Labor of Love

Fighting Homelessness with Mindfulness [from Shambhala Sun]

Fighting Homelessness with Mindfulness

Originally posted at: http://www.shambhalasun.com/
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Homeless youth attending a workshop at the Reciprocity Foundation.

I was sixteen the first time I walked into a homeless shelter, and I was sure it was an accident. I was looking for a student art show, not broken youth. But a voice within told me to stick around. There was something here for me. I spent the afternoon talking with the youth, and found that we had much in common. I was the adolescent child of parents who fled their home country overnight and found shelter in Canada. I too felt lost, disconnected and unsure of how to express myself in the world.

When my suffering met the youth’s suffering, I experienced pure grace. Instead of my heart closing—as it often had in the face of poverty—my heart opened. I spent the next decade raising awareness and funds for homeless youth. The work was helping others, but it was also changing me. I was learning to lead others and to express myself. I was also developing insight into my real purpose in the world.

As my desire to serve deepened, the more frustration I felt with the homeless sector. Homeless youth are not just materially impoverished; often, their spirits have been broken by sexual abuse, neglect, prostitution, trauma, isolation and physical violence. Where were the organizations addressing the spiritual needs of homeless youth?

In my late twenties, I began to experiment with Buddhist practice. As I learned to become still and look within, what I found surprised me. For me, contemplative practice was the natural gateway to social entrepreneurship. In my heart, I yearned to serve homeless youth in a completely new way. In 2004, Adam Bucko and I co-founded the Reciprocity Foundation, to meet the “inner” and “outer” needs of homeless youth.

Seven years later, our organization has touched nearly 1,000 homeless youth with programs that enable youth to heal, to find their purpose and to trust their inner voice through yoga, meditation, holistic counseling and spiritual retreat. Once the youth learn how to surf their inner seas and to begin the healing process, we help connect their inner wisdom to the outer world. When youth are ready, we help them apply to college, find independent housing, cultivate professional skills and start careers in media, education, social activism or anything else that moves them.

The youth in our program have blossomed into mature, wise and talented human beings. Their work in the world varies widely—one of our students Isis King was the first transgender contestant on America’s Next Top Model and now speaking out to break down barriers around sexual identity. Seven of our students made a film that was nominated for an Emmy award in 2011. One is a media activist for PBS. Others are top designers, marketers, writers, stylists and social activists.

Next month, when the Reciprocity Foundation opens the first-ever holistic center for homeless youth in America, I’m sure that my first visit to a homeless shelter will no longer feel like an accident. I was meant to be a lost, sixteen-year-old wandering the streets of Toronto. Because when I opened the door to that homeless shelter, I actually opened the door to my heart. And when I connected my heart’s purpose with spiritual practice, I discovered an innovative way of serving youth that has led to extraordinary outcomes.

Click here to learn more about the Reciprocity Foundation: reciprocityfoundation.org, or view their blog.

View the Reciprocity Foundation’s videos, featuring homeless youth here.

Or, donate $1, $5, $10 to support Reciprocity’s new holistic center for homeless youth.

TAZ TAGORE is the co-founder of the Reciprocity Foundation and a Buddhist writer and teacher. She has contributed to the Shambhala Times, Beliefnet.com, Intent.com, the Interdependence Project and more. Taz has spent nearly twenty years volunteering at youth shelters and working with homeless youth in the U.S., Canada and India. She has been featured on countless television programs and newspaper articles for her work with homeless youth.

Homeless and (Maybe) Buddhist: An Unusual Story about Going on Retreat

[Note: This piece was originally published by Shambhala Times on June 8th, 2011.]

I co-founded the Reciprocity Foundation with Adam Bucko back in 2004, and almost from the outset, I wanted to take our clients—homeless teenagers and young adults living in New York City shelters—on retreat. Maybe it is because I strongly identify with homeless kids that I was sure they would love it. Or maybe I remembered how much my first retreat meant to me. Either way, I was determined to make it happen. And this past May, I was finally able to realize my longtime personal dream.

Even though I have never spent a night in a bus terminal or a homeless shelter, I have always felt emotionally displaced. My parents fled their home country months before I was born. Although I was not yet alive on the night of their escape, I grew up amidst the aftershocks of that turning point in our lives. I always lacked a strong sense of belonging—and I tried to compensate for it by being one of those people who was always ready to embrace change. And although my parents would not admit it, I know they too battled feelings of seclusion. They coped by moving my sister and I from house-to-house, year after year. At one time in my adolescence, I changed schools five times in five years.

When I went on my first 9-day retreat, I felt claustrophobic. There was no place to run and nothing to do but sit with my thoughts. What came up was sometimes poignant and sometimes scary. I spent many hours marveling at the tenderness of my own heart. But I also had to face my lifelong habit of wriggling away from anything that required true commitment. I was so afraid that I would wither away if I stayed in one place or dedicated myself to one thing. But only through going on retreat—and subsequent meditation practice—did I begin to dismantle those fears, and gradually build an organization in which I, and hundreds of homeless youth, could experience a true sense of belonging.

But as I learned last month, dreaming of going on retreat and actually going on retreat are worlds apart. Taking twelve homeless youth to a Zen-Buddhist monastery for 3 days was an experience that I could not prepare for. And while I had designed the experience for them, I too had to open myself to learning along the way. As it turned out, one of the first lessons appeared even before we left the city.

 

Letting Go

We had hired a school bus to drive our group upstate to the Dharma Drum Retreat Center near Pine Bush, NY. Usually when we confirm ten youth for an event, six show up. It is not that homeless teens are irresponsible—they have to juggle work, school, counseling appointments and strict curfews on empty stomachs and wallets. If they are running late, they cannot hop in a taxi or use their cell phone. Instead, they do not show up and then lay low for a few days to mask their shame. But this time, twelve youth turned up—two more than had confirmed—and several had risked losing their shelter bed to go on retreat. Even before boarding the bus, I had to let go of my expectations and embrace our over-sized group. Extra beds would be found; having too many retreatants was a good problem to have, I reasoned.

When we pulled up at the retreat center, the youth seemed energized by their surroundings. This was the first time that all twelve young people had travelled upstate. Some immediately started sneezing as their bodies adjusted to the higher pollen count. Some took off their headphones and deeply drank in the sight of trees, lavender bushes, groundhogs and a pristine lake. They seemed unsure of their surroundings, but open. I was relieved by their openness. If they could stay open, I told myself, everything would work out just fine.

When we sat down to our first silent meal, with all of us seated in rows, men facing women, I braced myself for rebellion. But the youth happily ate in silence, carefully stacked their empty plates, and some even bowed to a statue of Quan Yin before leaving the dining hall. Once outside, the youth began to walk and talk. Most gravitated to the lake and surrounding woods to make sense of their feelings. I eyed our host monastics—two radiant nuns named Chang Ji and Guo Chan—as they took in the high-decibel chatter resonating from our students. I smiled wanly. The two senior nuns had persuaded their community to host our group—it was the first time non-Buddhist, urban youth had entered the Zen monastery. And now, as the youth waded around the lake and chased each other through the pine forest, I knew I was asking them to let go of the reins a little more. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Only two more days to go.

By the time night fell, many youth were itching for a cigarette, others complained of hunger and still others wanted more free time than we had scheduled in our agenda. Adam and I know enough about teenagers to know that heavy restrictions inspire insurgence; so we scrapped about two thirds of the agenda. We gave the youth more free time but, as a concession, asked them to sign up for individual counseling sessions with Adam or I. Working one-on-one with the youth would enable us to gauge their wellbeing and to coach them through any emerging emotions or traumas.

Then I skulked into the kitchen and gently inquired about adding more protein to the menu. As it turned out, the cooks had prepared fried rice and cheese sandwiches in the hopes of catering to the youths’ taste buds. But our students were accustomed to eating heavier foods such as burgers and fried chicken; to ease the transition to a vegetarian diet, they would need more eggs, tofu and tempeh. We agreed to add an afternoon snack to the menu and more complex carbohydrates to the meals. Rather than feeling insulted, the cooks were grateful for the feedback.

Later that night, I reflected on how all of the adults on retreat—staff, monastics and kitchen volunteers—had to let go of something meaningful to us—a menu, an agenda, or a preconceived idea—in order to create space for the youth to grow. Holding on would only hold the youth back, so we all learned to let go.

Cherishing Others

If you happen to be lucky enough to serve people in need, you know that the lines are quickly blurred between giver and receiver. My heart is always so full after I counsel a homeless youth. But I have also learned that doing more does not always lead to greater impact. It has been a tough lesson for me to learn—the quintessential “do-er” and the consummate “giver.” But in the past year, I had come close to having a nervous breakdown, and was finally forced to recalibrate my relationship to work. Now I try to do less, but with a clear intention and a pure heart.

But just before departing for the retreat, our volunteer Massage Therapist cancelled. I knew this would be a highlight for our youth—who are so rarely treated to any kind of caring touch. It was disappointing news but the gap could be easily filled by… me! I had trained in many different healing therapies over the past decade and so felt confident enough to take her place. But I worried that giving massages—on top of teaching yoga, meditation and leading Buddhist study sessions—would leave me depleted. And the last thing I wanted the youth to witness was one of their teachers falling apart.

But something had changed since my brush with breakdown—I had become a practicing Buddhist. Not the kind of Buddhist that merely floats in and out of retreats (as I had done for years) but the kind who practices everyday and is a serious student of the sutras. After I received news of the cancellation, I sat in meditation and reflected deeply on what to do. In my heart, I wanted so much to have one-on-one time with each of our students. I wanted to be able to touch them with my hands, so that they could feel my love for them. So I said “yes.” And because my decision resulted from meditation, I had a strong faith that it was the right choice.

During our first evening discussion, I offered the youth a choice between touch therapy and energy therapy. Even though students would remain fully clothed during the session, I guessed that some would prefer not to be touched at all. As it turned out, my first session was with Harmony* (her name was changed for this article), a young woman who had been sexually abused as a child and requested no physical contact.

It was intimidating to work intuitively, without any physical touch to help me forge a deeper connection. But as Harmony lay down on the massage table, my heart instantly opened. I loved this student—in the three years since joining our program, I had witnessed her tackle homelessness, unemployment, mental illness, body issues and substance abuse. She had overcome all of those challenges and was now an emerging activist, leader and mentor to other youth. To me, Harmony exemplified the Buddhist principle of using struggle as fodder for spiritual advancement. She had endured so much pain and was stronger—and purer of heart—because of it.

I sat down and placed my hands beside Harmony’s head. I closed my eyes and focused my concentration on fully opening my heart. Then I invited her to breathe with me. As our inhales and exhales fell into step, energy began to flow between us. I let go of all desire to impress Harmony or to have any specific impact on her. Instead, I sent her only the purest motherly love from the depths of my heart. After ten minutes, Harmony’s breathing changed. I could tell that she had entered a state of deep relaxation. Only then did I begin to work on each of her intentions, inviting the blessings of all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas to touch her life.

At one point during the session, I felt disembodied, as though I was floating above the massage table, watching the scene unfold. I could see energy moving between us, and I was certain that it was traveling in both directions. Perhaps that is why I felt more whole in that moment than I had in a long time. It was clear that I was not healing Harmony—we were healing each other. Cherishing others, I was learning, was the surest path to becoming whole.

Radical Openness

I feel blessed to have been exposed to spiritual practice for many years, but I am no Abbot or Roshi or Geshe. Even still, I wanted to teach part of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche’s classic book, Shambhala: Sacred Path of the Warrior.

In recent years, the hip-hop community has appropriated a lot of Sun Tzu’s concepts around warrior-hood. So, I reasoned that Trungpa Rinpoche’s use of the words “Sacred” and “Warrior” would appeal to our youth. But our students are too smart to be fooled by fancy words—if I were to successfully teach, I would have to be willing to open myself, and my life, to them. In the past, I have found this to be a real challenge. I always feared that our students would neither respect nor trust me if they knew how flawed I was as an individual.

On our last evening at Dharma Drum Retreat Center, the youth gathered in Chan Hall and sat on meditation cushions that encircled a carved statue of the Buddha. We sat in meditation for a short time and then the youth assumed a more comfortable position for the discussion—lying down on the floor and propping up their arms and heads with meditation cushions. It was strange teaching a group of people who were lying down—but at least they were awake, I told myself. I outlined the game plan—I would read a few paragraphs aloud and then invite discussion from the group.

Just as I hoped, the text was accessible. We quickly entered into a heated discussion about why Sacred Warriors have a broken heart, the role of challenge in life and what it means to fully take your place in the world. But something was missing. We were all talking in the abstract—we needed to root this discussion in the reality of our own lives. But who should be the first to share?

In my life, the most compelling teachers are the ones who can teach from their own lives as well as they can teach from a text. With maturity, this has become even more important. I no longer need to place my teachers on a pedestal, elevated far from the messiness of everyday life.

So, I decided to share. I shared partly because I do not know enough Buddhist scripture to avoid talking about my own life and partly because I knew that to earn their respect as a teacher, I would need to demonstrate courage and honesty.

I told them about a part of my life that had inspired much shame and inner turmoil. Although I co-manage a homeless youth agency, I feel called to write and teach. But after my first book was published in 2005, I failed to find a publisher for the next four books I wrote. Eventually I had to let go of my renowned literary agent and I stopped writing. From a Buddhist perspective, my heart had been broken but I was not able to learn from it. I suffered from an expert’s mind; I refused to be a beginner and to start again.

Eventually, I asked for help. I slowly figured out that the publishing world had shifted and that it was time for me to learn how to publish online. I asked someone to help me start a blog. My first posts garnered only a handful of readers. I was humbled by my paltry readership. But the process also taught me to change the way that I wrote—like most bloggers, I began to write shorter pieces, and with greater frequency than book authors. But the instant feedback of the blogosphere also helped me to dig deeper—to write with more honesty and more heart. I began to write not to demonstrate my writing skill but to share my most profound life lessons.

As I finished sharing my personal story, I could see the proverbial penny dropping in the heads of my students. My real-life experience had demonstrated why Sacred Warriors have a broken heart; it is because they are equally open to the experience of joy and suffering. Publishing my first book had raised me up and failing to publish had knocked me down—and I was venturing out again, knowing that I would surely encounter more of both. My story had also illustrated how failure had been a great teacher in my life—and why it is important to step into adversity, not turn away from it. And I hoped they could see how my relationship to my calling has changed over time. My earlier goal was to be a successful, published author; now my goal is to serve others with my writing, in any form that can reach others.

Opening myself to the youth changed the dynamic of our group. For the past three days, I had been the all-knowing teacher. Now I was just another human being—fumbling, learning and growing. After I opened myself up to the group, we came full circle. The lines blurred between teacher and student, expert and beginner—what now connected the youth and I was our shared humanity.

Inner Peace?

At the end of a retreat, I usually feel an inner heaviness—as though I were securely anchored to the earth’s core. My eyes are blissfully glazed over. I find it difficult to string many words together. I am prone to stare at a leaf for a very long time. I expected that some or all of these symptoms would come to light in our group. I could not have been more wrong.

Rather than finding their inner Zen master, the retreat helped our students discover their inner child. Perhaps they found the childhood that so many of them were denied as children. They began to play—running, jumping, tickling and teasing. They laughed with the giddy abandon of 11-year olds. They shed their city masks and pretenses, their solemnity, their leave-me-alone body language. The monks and nuns watched with wonder as our students brought play to their monastery, likely for the first time.

In doing so, they upturned even more of my assumptions of what it means to go within. Maybe a common response is to become a beacon of calm after a retreat—but our students taught me that there are other possible outcomes. Initially, I felt a strong pull to “act Zen.” But their joy was contagious. I too felt the desire to play, to be silly, to fully let go.

During our closing ritual, we approached each individual in the room and thanked them for something they had directly or indirectly given us: a smile when we needed it or the courage to try something new. Once again, the noise level rose substantially as words, hugs and tears passed between us. But as I gazed as the Buddha bearing witness to all of it, I could swear that his subtle smile broadened and that his laughter reverberated softly through the room.

And now that we all understood the gift of retreat, it was time to go back home.

For more information please view the following links:
www.reciprocityfoundation.org
http://vimeo.com/17831809
http://www.dharmadrumretreat.org/

40 Years Old (Well almost...)

Last weekend I celebrated my 38^th birthday.  Readers of this blog know that I’m just coming out of   a  period in my life best described as “the dark night of the soul.”  So, I decided to spend my birthday alone, reflecting on the past year, and where I stand on my journey to forty.

When I turned thirty, I vaguely remember hearing or reading that one’s thirties are about self-exposure—the kind of exposure that has nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with knowing oneself.   In my head, I could only see one image—that of a person wielding a flashlight and looking into dark, cobweb-filled corners of one’s heart, soul and psyche.  I imagined that by the time you hit 40, there would be no more secrets or skeletons lying in waiting.  I vowed that before I turned forty, I would face the whole truth about myself.  

Over the past 8 years, I periodically forgot about that image.  I got side-tracked from my goal by a great fling or a fabulous summer vacation.  But last week, after two seasons of avoiding leaks in our basement, the image came back to me.  It was a Tuesday night, and the first time since buying my 125-year old house last April that I felt capable of going down below. 

Brandishing my flashlight like a weapon, I forced myself to see and touch every inch of the basement.  It was soon clear that the foundation suffered a few serious cracks and that a colony of carpenter ants had taken up residence inside one such crack.   As I pushed my face and light closer to the ants, the image of a thirty-something-year-old woman wielding a flashlight came back to me.  Looking into one’s basement felt analogous to peering into one’s soul.  It was uncomfortable.  And I was scared.  But facing the truth about my basement enabled me to be capable of fixing it.  And that is the grace we experience when we literally or figuratively “go downstairs.” 

In a recent blog post, I explored the topic of soul mates.  My conclusion was that I’d rather continue to be single than settle for a relationship that lacks a strong soul connection.  That hadn’t always been the case.  For most of my life, I craved the security and social acceptance of being partnered strongly enough to make unhealthy compromises to get there.  I was afraid that being single wasn’t just a life circumstance—I feared that it was a reflection of my inherent goodness.  My ego reasoned that if a man didn’t love me then there was nothing worth loving.

Shining a light into that dark corner of my psyche was scary.  But when I waded deep inside the fear I could see that it simply wasn’t true.   But to dismantle our fears we have to get close to them, to meet them eye-to-eye, without flinching.  Only then can we liberate ourselves from their tyranny. Similarly, I had always avoided the thought that I might remain single for the rest of my life.  But I spent the better part of a month facing that fear and realized that I was capable of living a full and rich life, whether single or partnered.  I can now visualize myself in either scenario, and actually feel grateful for the advantages of each. 

Going into dark places requires not just a source of light but the capacity to see what’s there.  The eyes in which we behold the sun are different from those that help us navigate a cave.   The latter situation requires eyes that gaze rather than look—eyes that are able to constantly refocus and take a longer, deeper perspective.  They are what I call my “Soul Eyes.”    

Recently, I tried to explore another dark spot—my relationship with my mother.  My mother has been estranged from our family for nearly twenty years.  For the previous twenty years, she was emotionally and spiritually absent.   This was hard on me.  For most of my life, it was tough to have a conversation with her, let alone share my hopes and dreams.  As a result, I felt tremendous anger and resentment towards my mother.  As an adolescent, I wanted she and I to “fake it”—to go shopping and share smiley brunches.  I just wanted a mother, in body if not in spirit. 

In my thirties, I thought about my mother from time to time and asked myself if I was ready to forgive her.  Usually, the answer was no.  When I thought about her, I could only see the hurt she inflicted on me, and the ways in which I felt betrayed.   But those reflections only created more shadows.  They came from my ego—the part of myself that could not accept the fact that my mother didn’t want a relationship with me.

But this spring, I woke up one morning feeling ready to forgive her.  I rang her up and invited her to meet me.  She accepted.  As we talked over a cup of tea, I forced myself to put on my Soul Eyes and to really see her as she is.   It was hard to admit that my mother seemed like a fragile soul buried beneath a mountain of pain. 

After our tea date, we periodically spoke on the phone.  And then one day, she called me and confessed that she was neither ready nor capable of having a relationship with me.  She voluntarily estranged herself from me—her daughter—a second time.    

I could look at the rejection and feel hurt or I could gaze into my mother’s troubled soul and feel compassion.  What kind of pain must she be suffering to turn away from me? Now that I’m a mother, I know for certain that there are only two reasons why a mother would forsake her child: Either she suffers from immeasurable (inner) pain or she is trying to protect her child from something far worse.  

I’m not sure if my mother will ever call me, or if she’ll ever be ready to love me.  But having shined a light into that corner of my self, I know that her inability to love me isn’t my fault.  As Thich Nhat Hanh writes, when you add light to dark, they don’t fight each other, they combine and allow both sides to see. 

Perhaps the greatest lesson of my thirties is just that.  I don’t have to hide from my dark spots nor do I have to wage war upon them.  I just need to practice adding light and looking deeply.   I think this is what Ram Dass refers to as "Conscious Aging."  And when I approach my shadiest spots from the soul level, I can make meaning—and peace—without blaming myself or others.    

With only two more years to forty, I've still got so much more inner journeying to do.  But I think I'm ready to let go of my goal of trying to completely know myself by 40.  After all, our shadows are always shifting.  Perhaps I should content myself with trying to see every part of myself—for the rest of my life—with Soul Eyes.  That way, I'll be able to embrace whatever I find on the long and winding road to my own soul.

Do Soulmates Exist?

I have always believed in soulmates.  While my belief might have sprung from an adolescent fantasy many decades ago, it has ripened into a surety—something solid enough to hold in my hands or place in my coat pocket.

If you believe in reincarnation (which I do), then it’s not a stretch to imagine that some souls travel in clusters across lifetimes, to help each other through difficult stretches in which support, or solace, are hard to come by.  Or simply to love each other; because pure, unconditional love is so elusive these days.  But alas, I’m nearing my fourth decade as a single person.   And sometimes I wonder if it's time to give up, once and for all?

To make matters worse, I’m feeling more and more alone in my belief in soulmates.  When I raise the topic amongst friends, my inquiry is met with derision, disbelief, or even a patronizing pat on the shoulder.  Why have we collectively tossed the idea of soul-mates in the bin?   Are we post-modern folk too smart?  Too cynical?  Or has our belief in science—in what can be seen and proven—dealt a crushing blow to the notion of soul-mates?

My hairdresser tried to shed some light on why he doesn’t believe in soulmates.  While snipping my hair he said, “To find a soul-mate, you’ve got to be in tune with your soul.  But nowadays we’re too distracted, too busy, to listen.  No wonder we don’t believe in soulmates anymore.  Who in today’s world is really connected to their own soul?”

After the blow dry, I sat quietly for a long time thinking about his words.  Back in my early thirties, when I was keen to marry, I prayed with all of my heart to meet my soulmate.  But then, when it didn’t happen on my timetable, I went out and tried to make it happen all by myself.  I blind-dated and Internet-dated, and when I finally met my ex-partner, I was so focused on figuring out whether our friends and families would get along at the wedding that I scarcely took the time to consult my soul about the depth and quality of our connection. 

You see, I liked the idea of a soulmate but I preferred to make impulsive decisions using my head and heart, rather than wait for my soul to speak to me.  When I look at a cross-section of my friends and their mates, it’s clear that I'm not alone.  I don’t begrudge those who marry to share the burden of child-rearing and home ownership, or even those who want to avoid loneliness or the stigma of being single and undesirable.  These are difficult times.  Why shouldn’t we marry for practical reasons?  It's hard work to get and stay connected to our soul, and harder still to nurture a soul connection with a partner.

But I'm also certain that when we engage the soul, the quality of our relationships rises far beyond what is possible when we use only our heads and hearts.  I have a handful of soul friends—women and men whom I loved almost from the first instant—whose love has sustained me when I felt most lost or alone.  With a soul friend you feel completely “seen,” deeply at ease, and secure in a way that defies reason.  My soul-friends are people I could ring up after 20 years and be certain that they would be there for me.   In contrast, friendships inspired by lifestyle compatibility or work or proximity rarely survive the trials of time.  

But nurturing a soul connection takes faith and fortitude.  Even as recently as last year, I let my rational desire for a partner override my soul’s voice.  It was shouting, “This relationship is not right for you!!” while my head was busy coming up with reasons to pursue it.  It took breaking out in hives in this man's presence to finally let go.   The experience taught me that I'd rather be alone than in a relationship in which my soul's voice must be smothered, or engaged with someone whose soul is a complete mystery to me.

But today is a new day.  I (finally) have a regular meditation practice.  I’m part of a Buddhist community in which I can study and explore matters of the soul on a regular basis.  And most important of all, I have faith that if I nurture my soul—and really heed it's call, no matter where it leads me—then I will be capable of recognizing my soul mate when he finally rides up to my house on a white horse and carries me off into the sunset.  [Smile.]

 

[This piece is dedicated to my soul friends, Robin Ely and Harry Spence, who also happen to be soul mates.]

Stories from the Yogic Heart

Several years ago, I was contacted by Lisa Cherry—a woman feverish with a book idea.  I’ve been in that place before, and so we began a conversation.  She had been physically ill and credited much of her healing to an intensive yoga practice.  Her story resonated with me—as yoga helped me shift my life purpose from focusing on self-centered goals to learning to love and serve others.  We both agreed that the true power of yoga went far beyond reshaping our bodies—in our experience, yoga was a means to alter your entire perspective, your whole life. 

Fast forward several years and what seemed like hundreds of edits later.  Voila! The book, Stories from the Yogic Heart was published earlier this year and my essay, entitled, “Finding my Perfect Self,” was included in the anthology, amongst stories from yoga luminaries such as Sting, Russell Simmons, Sonny Rollins and Sharon Gannon.   

I was amazed at how many of the essays in the book focused on yoga as path to healing physical illness.  My story was focused on healing my psychological and spiritual dilemmas—but as someone who has rarely been sick or injured, I haven’t had much exposure to how to harness yoga to wrestle with disease or kick-start the healing process.  Those stories inspired me to continue my practice—so that I can utilize yogic breathing and asana to come to terms with aging, illness and physical death in future decades.

There were other stories that caught me off guard. Sharon Gannon—the co-founder of Jivamukti Yoga—wrote about how yoga had not only helped her recover from an injury, but also helped her realize that her aspirations for the world first had to take root in her body.  Yoga taught her that being an activist wasn’t about seeking revolution outside oneself.   So she began to practice her beliefs in her own body—living her values in the way she walked, ate, danced, slept and spoke. 

Zo Newell’s essay focused on how her introduction to yoga helped her survive hundreds of electroconvulsive (shock therapy) treatments as a teenager who was institutionalized by her parents.  Rather than becoming disembodied during this difficult period, yoga practice helped her stay in her body, and to preserve her equanimity in a situation where many others would simply lose their minds. 

Yet another story focused on how yoga practice helped a mother find hope after giving birth to a premature baby who weighed just over one pound! Her practice gave her the tools to bring peace into her body instead of giving in to her worst fears.  And it helped her connect with her sick child—so that she could send strong vibrations of love as her daughter struggled for her life in an incubator in the NICU.   Yoga was also the tool that helped her manage the vicarious suffering inevitably felt by parents of a special needs child during her tumultuous life.

By the time I finished the Stories from the Yogic Heart, I felt as though my personal story was rather ordinary.  Yoga had opened my mind and heart—but now I could see that it had the potential to do so much more.  The book was a reminder that at it’s best, yoga helps us to look deeply within .  We might not like what we find, but when we allow ourselves to see it—plainly, accurately—we can begin to work with it.  Healing begins when we turn towards, rather than away from, our dis- or un-ease.

As I reflected on the book, and my small contribution to it, I felt an overriding sense of hope.  My story ends with the realization that advanced yoga practice isn’t about holding complicated postures with our bodies—it’s about learning to harness the power of our hearts.  After reading nearly 30 essays that echoed the same theme, I could see how yoga would catalyze an important movement in human history--as millions of newly opened hearts cannot help but transform the world. 

 

To order a copy of the book, click on this link, email [email protected] or call 1-416-554-YOGA. 

Meditation for New Mothers

During a recent meditation retreat, I was asked about how motherhood affected my meditation 
practice.  My friend Megan was worried that unless she had an established meditation practice prior to childbirth, she would never find the time or energy to do so as a new mother. 

Her question forced me to reflect on my life as a new parent nearly three years ago.  Back then my daughter was tiny and prone to wail if she was not sucking on my breast or being carried in a sling.  So I spent the first six months of her life either nursing her on a rocker-glider, or walking at a snail’s pace with her curled up in a sling. 

Prior to Ayla’s birth, I was an avid yogini with a spotty meditation practice.  I meditated only in times of crisis, and found that I wasn’t able to concentrate for long periods of time while my world fell apart.  But yet another miracle of childbirth is that you are forced to learn to meditate—you have no choice in the matter. 

As a newborn, my daughter would fall asleep on my lap and refuse to move an inch for hours at a time.  The conditions were absolutely perfect for meditation.  The house was empty, the phone didn’t ring much (as I had taken a leave of absence from work) and I was physically trapped in a chair.   I had nothing to do but breathe in and out, while gazing at my daughter.

Mommy meditation was a tremendous gift to me.  I had spent the better part of my life racing around trying to achieve success and social change, and when I gave birth in my mid-thirties, I was very stuck in my ways.  Slowing down was going to be hard for me.  As would the transition from thinking solely about myself to thinking mostly about my child. 

But learning to meditate with my daughter eased the transition.  Meditating while feeling the warm weight of a newborn child on your lap is pure bliss.  After tasting Mommy Meditation, I would turn off the phone for long stretches and revel in the quiet perfectness of my new life.  Whenever I felt restless, I would gaze into my daughter’s eyes and return to a place of inner calm. 

I assumed that raising a newborn was mindless work—but becoming a mother was my first real taste of mindfulness.  The gift of new motherhood is that there is no place you would rather be than in the present moment—with the doors of your heart blown open by the love you feel for your child. 

After we finished talking, Megan was no longer worried about whether she would be capable of cultivating a meditation practice after giving birth.  Instead, she was worried that she wouldn’t want to end the mommy meditation to return to the outside world.

Mother Courage

There are many people I admire.  Historically, my heroes have been do-ers—Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, Gloria Steinem and the like.  My criteria for greatness disproportionately favor those who push for and achieve social change.   But last week, while on retreat in Costa Rica, I heard the story of a woman whose quiet courage made me rethink greatness.

Krishna Das, the much-celebrated master of chanting, told us this story during an afternoon dharma talk.  The woman lived in India and was of little means.  Her guru—Neem Karoly Baba who taught western spiritual luminaries including Ram Dass—married her to one of his devotees.  She spent her life quietly serving her husband, her guru and countless others in her community.  When Krishna Das first met her, she was young and vibrant, with a radiant smile.  Several decades later, they met again, and he was surprised to witness her physical deterioration.  Her hands were permanently clenched in fists and she suffered from enormous back and joint pain.  But she still managed to cook, clean, raise children, take care of the elderly and serve as a pillar of strength in the community.  When Krishna Das asked after her, she replied, “Machine broken, but inside okay.”

The “machine” she referred to was her body.  It was broken.  But I think she would have said the same thing had she been starving to death or living in the midst of a war zone.  She had reached a point in her development where even the most tortuous external circumstances couldn’t disturb the ocean of calm she had found within. 

When I heard this story I cried tears of admiration.  For most of us living in the west, our “machines” are in good working order, but on the inside we’re a mess.  I live in a peaceful country, earn a good living, have a healthy body and have more opportunity than I could hope to exploit.  And yet, my recent separation and job stress nearly broke me.    

When I began practicing Buddhism—after surviving yet another round of brutal life challenges—the metaphorical penny dropped inside me.  I could finally see what this woman in India had learned long ago.  There will always be “broken machines” to contend with—our bodies will break down and our seemingly stable jobs and relationships could spontaneously fall apart.   But when we cultivate our inner selves, we learn to tap into an inexhaustible source of calm within.  And when we learn to do so in a matter of seconds or minutes, we are no longer at the mercy of our broken body, family or democracy.  Nothing can touch us.

On the plane ride home, I spent hours meditating on the quiet courage of this woman.   I imagined the physical pain she felt each morning as she struggled to get out of bed.  And the challenge of falling asleep with a broken (and un-medicated) body set atop a thin sleeping mat on the floor.  This woman may not have earned a Nobel Peace Prize, but despite her meager circumstances, she found inner peace, and that may be the greatest achievement that any of us can hope for.

2011 Emmy Award Nomination to Homeless Youth (Reciprocity Foundation)

The 2011 Emmy Nominations were just announced and a documentary film called Invisible: the Diaries of New York's Homeless Youth made the cut!  The Emmy nomination is significant because it is the first film to be nominated that was co-created by homeless youth.  And, they happen to be students of the Reciprocity Foundation--the nonprofit organization that I co-founded with Adam Bucko 7 years ago.  This is a huge victory for homeless youth.  We have spent the past 7 years convincing corporations, government and the public that homeless youth aren't hopeless--they have enormous talent, creativity and potential.

Told mostly from a first person perspective, the film explores and demystifies the causes of youth homelessness: being orphaned, fleeing chronic physical and sexual abuse, or simply trying to escape overwhelming economic dilemmas.  The Emmy nod was surely the result of the film's honesty--the homeless youth featured speak with integrity about the circumstances that made them homeless, and about the hope they found at the Reciprocity Foundation. 

The youth featured in the Emmy-nominated film have broken the cycle of poverty.  The Reciprocity approach combines hands-on job training with meditation, yoga, counseling, mentorship, creativity, and huge doses of love.  Today, these youth are college graduates, film-makers, activists and community leaders.  Not only that, they are mentors to the younger kids in our program--demonstrating how success opened their hearts to the plight of other homeless kids.

If you're inspired by this film, become a volunteer to homeless youth in your community.  We can help connect you to youth who need your creativity, love and support.

Invisible: Diaries of New York's Homeless Youth from Reciprocity Foundation on Vimeo.

 

ABOUT US: The Reciprocity Foundation is an award-winning not-for-profit organization celebrated for it's innovative approaches to helping homeless youth break the cycle of poverty.  Using an integrated approach--that combines job training, yoga, meditation, media training and whole-person counseling--the Reciprocity Foundation has helped hundreds of homeless youth reach their full potential. 

My Spirited Child

Once, on a trip to Mexico, I was caught in a powerful undertow on a secluded beach.  I was only about 15 feet from shore but there was a steep drop-off and when I swam out, I was sucked under.   At first, I was completely disoriented—I couldn’t tell sea from sky.  But despite the circumstances, I remained eerily calm. I figured out that I was traveling in circles.   When I reached the surface, I’d take a large swallow of air—just enough oxygen to keep me alive until I resurfaced again.  After 7 or 8 cycles, I could tell that the strength of the current varied from cycle to cycle.  I waited for it’s power to wane and then broke free and swam back to shore.  The undertow had snatched my bikini top so I lay on the sand topless and breathless, feeling vulnerable and exposed.  I vowed to never to forget the lesson I learned from that current—nothing has absolute hold over us.  There is always an opening…we can always find a way out.

Last week was a horrible week.  I normally juggle a wide variety of tasks related to work, self and home but last week’s load felt substantially heavier.  My daughter spent most of the week hitting her classmates. If that wasn’t horrible enough, she began to take aim at her gentle teachers.  I also happened to be in the midst of renegotiating her preschool schedule and fees for the fall—and her behavior significantly reduced my bargaining power.  All week long, I tried every parenting tool in the book but nothing seemed to work.  I felt like I was swimming out past the drop off.

Little children swing wildly from angelic to demonic behavior as they test boundaries and learn how to be in the world.  In the best cases, parents remain calm.  They gently nudge their child towards a peaceful path.  But this week, I did the opposite.  As I neared Ayla’s school at pick-up time, I could feel my jaw clench and my shoulders tense.  Rather than looking for an opening—a way out of our predicament—I was preparing for battle.  Refusing to back down to a 2-year old usually carries disastrous consequences.  Ayla had her first preschool tantrum that day.  A small crowd bore witness to our battle of wills.   Now I was at the mercy of the undertow.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my daughter began stealing from our local coop and running outside to eat her bootlegged candy.  She’d kick and scream if I tried to bring her back into the store to pay and apologize.  I’d race back and forth between the cash register and the front door—holding up the line and apologizing to everyone—while bagging groceries and trying to keep track of my daughter.  Even after a stern reprimand about stealing, she did it a second time that week.  I was so angry that I seized up inside—and gave myself over to the current.

Life ebbs and flows.  There are tough weeks and there are gentle weeks.  I know that.  I really do.   But sometimes we get stuck.  Life pulls us under and we can’t find a way out.  For the rest of the week, I felt like I was gasping for breath.  My life felt like it was too much to bear—the endless work of fundraising, travel, emails and meetings for the Reciprocity Foundation—alongside my personal responsibilities as travel planner, soothsayer, chef, cleaner, librarian, bath-wallah and play-date organizer in our family.  Every night, I’d sit on my meditation cushion, wanting everything to get better.  And every morning, it got a little worse.

Thich Nhat Hanh writes about the importance of not being at war with ourselves.  We can’t force happiness when we’re angry, or force emptiness when our minds are racing.  Instead, he suggests shining the light of awareness on our situation.  Light illuminates dark—and light and dark merge into a state of lightness, a place where we are able to see again. 

And so, I returned to my meditation cushion on Thursday night and shined a light into my angry, tense self.  The first light was a memory of giving birth to my daughter.  She was spirited from the first moment we met—bursting with energy and strength.  She’s the sort of person who tries to kick down a door before turning the handle.  But she’s also fiercely loyal and loving and cute as a button.  The memory inspired my anger and my love to merge into something new: A clear awareness of the challenge of raising my child, with the confidence that I have the right mix of strength and softness for the job.

Then I remembered the undertow.  I remembered that we are only given challenges that we can meet.  There was a way out.  If I breathed deeply at every opportunity, and waited for an opening, it would come.  I could be free.

Parenting is spiritual practice--better than yoga or anything else I've tried.  And as the challenges get harder, so do the rewards.  Last night, I tucked myself into my daughter’s bed, kissing her hair, her forehead and feeling the warmth of her breath on my cheek.  I had been caught in an undertow again—but this time, the reward for breaking free was better than resting on a sandy beach.  I held my daughter’s body close to my own and felt washed clean by our love.

How Children Heal

In last week’s post, I referenced the gradual but miraculous healing of an infant who was diagnosed with a hole in her heart and brain damage at birth.  Three years later, she was fully healed without any medical intervention.  The story inspired me to think more deeply about how we heal and about what we can teach our children about health and healing.

I found a fascinating reference to this topic in an out-of-print book called Healers on Healing, an anthology of short essays by healers from many medical and alternative fields. Doctors, psychologists, nurses, counselors, shamans and energy workers alike weighed in on the topic.  The common denominator in every piece was the notion that healing professionals don’t heal anyone—they remove obstacles or build confidence so that their patients could heal themselves.   It was humbling to be reminded that we heal our bodies, rather than chemotherapy or drugs or surgery.

But the stories of how children learned to heal were the most awe-inspiring.  In an essay by Patricia Norris—a therapist, researcher and biofeedback pioneer—she describes her first-hand experiences with children healing from cancer.  She writes,

“Children are naturally open, accepting, trusting, enthusiastic and nonjudgmental in their approach to healing.  They are in the process of learning everything: to walk, run, speak…how to handle their bodies, their language and culture.  If you say, ‘When you turn this knob, the TV will come on,’ they say, ‘okay’ and turn the knob.  Tell them that they can make their hands warm, that they can send more blood to their toes, or that they can send white bloods cells to fight their tumors and they say, ‘okay’ and do it.  One task (to a child) is the same as another.”

Norris goes on to tell a story about Garrett—a young boy with a brain tumor.  He quickly learned how to warm his hands, then his feet, and then any part of his body to which he turned his attention.   He then learned how to affect his heart rate and how to send blood or white cells to empower his immune system.  The use of biofeedback equipment proved that he learned to effectively regulate and heal his own body. 

Norris’ work also uncovered another important insight: A sick child feels much more empowered than a sick adult.  She gave an example of a child diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease—a debilitating cancer of the lymphatic system.  The child didn’t take on the role of “victim”—instead she felt capable of participating in her own recovery from the outset.  She knew that she wanted to live and marshaled her inner strength, courage and positivity to recover.  Once healed she told Norris, “The way I changed, even more than getting over the cancer, is that I like myself better now.”  How many adults are able to handle themselves with such maturity and confidence in the face of a deadly disease?

As I read Norris’ essay, I thought about the signals I’m sending my daughter Ayla about how to heal.  Do I take on the role of victim when afflicted with a mild cold—whining and complaining about my pain? Have I imprinted her with too many images of mama racing to the medicine cabinet for a pill when a headache strikes?  While those pictures may be true, I also know that I often take deep breaths or sit in a warm bath when I am in physical pain—but perhaps my self-healing actions are mostly hidden from view.  I want so much for Ayla to trust her intuition when she’s unwell and to trust in the miracle of the human body.  But in the short term, her views will reflect mine—and this presents me, and every parent, with a huge responsibility beyond feeding, clothing and educating our children.

When Ayla gets a boo-boo, I am quick to offer hugs, kisses and Band-Aids.  But what if I sat with her, after the tears subsided, and invited her to imagine her bruised toe getting better.  Or told her that her body could make itself better —a process we witnessed by checking on a cut every day and noticing the miracle of clotting and skin re-growth.

What I’m learning is that some of what we classify as miraculous healing need not be so mysterious.  The healing process is guided by our own attitude, intention and the support we receive from practitioners.   Healing is utterly natural, and human, when we learn to step into our wounds rather than turning ourselves away from them.

 

[Note: Patricia Norris' book called I Choose Life is out of print but available via this link. There aren't many mainstream sources of information about how children heal but feel free to send links or info to me and I'll repost.--Taz]