personal to the social and political. We could all use a little mercy now, indeed.

There’s something to this zooming in and zooming out that is nourishment for the soul. A loving-kindness practice is a tonic of tenderness. But instead of feeling pain, the practice evokes a kind of benevolent expansiveness that transcends the Me and embraces the We. It’s a heart opener.

LKM is a good prescription

Delightfully, science is proving out ancient wisdom that such healing words do in fact heal. Even one-week of an LKM practice can have positive benefits on wellbeing, including neural activation in the brain associated with emotion regulation, affiliation, and social awareness. Importantly, a LKM can offset the inner critical voice or negative social comparison that is the root of so much personal suffering. This blessing promotes an upswell in positive emotions, which builds resilience and empathy, and broadens your perspective. In a mindful self-compassion therapy approach, tucking yourself in the LKM sequence is essential. The psychologist and teacher Jack Kornfield has said, “If compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.”

Befriending oneself can be hard to do in part because we get in our own way. So practicing an LKM toward yourself may feel awkward or scripted at first. As with any prayer or affirmation you can craft your very own LKM and make it authentic and true to your experience—and at the very least allow the practice to be aspirational.

Create your own LKM

In one of the most challenging years for me personally, I’ve had to call on compassion practices to keep me sane. The last 12 months have been fraught with more disruptions than I can count, including the pain of loved ones’ suffering: addiction, injury, illness, death; moving out of the home in which we raised our children; as well as missed milestones like graduation and coming of age celebrations. It’s a wonder to behold that spring has arrived again.

The only sustaining practice for me has been that each morning I say a little prayer. Sometimes it is simply a thank you. Other days I recite a personal LKM aloud just to hear my own declaration to the universe. This helps me to get out of the echo chamber of my brain. When 2021 arrived I felt the urge to create a new prayer that I might grow into.

May love lead.

May I trust my intuition

and say no to Fear and yes to Spirit.

May I find serenity in discerning what

I can and cannot change,

knowing that life serves up lessons

to grow my soul.

May I have the fortitude,

both the vitality and courage,

to be a benevolent servant

of wisdom and compassion.

May I be clear, consistent, and kind

in living my true purpose.

May I allow joy to flourish

each and every day.

May I be a spark of the Universe, Divine Source,

and shine a bright light among humanity.

May I find harmony

in the constant flow of life.

May you be a spark of the universe and shine a bright light among humanity. I invite you to create your own loving-kindness blessing. Be kind, be clear, be true to your experience.

How to Do Metta

More on the science: https://www.healthline.com/health/metta-meditation#what-to-know

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

Handprints in the Heart: A Reflection on Love and Loss

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It’s been a raw, rainy and cold spring in New England.  An impatience for summer has taken hold as I feel vitamin D deprived. If anything, the slog of the last few months has been a time for quiet reflection.  

I went on my first 7-day retreat of “noble silence” at the Insight Meditation Society in March.  A week of nothing to do but meditate with 100 women, all strangers to me. No friends. No talking. No technology. No reading. No writing. No obligations.

My family and friends at home wondered:  Was it amazing? That must have been so relaxing! How nice to get away for a whole week.  As if I was napping and reading fashion magazines at a spa.

Not even close. It was a week of sitting in silence, walking in silence, sitting in silence, walking in silence, sitting in silence, walking in silence… in a snowbound building and in the most rural part of the state. It was so bleak that the warm glow of a sunset, like a cherry swirl popsicle, was a gift I didn’t know I desired until it appeared. A deep appreciation settled in.

But by the end of the week a sort of transformation took place—in part because of the contrast with what came after. The minute I left I was hit with a reality of life: the hustle and bustle, the noise, the demands for my attention, a work crisis. Perhaps most poignant were the looming changes ahead: My youngest was about to turn 18 and be off to a college far away. We had also decided to move out of our home after two decades. The proverbial emptying of the nest.

If anything, the week of silence helped me to be present with all the uncertainty, to be patient with discomfort, and to practice the deep work of befriending my own mind. This is not easy.

One evening at the retreat the master teacher, Christina Feldman, read one of my favorite poems, Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye.

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

Hearing the poem in the midst of such quietude was a comfort, like the tender hand of a grandmother resting on my shoulder. The young woman next to me began to weep and I wished I could have taken her hand in mine. We were alone, together. And yet the proximity, the felt sense of compassion, was enough for each of us to bear our own thoughts.

The opening lines of the poem linger with me as I clear out closets, discover remnants of child’s play, and make the donation rounds to Savers. Mostly achingly the words sear as I apply and reapply fresh coats of paint to the stair banisters, oily and stained by children’s hands. Covering up the proof of our lives.

The other day my college-bound child flounced on the couch in my home office. She looked up at the ceiling and noticed a dirty hand print. That’s yours, I told her.  “No way.” Yes. You tried on a new white dress for a banquet and twirled on the coffee table feeling so pretty and proud. She didn’t believe that she could have reached that high as a kid. She hopped up and realized that indeed her 11-year old agile self might very well have done just that. One of her nicknames was Jumping Josie after all.  We stared at the smudge for a long while.

…all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

We both knew. Same time next year all this would be but a memory. Childhood is like that. It has a shape, many shapes, and then it’s gone. Even the dirty hand print.

 

Still.  I’m not painting over it.

Not as long as I live here anyway.

 

 

P.S. Hop on over my book page to sign-up for Kindness Cure goodies.

Notes: 

You can listen to the poet Naomi Shihab Nye read her poem Kindness at On Being radio.

Photo credits:

Stairs, Jumping Josie, Hand Print (c) Tara Cousineau, 2018

Sunset

Aaron Andary

No More Guns and Roses

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“Do you know that there have been 239 school shootings since Sandy Hook?”

“Mom.”  My younger daughter’s voice cracked, “One of the boys got his acceptance letter into a college the day before.”  

She stood in the shadow of a door in the one corner where she could charge her smartphone while scrolling the deluge of messages and postings from teens all over the country about Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida. She will graduate in a few months.

We stared at each other. It’s hard to come up with words in such a moment. Sometimes there aren’t any. Her long hair was loose and wavy from a run in the rain. In the dim light she looked like one of those ephemeral paintings by J.W. Waterhouse. A mythological maiden. An image of worry and wonder. Fragile yet fierce.

She stomped off to study for a calc quiz in a flurry of anger—and I imagine also a wave of guilt and gratitude that she can even be angry about homework when 17 kids can’t. I’m with her. Those precious lives cut short. I think of the grieving father who couldn’t remember if he told his daughter “I love you” when he dropped her off at school that day.

No words.

I silently asked myself: What is the next best thing I can do right now? It seems that the grown ups are failing their children. Yet I sense a vibe. These kids won’t stand for it. This generation is going to do something about it. Two decades of a public health crisis in schools and they will use their common sense, pure and simple. They could care less about lobbyists and special interests. They care about each other.

But at 10 o’clock at night there is only so much a mom can do. There is an Eastern compassion practice called tonglen, which is a giving and receiving reflection to use in difficult times. 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.” That’s what I choose to do in the moment.

Here is a simple version that I offer in my book.

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.

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. Switchback 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.

It’s an uneven see-saw. All those kids. Parents. Friends.

Some say prayers are not enough. This feels true. But where would we be without them?

A sacred pause. A deep breath. One for me, for you. An infusion of air inviting a sliver of hope. Maybe even a dose of faith. When we start from a place of loving awareness a smidge of space opens up. It’s here where we can discern the next best thing to do. It can reveal a path to compassionate action.

Call a congressperson. Support sensible gun policy. Vote at the midterms. Volunteer. Donate. Speak up. Say I love you.

Make every moment count.

Are you concerned about Gun Violence in Schools and communities?

It is time for a kindness revolution. Kindness Cure Sightings:

 

 

Credits:

Getty Images, 2018

Tara Cousineau, 2018, Guns & Roses Multimedia

What Would Ben Franklin Say?

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It was a warm Sunday afternoon in April. We were on our way home from New York City, which is a good four hours away. The youngest flower girl in our own wedding had just been married. She was just as beautiful the previous evening as she was 23 years ago. I felt like I was watching a blessed soul walking down yet another aisle leaving a trail of anticipation and hope. Of course, it made me think of my own daughters and how I hoped they would be graced with lasting love. Alas, I was getting ahead of myself.  The very thought of my girls getting married also made be depressed.

We had just picked up our dog Leo who spent his weekend with my in-laws. We were driving through the back roads of the Blackstone Valley in central Massachusetts pocketed with small towns. Hopedale. Mendon. Franklin. They were once home to French Canadians and other immigrants working in the textile mills or on farms. My husband’s earliest memories are of the old family farm, riding along in his father’s milk truck, or getting lost in corn rows.  Many of the farms no longer exist and the mills have all but disappeared. Suburbia and service roads now take up the space. It feels somehow uncomfortable as if I could be in Anywhere America, unmoored and without clear landmarks or a sense of community.

Yet, there is a very small sign we always pass along route 140. It honors the town of Franklin as the home of the first public library in the United States. It was established in 1778 when the town changed its name from Exeter to Franklin to honor the inventor Dr. Benjamin Franklin. In gratitude for the recognition, Franklin gifted some of his books to the town. As the story goes, this apparently caused a ruckus about who would house these treasures. Some sensible town folk decided to lend the books to the town residents at no cost and thus birthing the first lending library.

I’ve driven by this little road sign countless times and often think of Ben Franklin. For over two centuries we have absorbed Franklin’s wisdom in ways we may not even be aware. I will guess my girls have a faint idea about electricity and a kite rather than his timeless insights on life, liberty, and freedom. In one way or another many of us are familiar with his kitchen table quotes.

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

Take time for all things: great haste makes great waste.

In taking a quick tour of Franklin’s quotes I find some other words of wisdom to be rather fitting when I think about our treasured and endangered institution of the public library.

Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn.

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.

I wonder what Franklin might think of Google or Wikipedia? Even so, I offer a nod of gratitude every time I notice that small sign in Franklin.

But this Sunday drive was quickly punctured by another roadside scene.  At one of the many dilapidated service lots was a group of white teenage boys sitting and standing atop of several cars. They were cheering with their fists in the air to the seemingly infrequent Sunday drivers like ourselves. Leaning against one of the cars was a large hand-painted sign with purple letters: TRUMP.

I asked my husband to turn on the news. Did something happen and we were blissfully unaware? We couldn’t tell. The day before was Earth Day. There were gatherings for the March for Science events across the globe, albeit with different sorts of placards, posters, and cheers. We had jauntily joined one such march for about five blocks down Central Park West on our way to the wedding.

What were these boys up to? Did they have nothing better to do on their Sunday? Like pick up trash on the roadside?

My mind slid into judgment. I went right to catastrophizing as I flashed to scenes of clean cut blond boys in uniforms. The Nazi’s paramilitary youth movement. Quite a leap, I confess. But I am of German heritage and the geographic legacy percolates up from time to time.

Without freedom of thought, there can be no such thing as wisdom – and no such thing as public liberty without freedom of speech.

The boys were exercising their free speech and I had to give them that. But the scene really bothered me. It seemed out of place. Maybe it was their fists in the air.

It is the working man who is the happy man. It is the idle man who is the miserable man.

Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame.

I hoped my girls never dated one of those boys. (Oh, my mind again.)

That I’m writing about it two months later on the eve of Independence Day is testament to my irritation and my untethered stream of consciousness. I’ve been meditating on it, working with the difficult thoughts mired in fear, judgment, and implicit bias. I’ve been investigating my imagination with kindness, as recommended by my meditation teachers Tara Brach and Jack Kornfield. I have been noticing the content of my mind as if I were standing on the outside looking in. “Oh, how interesting,” I tell myself. Then I wander and wonder. Would I feel the same way if the sign was for another politician or public figure? For a cause to better humanity or the planet? Or, that the gathering was instead made up of black boys? Muslim boys? Boy Scouts? Veterans? Or girls for that matter? Or, any combination of demographics and personal characteristics? My mind began to play a mix-and-match combo game. A hornet’s nest of uncomfortable feelings swept in.

Honesty is the best policy.

The roadside scene flared up for me recently when I attended a meet-up about encouraging more women public speakers and how we can better promote ourselves, lest we be mired in endless keynotes, panels, and conferences populated with men. “Male and pale,” noted one of the organizers. I thought of the group of boys in Franklin. I thought of the Founding Fathers.

An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.

A part of me wishes we had pulled over and had a conversation with these boys. Who were they? What were their names? Why were they out there on the last day of spring break? Why do they like the current president? What does he represent for them? What do they stand for? What do they want to do with their lives? Or, maybe it would simply be about their cars or what they will do when school gets out for the summer.

A conversation would at the least make some sort of connection. A bridge toward understanding.

I will never know the answers to my questions. If the opportunity arose and  I were by myself, it’s unlikely I’d have a chat with a group of teenage boys on an empty roadside holding that particular sign. Yet, I do know a little more about my fears and biases. “Male and pale” stuck for me in part because a series of images and events conspired at the same moment: fears of the current political climate, patriarchy, adolescent idealism, group think, recollection of a holocaust, my heritage, my values, my daughters’ wellbeing, a beautiful wedding, and a march for science.

The doorstep to the temple of wisdom is a knowledge of our own ignorance.

I try to catch myself before getting trapped by judgment.  I slow down my breath. This seems to give enough space so I can begin to respond in a thoughtful way—to my own internal life and to what sort of actions I might take—like having courageous conversations, taking social action, or nurturing our daughters to be good citizens and make wise choices.

That little roadside plaque in Franklin now serves as a new reminder:  we are all rooted by place and time—if only we’d stop for a moment to be open and curious. And maybe even a little more kind.

Keep up to day about my book, The Kindness Cure: How the Science of Compassion Can Heal Your Heart and Your World.

Resources

Franklin, America’s First Public Library

Quotes from Ben Franklin

Photo Credit

Eugene Triguba

On Turner’s Pond: A Walking Meditation

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On the eve of the first day of summer I took a walk with my dog Leo. I’m not the dog walker in the family even though I should be (Leo was my idea), but I needed to get some head space and so I drove over to Turner’s Pond. Leo is getting on in years and twice around the pond seems too much for his short legs. We decided to give it the ole college try.

I edged around the first bend full of maples and oaks to a clearing. Cumulous clouds were bursting forth like cotton candy at a county fair. My mother used to tell me and my sister that when the sky turns bright pink the angels were busy baking cookies. This always made me happy as a child.

It still does.

This sky was pretty enough to take a picture. Alas, I had purposely left my phone in the car and was now feeling a twinge of regret. With a new mission in mind to get it I picked up my pace, while eyeing the ever changing hues. Please stay still.

I raced by a family. They were rather striking for their stature and number. Two parents and four boys of various ages. The older boy was close to being a teenager and the youngest, about 4, was on his red bike and mightily leading the pack. They could be from some Scandinavian country, I thought.

My four-legged companion was petering out. I decided to give Leo an out and let him sit in the car. I took the second lap around rather briskly with my cell phone in hand. Could I catch the sky’s dusty rose hue?

It was too late.

Why do we need to document such moments anyway, I chided myself.  I slowed down and welcomed the breeze. Breathe in. Breathe out. My mind was flitting back and forth from appreciating the pond life to being lost in memory.

I observed something else that warmed my heart as much as my mother’s words about cherubs and a craving for warm cookies. I came upon a young couple who had set up portable hammocks among the birch trees just over the water’s edge. They were facing each other and quite animated in conversation. They paid no mind to the nocturnal insects, to the bellows of bullfrogs, or to my presence.

Hammocks. That took some planning. I felt soothed by the waning sounds of their voices.

I finally came to the opening at the far end of the pond where the geese and duck circle each other and a random dog inevitably chases them off. It happens every visit. This time two lumbering white retrievers had their fun. The owner and I exchanged a laugh. Poor Leo. He missed it.

And I missed my chance for the photo op. They sky quickly paled in the twilight. I headed back and came across the Viking family again. This time the mother, father, and the two older boys were tightly nestled on a short bench. Shoulder to shoulder. They barely fit. The littlest one poked a stick in the pond and the other child was skipping a stone. Like the young couple, they were deep in conversation looking out over the water.

Cozy.

I could hear that they were American. I think this surprised me — to see a family all together at dinner time rather than dispersed at some sport field or immersed in technology. That this family was so intimate, and in nature no less, made me pause. I felt a bit voyeuristic.

They also gave me hope. I’m not sure for what. Maybe just that nature is always there to restore us. And if we can appreciate this gift, as the couple and this family seemed to, then maybe we can be good stewards of each other and our planet after all — no matter the color of the sky.

 

*

 

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Photo Credits:
(c) 2017 Tara Cousineau

Hammock:
Nicole Harrington

Caution: Soul-Searching Mama Traveling With Teenager

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Traveling in Malaysia and Indonesia for almost three weeks with my teen daughter has been relatively easy in spite of the fact that she ignores me. So I’ve taken total advantage of this state of affairs. I’ve gone AWOL.  Since she’d rather be with her traveling BFFs, I’ve learned that I can actually allow myself to relax between meals and airport checkpoints.

I’ve embarked, rather accidentally, on a mini soul journey and daily practice of self-compassion. I figure it’s a good time to walk the talk of what much of what I teach to my clients. After all, I have no excuse since I don’t have much Internet access to distract me (and neither does my daughter); I don’t have to do laundry; and for god’s sake it’s a vacation after all. And my BFF, our hostess and the mom of her BFFs, who now lives in Kuala Lumpur, has lovingly seen to it that I see a masseuse, an energy healer, and a Chinese medicine doctor. She’s a good friend indeed.

Here are three things I’ve learned as a soul-searching mom traveling with teenager.

UnthetheredSoul1)  Be Kind

It’s never too late to be kind to yourself. I found I could nurture my soul in spite of the constant banter of four teenage girls. I simply tuned them out. I put myself on top of the priority list for a few days. That gave me time to read: in the airports, on the flights, and in the middle of the night wide-awake on East coast time.

I’ve already two books in less than a week: The Mindful Path to Self-Compassion by Christopher Germer and Untethering the Soul by Michael Singer (twice). I’m re-reading Singer’s bestseller as I found it so moving. The first time I simply read it in awe. I’m now I’m underlining my favorite parts, which is about two thirds of all the pages. He writes, for instance:

You have a wellspring of beautiful energy in side of you. When you are open you feel it; when you are closed you don’t.

Sometimes you pick up a book and it’s no accident it was waiting for you.

Statue at Entrance (Bliss B&B) © TCcousineau 20132) Be Quiet

When you start to pay attention to your inner life you begin to witness all the unnecessary chatter in your own head. I’ve been practicing this for years – or rather I’ve been playing tag with mindfulness meditation. I go in fits and starts. Then things like missed school buses rob me of the most sacred time of day. Ah, the busyness of life.

So here I am on the other side of the world with few concerns other than my daughter’s peanut allergy. As it turned out, when I tuned into my internal dialog I found it was louder than those four teenage girls. So much for me telling them to quiet down. It was also rather boring; at times it was rather harsh; and overall, my inner voices were not nearly as loving and silly as the girls’ constant gab. I decided to stand back and witness both my chatter and theirs. I came to appreciate these inner and outer voices for that they were… voices.  It is true that much of what we tell ourselves we’d never utter aloud to a dear a friend. I had all the evidence in and around me.

3) Be Open

Every stranger I’ve met has offered me a gift. It’s as if they somehow know that “self-care” is frowned upon in my culture; that any attention to oneself, or pampering, is considered a luxury rather than a  birthright.

No more.

The Masseuse, with her hot stones sliding and clicking along my spine, brought to me a state of intense warmth and relaxation. It was an experience in which a trace memory appeared: a babe wrapped in loving arms. It moved me to tears.  That led to my more accessible memories of swaddling my own baby girls. Pure love. Joy. Gratitude.

Accept Allow Forgive LoveThe Energy Healer could “see” even before meeting me a pain in my right arm (true!) and  “a tear in my heart chakra.” A tear, as in rip, rupture, or fissure. The statement  brought me to tears.  How many of us carry broken hearts from some part of our lives? Apparently, I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I had just read  a line in Untethering the Soul:  Very few people understand the heart.

Here I was with a person I had never met before and she saw right to my heart and old bottled up wounds. Never had I felt so vulnerable. Ever. Yet, she was kind, intuitive, and began a process of releasing my stuck energy patterns. I thought I had been over all this before. You don’t become a therapist without immersing yourself in your own treatment. Yet, this was clearly different kind of therapy and tapped something much deeper than reruns of  my life’s narratives. It was about letting go of them.  She had four words for me: Accept. Allow. Forgive. Love. She sent me off with a powerful breath focused visualization.

On the third day, the Chinese Medicine Doctor asked “What your problem?” and read my pulse carefully. He told me my liver and kidney chi were overactive, constricting my chest. What? Back to the heart?

“The energy shifts and variations that take place in the heart run your life,” Singer writes in his book. “But in truth you are not your heart. You are the experience of your heart.” 

The doctor gave me seven days worth of mystery bark and berries to brew into a “balancing” tea. The very act of brewing my own tea left me with pause for all the learning I had just done.  It was hard to swallow.

* * *

Now we are in Bali surrounded by temples. We are literally stepping over daily offerings to gods left on the sidewalks and doorways. We are meeting a kind people who are always smiling; and we are among a community in tune with nature and spirit. Here, my heart is light; the path made easier by my three healers, two books and dear friends.

My daughter has little sense of what I’m experiencing, but in her self-involved adolescent world she is noticing that I’m taking care of myself. She’s become curious.

Now she wants a massage, too. Intrepid as they are the girls booked four massages – together, of course, $10 a piece.

It’s a start.