Week Nine Essay
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https://drive.google.com/file/d/1I5Qp-ZUjQ4BgHKA6YmqYkKjnm5v8G5jH/view?usp=sharing
This essay talks about the importance of being totally present to others while remaining alone with your own experience–and also allowing it to color your responses to others. Can you describe another situation where these elements were combined? How did it go?
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There are so many things I wanted to highlight in this essay.
“Step back while also stepping deeply in.”
“It has nothing to do with superior/inferior or enlightened/unenlightened….I am absolutely no different than any of them. However, for various reasons (and because I had prepared for it due to karma and other mysteries), at this moment and for these people, I happened to hold the role of teacher.”
“I am right here with you and also completely alone…”
The first experience that it reminds me of, with striking clarity, is parenting. In the style that I have adopted as my own, I do my best to act as a team with my children, while still being their guide and teacher. I avoid authoritarian styles which assume superiority and dominance (although they clearly predominate widely around our world in homes, schools and more), but I believe in a child’s rights, equality and brilliance – with an emphasis on respect, a balance of firmness/framework and love. It requires an undeniable giving of presence, with a sense of withholding my own experience, because (to paraphrase a source I cannot remember), children are excellent observers but terrible interpreters.
That said, while I seek to share age-and stage-appropriate information with my littles, one difference though is that I discuss and model a wide range of human emotions, even hard ones like annoyance and anger (which I never do when working with clients). But even when I step a bit outside of the teaching model described in the essay and show some feelings, I often hold back a lot. I know that unfiltered disclosure could alter their experience too greatly. It could interfere with my ability to teach, to be “the pilot” of our plane, and offer the trust and confident space that they (as students) need to learn. And honestly, I know that the full experience of it is MY path; it does not have to be part of there’s. It doesn’t have to be something I share.
The second experience, for many of the same reasons, is my former work as a birth and postpartum doula. Particularly during labor and delivery, in the birthing rooms in which I worked, there was no room for my own emotions (or personal opinions, or life situations, or fatigue). There is just you, and the client, and this new life waiting to emerge earthside. Every moment and detail is delicate, and there is no room for the doula’s “feelings.” Usually I could wait until after a birth was over but – as with the process Susan mentioned here – every now and then something would be so difficult I’d have to excuse myself for a few minutes and have a mini-breakdown on another hospital floor, outside, or in my car. There simply was not room to be present with them, to create and cradle that cocoon for them, otherwise.
In both experiences, though, my own emotions always created a depth and resilience that allow me to expand into these roles. It has helped dig a “well” within me to accommodate all of those difficult feelings and experiences of the others. And in this way, it has informed and supported my work — in hospitals and at home!
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Kelly, thanks for your deep perspective on parenting. You reminded me of my young parenting days. (Parenting never ends, but it’s very different being a parent to a 27-year-old!) Maneuvering between playmate, guide, and role model while attending to your own emotions and needs is challenging and wonderful.
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What a beautiful essay, Kelly. You describe the “teaching” role wonderfully and how you are able to be present with your children and your clients while being alone within yourself, with emotions and experience of the situation. I appreciate how you are able to balance the two so well. I am glad to be in this class with you!
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In January of 2019, on the Saturday of MLK weekend, I was scheduled to lead a three hour workshop on life transitions to a group of maybe 15 people. I had prepared for this workshop with training on life transitions, coaching people through them, what they are, how journaling can help, and how to hold a workshop for this. I had also done several other such workshops. But on this particular day, I was emotionally raw as my husband had just walked out of our 37-year marriage two weeks prior. I was in a huge transition myself that morning in the workshop.
In the week leading up to that Saturday, I thought about canceling the workshop, but I knew the woman who had helped to organize the event would be let down, though she would understand. That morning, we were also hit with what ended up being a blizzard. I prayed the workshop would be canceled because of the weather threat, but it wasn’t.
So I went, and led the workshop. I did mention that I was in the midst of my own marriage transition. As I recall, my bringing it up was a natural part of the conversation, and definitely not something I said right at the start of our time together. I didn’t cry or breakdown, and I didn’t dwell on it either, as I did not want the focus to be on me and my situation. I think I said it as a way of being in shared community with others in their own life transitions.
Looking back, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Ultimately, the workshop went fine, and I received many kind words afterward on how helpful it all had been.
I have also taught multiple classes at the University level, along with yoga classes in a private setting. I do agree with Susan that, “To teach well…it is important to continually acknowledge this mystery to oneself and appreciate it [this important non-parity between student and teacher.] Forgetting it creates confusion, which is opposite of what teachers are supposed to do.” I am no better than my students, yet I have been placed in a role of teacher/instructor/workshop leader, and am to create/maintain a safe container. And this I have tried to do by keeping my personal life stories and drama out of it, and when I haven’t, hopefully learning from my mistakes.-
Dear Ginny,
Oh, my! What a difficult situation you were in…to teach about transitions when you yourself were going through one of what I believe is certainly in one of the top most stressful life experiences: a divorce from a 37-year marriage.
You stated: “As I recall, my bringing it up was a natural part of the conversation, and definitely not something I said right at the start of our time together. I didn’t cry or breakdown, and I didn’t dwell on it either, as I did not want the focus to be on me and my situation. I think I said it as a way of being in shared community with others in their own life transitions.”
It seems so appropriate to me what you did and how you did it. I’m not sure why you’ve concluded that it was wrong. The students seemed to have given you positive feed-back. I think because it was linked to life transitions, it was helpful. Had you been teaching a water color painting class, not so much. Please be gentle with yourself.
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There are times in life when we find ourselves needing to hold space for others’ experiences while we navigate our own, potentially conflicting feelings. One of the most powerful examples for me was leading my team through an annual planning process, fully aware that we were facing major layoffs in the new year. I knew that most of our plans would likely be discarded and that some team members would be let go. Balancing the need to keep morale, focus, and hope alive, while carrying the weight of this knowledge, required immense emotional resilience and self-awareness. It was a delicate process of maintaining engagement and motivation, even while holding back the truth of what lay ahead.
As I sat in that room with my team, I thought about what each person needed on an individual level. How could I turn this experience into something valuable for their growth and help set them up for whatever their next steps might be? Once I had this frame in mind, I could see opportunities for us all to use this time to try new things. While we maintained the structure of annual planning, the real focus shifted to personal growth. Each team member took turns proposing ideas and leading exercises, giving everyone a chance to step up and take center stage. We also created a feedback loop to provide personalized insights into each person’s contributions and leadership style.
Initially, I was worried about going through this process, knowing the outcome wouldn’t really matter—but that actually freed us. It allowed us to take risks, try new approaches, and elevate voices that hadn’t been heard before.
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This is such a cool perspective, Gwen. I hadn’t thought of it in the leadership context but, duh, of course it’s something leaders have to navigate constantly! 🙂 The more I think about this concept, the more I become aware of our daily practice of creating space as we interact with others in this way, aware of their experience and of our own, without letting our own be visible or obvious, but still being conscious of it.
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Gwen, what a difficult situation! I had not thought about the possibility of a leader having “secret” information, but of course it happens. How sensitive and sensible of you to make it an opportunity for building skills and valuable experience. As Kelly points out, every situation is one in which we can be present to others’ experience and needs while we attend to our own.
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Qwen, Oh so challenging to be privvy to such intel, yet go through the steps accordingly. Your desire to be authentic anyway, and lead in a way that would be enriching no matter what, helped guide this in a new and productive direction. I imagine it helped those who were laid off transition. Well done. What a hard space to hold! You honored you and them, and the process simultaneously. Thanks for sharing. It was great to read how that can take place when not in a specfic ‘teacher’ role or working 1:1 with people.
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Long ago, I was director of a community children’s theater in the small Wisconsin town where I grew up. Our rehearsals and performances were in an amphitheater on the university campus. We rehearsed nearly every day in the summer for about six weeks and performed during the town festival. The amphitheater was beside a river so even though we were in a program, we got to be outside enjoying the green grass and birdsong.
During rehearsals, I needed to stay very present, attending to what was happening, taking notes on performances, and watching overall pacing and blocking. After the rehearsal (or if I needed to stop the action) I would talk to the actors, making clear but kind suggestions. Sometimes, I worked with one or two actors, championing the characters and helping the actors find and portray them. It was an intense and powerful experience.
I needed to balance being one of the troupe with maintaining the distance my role required. Most days, I was able to do that, but I remember one day when I lost it. The performance was coming soon and things weren’t going well. The storage area of the amphitheater had been broken into and the costumes were dumped in the river. We fished them out (I remember someone pulling a crawfish from a sleeve), but not only did we lose a day of rehearsal, I was going to have to take the costumes home and wash them. I was a teenager and needed to cry. My best friend was with me, and we took refuge behind a stand of trees along the river so I could have some privacy while I pulled myself together. Once I was composed, we returned to the stage, and I was able to rally cast and crew to get everything set for rehearsal the next day.
The performance went well, with the usual missed lines that no one in the audience notices. I learned a lot about theater, about myself, and about working together while remaining alone.
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Dear Kate, OMG! I would imagine it would be difficult under normal circumstances to be both the director (as a teen) of a children’s theatre (where I imagine the age differences weren’t huge) and manage to offer the children support and necessary critique to their acting without blowing up the relationship and trust. And, then for you to be able to hold it all together in the midst of such a fiasco is amazing! I think your story would make for a great short story or a play!!
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The day my brother died (many years ago), I got a phone call from my mom that he had been taken to the hospital. I went to his house first, where my mom and neighbors were gathered, awaiting news. This was before texting and cell phones and instant availability of information – a long time ago. His wife and teenage daughters were at the hospital with him, but no one at the house had heard any news. I told the extremely anxious group that I would go over there and see what the situation was, and report back to them.
A terrible illness, ALS, had taken his mobility a few years back, and now it had taken his life. He was 47 years old. When I got to the hospital, his wife and daughters were gathered around his lifeless body, stretched out under a sheet on a gurney in the emergency room. We hugged and cried.
They all stayed at the hospital, and it was my duty to go back to the house to notify my mother and her neighbors that my brother had died. Although his demise was somewhat expected, it was still shocking. In the car, I pondered how to break this news, and I rehearsed different announcements, because I knew that when I entered the door of his house, a gathering of dear, caring people needed to hear this message loud and clear.
In my family’s religious tradition (Christian), there is the hope of Heaven and redemption, so the announcement I decided to make was tied into that hope, to soften the terrible news. I entered the room, and with a loud voice declared, “He is with the Lord.” Then I hugged my mom. She screamed so loud and so continuously that I lost part of my hearing in my left ear. She just screamed. I still kept hugging her.
To have my own emotions (which were plenty) and to INSTEAD serve the needs of those around me was an experience of utmost discipline, and love.
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I really appreciated the clarity and beauty of Susan’s description of being there for others and stepping back to feel what needed to be felt.
I have experienced this as a yoga teacher. I always believed that a well planned class and knowing how each pose feels in my body to be important as I teach a yoga class. This is amplified in a Restorative Yoga workshop. I wanted my students to feel “restored” after class so I gave all my attention to diffusing a beautiful relaxing scent, lighting a candle, dimming lights etc. I carefully assisted them in setting up props for each pose and watched carefully as you can stay in a supported yoga pose for up to 20 minutes. I would observe any signs of discomfort, as students will sometimes stay in a position even though they are uncomfortable so they don’t disrupt the other students.
On occasion, there have been times where I had worries or even chaos in my life, but I gave myself time to feel my feelings before and after.I also have experienced this as a parent, giving my children the space to tell me their problems and challenges, without throwing my stuff into the mix, or thinking I can fix it or make it better. I am speaking of my adult children. Sometimes it means crying together
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Ann, Your intention setting as a yoga teacher is beautiful. I imagine the students are ushered into quite the space for feeling into their breath and body, for long periods, with gentleness.
Likewise, your gentle practice of giving yourself time before and after if necessary certainly helped them sink in deeply to their practice. You, as well as the environment you set up, allowed that to happen. What alchemy!
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Ann, I loved your description of you envision and frame your yoga classes. How do you first embark on feeling the flow of your postures in yourself and in your body, to be able to pay such rich attention to your students and everything that surrounds their practice after. How lucky your students are, and how lucky your daughter is to have a mom to cry with together!
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Oh goodness yes. It is funny, a few months ago I experimented with counting in meditation. As I was counting down, I was having other full scenarios (thoughts) running in another part of my head. It was like I could split my brain in two. I wondered if that was normal. Or, was my brain just trained to do that from 18 years worth of being a therapist?
I remember my mentors and teachers talking about something similar. You can be deeply listening, and have an entire assessment, curiosity, sensation, and/or thought about where you may nudge the conversation and process (for whatever reason) going on, in the back of your mind. And sometimes yes…there is simply listening, holding space; that is super important. But, I also have to guide the session somewhere, sometimes. Ask a question. Suggest a process to try, etc.
However, one time in particular, I heard concerning news about another client thru a collegue, and the templation to worry or respond in a crisis manner was very loud. It was taking up a lot of space in the back of my mind. I had to reassure it, I knew there was nothing that can or should be done in that very moment. The important phone calls or reaching out could wait 50 minutes. Ironically, meeting the current client in that moment, made my nervous system calm a bit. I could relax into the session and with a great deal of compassion. It was almost as if it was a reminder of how important relationships are in healing. I was able to bring that. That session closed, and with a calmer nervous system, I was able to think more rationally about the next steps for the concerning one. In the end, I was able to make contact with that individual and all was well.
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Amazing essay Rachel! I love how you were able to stay present with your current client even though you had troubling news on your mind at the same time. And how you “could relax into the session”, be there for that client, and also be alone inside with the news you received beforehand. I am glad you could do both and all things worked out well. what a challenge and you seemed to handle it with grace.
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Rachel, I find the way you handled the situation with both clients admirable, and a great example of flawless professionalism. Sometimes I have also felt that being able to give an urgent situation the time and space to act on it from a calmer nervous system, greatly benefits the way we intervene in it, which also reminds me a lot of the first two karmas, pacify and enrich. Thank you for sharing your experience!
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I worked for eight years at a non-profit organization whose mission is “to build the spiritual foundation of a loving world.” This organization employed 65+ people, and because of the depth and breadth of the work the staff engaged in around the world, the staff was extraordinarily diverse.
My role at this organization was to organize a three-hour gathering every Tuesday morning for the entire staff. As a staff, we were called a “community of freedom” because the founder of this private foundation aspired to create a work environment in which staff members were comfortable bringing to the table any part of their identity that they wanted to share. To be as authentic as possible and to feel free to be outwardly who we knew we were inwardly. (again, an aspiration….)
To cultivate and support the community of freedom, I organized team-building exercises, invited speakers from a variety of religions, spiritualities, and ways of being in the world to speak, and invited experts to teach us about a variety of embodied practices. I also partnered with staff members to co-create gatherings that honored and celebrated a part of their identity that they wanted to share. At the end of every community of freedom gathering, there was usually 20-30 minutes of open space to discuss what we learned or experienced, to share how we felt about the content, and to ask questions.
This open space part of the session was always the most emotionally difficult for me. Sometimes the conversation was extremely charged. I don’t know how to describe it except to say sometimes it almost felt like I had to temporarily split myself in two…but not really. The part of me that everyone saw was calm, deeply listening, and lovingly guiding – not trying to point the conversation toward resolution but tending the group in a way that offered a continued safe space for whatever was emerging. The part of me that I kept restrained was the part of me that felt everything so deeply, wanting to weep or leave or interject with a differing view. Even though all of this was temporarily held back, the most helpful of these emotions (for the group) did somehow flavor everything I did to maintain a loving space to discuss and process difficult topics. I’m not sure how that happens! So those emotional parts of me were separate from the part of me who was leading these sessions….but not really.
I experienced this as a Dharma Teacher, as well. In a way, I think it’s an emotional sacrifice. You’re surrendering (in the moment) how you feel and what you think for the benefit of others. And as important as it is to do this, I learned the hard way that it’s equally important to give yourself space and time afterward to reintegrate your spirit and process your own experience.
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Dear Kimberly,
Wow. Every Tuesday? I am impressed with your resourcefulness, creativity, and stamina! And I can well imagine how emotionally difficult the open space part of the gathering must have been for you. You give us a wonderful description of holding space and maintaining the container for your co-workers. I understand the necessity of holding your own emotions in check during the open space sharing (as hard as that must have been), and I wonder if you did anything specific afterwards to help yourself process those emotions.
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Yes, every Tuesday. 🙂 While I was the person managing this process, I did have support, so it was definitely a team effort.
As far as processing afterward, the only specific thing I always tried to do was to ask myself what I needed and to do that as quickly as possible right after the gathering. Maybe it was a walk in the woods, maybe it was a conversation with one of my colleagues who could relate, etc. I remember one time there was an incredibly emotional moment when my colleague at the time, who is Afghani, embraced another colleague whose son died in Afghanistan fighting to protect civilians. This was within a conversation about the Middle East and the US’s involvement there, and my American colleague had never told anyone that his son had died in Afghanistan. It was like time stood still while they held each other and we bore witness to the exchange of spirit. After that gathering, I could make it no farther than the bathrooms, and I sat on the toilet for over an hour, crying and processing everything I experienced.
I guess that’s a long way to say that I think asking myself what I need in the moment and taking care of myself right away is more important than how I fill that need. I hope this is helpful.
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Kimberly, I hadn’t thought about this split between leader and participant before in this way as an emotional sacrifice, but your essay has given me a lens to hold it this way. I also deeply appreciate the reminder to give oneself space and time afterward for reintegration and processing. Such wisdom! Thank you!
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“I am right here with you and also completely alone”. Such a short and profound statement! I love how this happens in the context of the teacher/student relationship and also in the coach/client relationship. I am definitely no different than my client, but I am in the seat as their coach to guide them to their own answers.
There was a particular time when I was in a session with a client I was coaching as part of obtaining my coaching certification. A couple of days before the session, I had a terrible argument with my girlfriend and she was not talking to me since this argument. This made me feel hurt and confused as to why she would not want to resolve this and talk it over. And I know that she too was hurting over the argument. This was weighing heavily on my mind as I had this session with my client. I didn’t want to reschedule as we already had scheduled and the time frame was tight.
Before the session, I was able to pause and meditate for a few minutes to be fully present and then to be fully there with my client. In some unknown and mysterious way, we had an incredible session. My client was very happy with the insights he had with my guidance. I, in some way, was able to be there with my client and also be completely alone with myself in my hurt over the argument with my girlfriend. Not only my hurt but the feeling that my girlfriend was also feeling hurt.
I was feeling happy and sad at the same time if that is possible. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but that is how it felt at the time. I believe it was my meditation practice that allowed this to happen as it did. Maybe that is what is meant by non-dualistic. I don’t know. I do know that my girlfriend and I talked later that evening and discussed our thoughts and feelings. We made up and are still going strong. So things went surprisingly well even though it didn’t seem that it would at the beginning.
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Dear Dominic,
Thank you for sharing this example of being with and yet being alone. I am struck that you intentionally meditated to prepare for the session with your client, and happy that it helped to center and ground yourself in such a way as to be of much benefit to your client and to also help yourself feel better. I’m also happy to hear that you and your girlfriend were able to talk through your argument and are still going strong! For what it’s worth I believe it’s possible to be happy and sad at the same time. 🙂 -
Dominic, I, too, am struck with your idea to meditate before the challenging situation. Undoubtedly, in some deep mysterious way, this played a role in the outcome of your client meeting and with the conversation with your girlfriend that followed. Your essay reminds me that meditation, even if it just for a minute or two or three before a challenge can make all the difference. Thanks for sharing this.
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I love this example, Dominic, thank you for sharing! And so relateable too. I’ve also been in those arguments that last a day or however long and then you have to go into your daily life and deal with people like nothing is going on and you’re totally fine! It’s really not very easy to compartmentalize in that moment, but I love that meditation got you to that place where you could step back and take a moment for yourself to get some perspective and help your client. I’m sure you’re a great coach 🙂
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Haha, love this Dominic! And yes, I believe the happy and sad is captured best by the term “bittersweet” (or “poignant” as highlighted in a book, Bittersweet, that I just finished by Susan Cain). I’ve had this experience too where you’re in a sad state, then somehow you sort of pull it together to be of service – authentically – and it shifts your energy so much that you find yourself flowing through the upsetting issue, much more easily than if you tried to fight or force it. Well played!
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I experienced a situation where similar elements were combined when I accompanied my mother through Alzheimer’s disease.
For this event’s horizon, my mother was diagnosed at the age of 70 years old. She lived on her own. I was shaken by this news, but I had been conscious of a few signs in the two previous years of forgetfulness and slight changes in behaviour. Nothing seemed wrong to her, as I was discovering her condition was deteriorating. Soon she needed a lot of help and she was admitted to a care home, as a disaster was just waiting to occur.
I was the only caregiver and I had promised to help her. While I was adjusting at high speed to my role as caregiver in which I had to be present and orchestrate the challenges of her evolving condition, as a daughter I lived these moments alone. With a diminished brain, my mother could no longer perceive what was happening to her, and experienced every emotion raw, out of context, which could create a very unsettling state of panic. When visiting this parallel world of Alzheimer’s where she now resided, I was witnessing her inertia, the emptiness of her gaze, I felt disconnected in taking the magnitude of what was happening. I wept.
At home my children were still very young. As the beacon of their sparkling little lives, every homecoming looked like birthday balloons to me. It was inconceivable to pull them into my upset state, but I was aware that if I said nothing, their radar would start to flicker and they would feel insecure and hyper vigilant. I let them know in their own words why I had to spend time with their grandmother who, sadly, felt unwell. While remaining quiet about my upside down heart, tending to their needs while being true reinforced our closeness.
At work, to teach and guide dancers in their interpretation, I was serving as an outside eye in their research. This period, in the final year of their training, implied great receptiveness in our exchanges. The analogy is they are center stage, refining their play of emotions, while I stay, standing in the wings, shaping my comments, leaving them space for their own trials. I loved to direct them that way. I feel my heightened sensibility to the situation with my mother may have given more weight and clearness to my recommendations. They never knew. I will never know.
I don’t know either how I piloted during these months. In these circumstances I was as often carried by a third breath as my breath was taken away. In the tough nights, I recall that starting to rephrase “I have to do” with “I want to do” held close to my heart my intentions and my choices. The vision I carried, I needed to renew it every morning to myself.
To look after my beloved mother, the children, and my work, taking into account what I was going through, what a fragile and shifting balance I was in. Most often suspended in the unknown.
But I sense it was how I stepped in the extraordinary. -
“The importance of being totally present to others while remaining alone with your own experience”. That sensation reminded me of when I head to my hometown to spend time with my family. The emotional, attention or conversational style that my mother and I have, for example, is very different, and even opposite, one could say at times. However, over time I have been able to move closer to compassion and acceptance of my closest family members, (as they must have done with me I guess), and of those parts of their character that clash most with mine. However, or as a result, what remains or what arises then is that feeling of being totally present and alone at the same time. Fully present because I really pay attention to what is being talked about, to the energy I perceive, to contribute to an environment of harmony, care and well-being, to appreciate the place where I am and to ensure that my visit leaves an enriching and loving taste in that home, which can be regarding, challenging, delightful and frustating at times, independently and simultaneously. But it is really worthy to always stick to that intention. On the other hand, I also feel alone, because perhaps with them I cannot express myself the way I do with my close friends, for example, or our conversations about real feelings or thoughts about our experiences do not come out in the same way, or are not so meaningful in family gatherings and festivities. And that can feel isolating. That’s why I sometimes feel like I’m “intervening” in those family situations , instead of just being or letting myself be. In the environment described in the article it is necessary, but in a family environment it should not feel that way. I hope to learn to overcome distance or to have more courage to build more authentic and intimate relationships with those who are closest, in blood at least. Putting the energy and acknowledging the positive transformations that have already happened I know is the first step and I am very glad to take it.
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David, what you describe here with your family made me remember the song you connected to your lineage, with the hope, the aspiration to build, as you say, more authentic and intimate relationships with them: “So I took the road less traveled by, and I barely made it out alive, through the darkness somehow I survived; tough love, I knew it from the start, deep down in the depths..of my rebel heart”. I sense through your writing a profound integrity and your courage, always present, in trying to be as you are. In similar family situations, I’ve often felt that my intention for a more real connection was challenged when met with what I perceived as discontinuous listening or fear of openness in the other. So there is this feeling of solitude, honouring who I am while trying to be with them with the sincerity I long for. Your essay made me feel less alone in this quest, and I feel your constant search for meaning is a real gift on your path.
Thank you!-
Thanks again, Helene, your words meant a lot to me. “I’ve often felt that my intention for a more real connection was challenged when met with what I perceived as discontinuous listening or fear of openness in the other” I really connected with that, and I hope the inner work we do on ourselves can help us build down those walls and inspire those who are close to us to do the same too. Knowing others have felt the same way also makes me feel much less alone. So happy to have met you in this journey!
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David and Helene, I can relate so clearly with what you’ve expressed. I usually think of how, when with my family, I keep it really surface level. There is not much real intimacy there, and the few times in my adult life that I have attempted to find that place of depth it has ended in a lot of disappointment and frustration. What you say, David, “knowing others have felt the same way also makes me feel much less alone,” is naming my current feeling exactly. It’s been such a pleasure to share this experience with you all. <3
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It was the last day of the session for my adult Beginning 2 ESOL students. Most of the students had been in the program and knew the last day drill: review activities and games, one on one meetings with the teacher to learn test scores and next level recommendations. B, an outgoing and particularly strong student from Haiti, arrived late. I looked up to say hello and then went back to helping another student with our activity.
Suddenly voices rose in the center of the classroom. B had gone to sit in the only free seat available next to R, a student from Peru. Apparently, B had moved R’s backpack from the seat without asking and R had objected.
R, who I believed to be on the autism spectrum (but didn’t know definitively because of privacy rules), was staring in stunned silence, clutching his backpack. B had begun to weep and talk about racism.
A few other students from countries in West Africa jumped up to comfort B. Two of them were crying also.
I knew: that R was neurodiverse in some fashion and tentative with other students, that B was exhausted and in pain due to a broken tooth. I knew: that racism is real and an issue for my students, that R hadn’t acted out of racism and was becoming terrified.
Part of me wanted to plop down onto the floor and weep. What had happened to our happy class? I had never experienced something like this as a teacher. There were so many ways to go wrong here. It grew quiet in the room; I knew they were waiting for me to give an answer. But this wasn’t a grammar point or vocabulary definition. I had no more to go on than they did.
As I began to speak to the students, I felt myself grow calm. My vision cleared and I could see all the students faces clearly. Throughout the class we had talked a lot about miscommunication and ways to repair communication breakdowns.
What if R simply didn’t want anyone to touch his backpack? Was that racism?
After a bit I took R to speak to a member of the immigrant resource center where my class was located. My Spanish and R’s English skills weren’t enough to get him through this situation. Luckily, my colleague and R discussed his autism and local resources for him.
Back in the classroom we talked about racism a bit more and several students shared experiences. R came back. We played Bingo and then I began to meet with the students 1:1. B’s test scores were very good; he was moving up to Intermediate 1. R talked to me about his autism, and about the group he had learned about who went to Dave and Busters sometimes.
We made it through the day. The students hugged me and each other at the end of class. I went home and cried.
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Anne, this story you share here really touched me. When you say “I knew they were waiting for me to give an answer. But this wasn’t a grammar point or vocabulary definition. I had no more to go on than they did.”, you describe in a very real and palpable way how it can feel to “hold the teacher’s seat”. In this delicate and complex situation, with R’s autism and B’s sensitivity, I’m impressed that once you regained your calm, you remembered your group discussions during the year on the importance of clear communication. I really felt this empowered you with courage, and your response was loving, helpful and reassuring for them. Your experience of teaching reveals to me again its rich creative potential where learning becomes an instrument of growth and change for both the students and the teacher. Thank you for this!
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Staying fully present for others can sometimes be a challenge even when I am not having my own intense experience, and obviously even more so when I am. 🙂
This happens in varying degrees for me in my work as a Chinese medicine practitioner as I often sit and listen to my patients as a significant part of our sessions. I can remember having a difficult time more than once when I was working with the Veteran’s Affairs office and seeing many patients who were coming with intense experiences from their time serving in the US military. So many of these people had been in circumstances that I could never imagine, and would recount these instances with such composure. I, on the other hand, was not always feeling so composed (on the inside at least).
One time I remember very clearly was while treating a man who had been in a terrible explosion in a war situation and somehow made it out alive. His story was incredibly hard to hear. I was able to listen fully and even ask a few questions while keeping myself together. After our intake I left the room to give him a chance to make himself comfortable before his treatment, and I remember the tears coming so fast as soon as I was on the other side of the closed door. I had to let myself cry for a few minutes, then regain composure and go back into the room and finish the treatment.
I’m quite certain my experience enabled me to be even more present for his experience in the end. We had many sessions together and he always seemed happy to be there with me. It was an honor to be able to work with a population of people who are so often forgotten by the health care system. Even though it was often difficult for me in the moment, overall I found it to be such an enriching experience to have the opportunity to hear these stories and offer care and compassion.Another specific instance that comes up is when I was seeing patients throughout a time of great heartbreak. My ex decided to break it to me that he was no longer interested in continuing our nearly 7 year relationship as I was on my way out the door headed to work. I remember a daze of weeks of sobbing in between patients. Much later some of my more longterm patients who sometimes asked me about my life were very surprised to hear that I was now single and living alone, and wondering how I had been dealing with the breakup and ensuing heartbreak during the past months without them knowing. I realized that during that time, in the depths of my grief, I was able to focus so clearly on my patients’ experiences and be so fully present with them because it was a brief time in my day when I could put my own suffering aside. I think it was therapeutic for me to keep remembering that I was not the only one in pain because I was listening and feeling compassion for others’ experiences. And after all I think it was a great way to find compassion for myself and my patients. You really never know what someone else is going through.
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Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts, Jana. I love your first line – simply naming how presence in general can be difficult (even when we’re feeling just dandy). It’s so true. I also so appreciated your stories and how the intensity of your own sadness/grief was something you were able to hold space for….and also allow to permeate the boundaries between you and your patients so you could feel held in common humanity while holding compassion for their experiences. 🙏 Per your last line, one of my friends always says “Every single person has a story that could break your heart.” I find this so important to remind myself of….always. <3 <3 <3
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Dear Susan,
First I’d like to thank you for your essay. Your writing digs so deep into your own vulnerability that I feel like that is my biggest “take-away”. Your teachings are so meaningful to me because you model a way to match the dharma with the truth of who you are. You’re an inspiration.I’m sure as a parent educator of many years (which was many years ago) I made huge mistakes of using my own experiences as a parent of young children to color my teachings, guidance and listening to other parents. It’s just too long ago to remember!
However, I want to reflect on a time when I was supervisor of a team in a non-profit agency. I had been there for at least 10 years (again it’s been a long time ago) and the agency was going through a big change. This was probably in the late 1990’s or early 2000’s. It used to be that this agency and the expectations of its funders (and I think many non-profits) could offer services to be helpful to the community they served without worry. But, then all that changed. We began to pick up a “business model” of “proving with deliverables” that the funders’ money was being spent wisely with statistical proof vs “stories” of how we were making a difference in people’s lives. (I’m sorry, it’s hard to explain briefly.)
Anyway, my boss thought my team wasn’t meeting the “deliverables” and I needed to be more “tough” on them. So I did. Then later I saw that I was being harsh and hurting people. I felt awful. To try and rectify, I took photos of objects in nature and/or created beautiful images and gave each member of the team this card to reflect who I thought they really were.
So the question of “how to remain with my own experience and also see how it colors my responses to others” wasn’t done well in the above situation. I think my story reflects my confusion of how to balance the pressure that I felt from my boss with how to meet the needs of my team so that we could all have our needs met.It didn’t work well for the team and sometime after I was transferred to a different position!! Though I took the transfer as a failure, I think in the end, it was a good thing. I was able to initiate some creative work that was more supportive to who I was and had beneficial results with those I connected to.
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Awww, thanks for your honesty here, Betsy – that indeed sounds like a tough experience, although, as you said, it led to something better in the end. Work is such a difficult place to find that balance, right? Especially if you’re in a leadership position and you have many different people to make happy. Sounds like you did the best you could given the circumstances!
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This essay talks about the importance of being totally present to others while remaining alone with your own experience–and also allowing it to color your responses to others. Can you describe another situation where these elements were combined? How did it go?
________First, I’d like to thank Susan for this deeply personal and touching essay. The emotions and experiences shared there were really vulnerable, and the writing was so beautiful and insightful.
At first, when I was thinking about my response to this question, I was thinking about my yoga teaching experience and navigating that tenuous balance between being alone in my experience and whatever else is going on in my life and brain that day with the importance of being totally present, but as I thought about this more, I feel like it’s in my relationship with my mother where this comes up in a stronger way. My mom has come a long way in her personal development in the past decade, but the truth of it is that she has some narcissistic tendencies and can be difficult to communicate with when she is in a state of stress and high activation. She can be confrontational and defensive, and it has taken me a long time to get better at communicating with her and it’s still very much a WIP.
When I was younger, this used to cause problems and arguments between us because I’d challenge things that she said that I knew were wrong and give her advice when she wanted feedback or to vent about something. But as I’ve gotten older, I’m learning how to better navigate this balance between being wholly present with her and still in my own experience.
As with many mother-daughter relationships, her behaviour and words can sometimes be triggering for me, and this would normally cause some kind of palpable physical response or just inform the way I’d respond to her. But I realize that I can have my feelings and know what I know to be true and not have to answer her or tell her that she’s wrong, and her defensiveness is because she’s triggered too – she has low self-esteem and places a lot of her self-worth on “how much she knows” and so hates when this is threatened.
Feeling and noticing this balance when I’m listening to her has opened up a well in compassion in me for her that I didn’t know I had – I always felt deeply for her, but this is different, I have nothing to prove. She can be right, and so can I. I can let her talk and act how she wants, and I’m still the same person with my own ideas. As a result, she feels heard and validated, and we’re both happier with each other by the end of the day. Do I always get it right? Hell, no! She knows how to push my buttons. But I am learning how to love her in a deeper and more pure way because of this balance between honouring myself and being present with her – and it’s 100% coloured the way I respond to her. At least some of the time 😉
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Jenn, in your relationship with your mother, the balance you develop between your full presence to her while remaining with your own experience demands a lot and demonstrates, I feel, all the personal work, questioning, deep introspection you’ve done… It really touched me when you wrote “I always felt deeply for her, but this is different, I have nothing to prove.” What a strong and caring way to express your love towards yourself, and her.
The challenge with balance, I find, is that at one point I think “that’s it, I’ve got it!”, and then I turn around, and it’s gone.
It’s delicate, often precarious, subject to the winds of situations and our state of being… It requires constant adjustment.
All this to say that I wish you, no matter what the future holds, that the search for this balance goes more and more smoothly. And may it continue to “open up a well in compassion” in you, for you and for her <3.
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YIKES! Yes, holding back as a parent was, still can be the sensitive thing to do, but I’m afraid I haven’t been and still not sure when i am, but i hope I am becoming more aware of whats going on beyond myself. Honestly I think this is a huge responsibility. The discipline that allows me to quiet my mind enough for the ability to see a larger picture does not come easily to me. Clearly the confidence of myself as a teacher is low. The idea that i am taking what first of all what I believe to be true. This in itself requires a certain confidence that I struggle with. What does give me confidence is the fact that I choose to sit every day and meditate, often with a Sanga and by practicing this everyday, as if going to the gym,
And somehow it makes me feel better as a struggling person struggling with other person’s struggles.
I have no formal teaching experience. I know that being a parent is a deal responsibility as far as teaching goes. But I feel that I was mostly the student. -
For me parenting was the first experience of feeling alone in my internal experience while tending to the care of a child, especially during the challenging times. I would have an expression – just step up. Which meant put aside for the moment your inner turmoil and be there with as open a heart as you can.
I also remember that the last year of my mom’s life she needed much care. She was semi bed ridden and need help with life’s daily tasks. My mom was not a nurturing parent and my siblings and I were not given a whole lot of TLC. The first few months of caring for her I felt angry. How could I give to her when she gave little to her children. To my amazement, I gave as much love as I could and one day the quote of St Francis came to my mind, it is in giving that we receive. I finally understood what it meant. In helping my mom, I was given an opportunity to develop a loving relationship with her and the inner hurts I was able to let go of.
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Christine, these are 2 beautiful exemples I relate to. As a parent , I love your expression… to « step up », similar to mine… « get out of the way », which also means, as you say, “putting aside for the moment the inner turmoil” to make room to listen and respond in the best possible way. And I was so moved by St Francis’s quote, I felt it deeply as well in my journey with my mother’s dementia. Thank you for sharing it. It is in giving that we receive… It reminds me also how much this has been true to my teaching experience. Experiencing these states of receptivity, both ways.
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“There is an important non-parity between student and teacher. It has nothing to do with superior/inferior or enlightened/unenlightened, obviously. I am absolutely no different than any of them. However, for various reasons … at this moment and for these people, I happened to hold the seat of teacher.”
I have always felt a sort of magical momentum while teaching that is hard to explain, but I felt it was well reflected in this piece. There is a sort of subconscious agreement between teacher and student that equality is not the necessary premise for learning or leading. For a short time, we agree that one person holds more space, guides the boat so to speak. That trust, from a student, is such a gift. It’s what makes the magic work.
Even knowing just how good that feels, there are times when that little bit of magic alludes me. Sometimes when teaching, especially when I’m working with other adults, I stumble into hyperawareness of my own humanity. For a moment, the absurdity of what Susan refers to as “nonparity” rears up like a cliff face I’ll smack into, or a precipice I’ll tumble off. It’s as if, for a moment, I see the “classroom,” and the expectant faces, and in front of them ME, just another silly human. It’s a different set of emotions than the sort that are described in the piece, but a set nonetheless. To counter this, I’ve tried to remind myself that I am not bequeathing knowledge, but sharing in discovery. My job is to shepherd curiosity, joy, and pleasure. And, I try to remind myself that I need to keep up my role a bit for the magic to work. The unspoken agreement of the space, that magic of it, necessitates my commitment to the bit. Sharing my own doubts or feelings wouldn’t honor that agreement, and those feelings and my place as a teacher aren’t mutually exclusive.
Watching Susan teach over the past few weeks, I have been admiring this exact thing. There is such a deliberate balance and an intense, palpable present-ness that I so appreciate.
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Eleanore….I appreciate everything you shared here. Especially your experience of “hyperawareness” that rears up (amazing metaphors!) and how you have learned to skillfully work with it so you don’t lose your center.
As I read, I was also thinking the exact same thing about Susan’s modeling of these very qualities. 100%. It is such a gift.
Thank you for your insights! <3
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I know the feeling, very well, of showing up to host a meditation class or guide students when something very emotionally big is happening in my life.
More often than not, I felt like I should cancel class or have someone sub in for me, because I wasn’t in the right shape to hold space with and for others. And yet, over and over again, I was surprised (and sometimes baffled) by how being acutely in touch with my own suffering cracked me open in such a way that created a beautiful and vulnerable container for everyone else.
I was usually alone with the context/details of my situation, but there was a very different level of open-heartedness and tenderness that I naturally carried…and it flowed out in my presence and my words. This vulnerable state also allowed me to let so much of the normal “stuff” (distractions, judgments, etc) go and in doing so, I could see and feel my students in their humanity so much more clearly. The rawness of my own experience seems to be a doorway to be truly, fully present for them, and I know they can feel it. And in turn, this gives them permission to be more open and tender as well (the most fruitful ground for practice!).
In my earlier years of teaching as a HARDCORE pleaser, I always wanted people to leave my classes feeling “good”. I thought that was the point. So I leaned a lot into positive psychology, relaxation guidance, pleasant visualizations, etc. I tried to keep things fairly light and positive. Then I went through MBSR training and realized that was entirely NOT the point!
Thank goodness I course-corrected pretty early on. When I first experienced what it felt like to teach from suffering – and to bring the energy of that into class, not in a heavy or burdensome way, but in a way that felt so profoundly real – I experienced SUCH a deeper connection to the students and to myself in the “teacher’s” seat. The alchemy of this seems so obvious to me now, but at the time, it wasn’t.
What I am continually discovering through this journey is that our deepest teaching presence emerges not despite our struggles, but through them. The vulnerability I once thought would compromise my ability to guide others has become my greatest asset in creating authentic connection. When we can remain present with our own experience while holding space for others, something lovely happens—the artificial boundary between teacher and student softens, and we meet each other in our shared humanity.
At the same time, this dance of vulnerability requires tremendous skill and discernment. I’m learning to navigate the delicate balance of sharing my humanity while maintaining appropriate boundaries. Even after years of teaching, I still sometimes feel QUITE wobbly in this space, questioning how much to share, how vulnerable to be, how to remain truly present with others while staying grounded in my own experience. But I’m learning to trust this uncertainty as part of the path, recognizing that this ongoing exploration and careful calibration is itself a practice (but of course!) — and one that keeps my teaching alive, authentic, and ever-evolving.
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Rena, I love what you say: ‘…our deepest teaching presence emerges not despite our struggles, but through them.’ And I fully agree that vulnerability is such an asset when working with others and cultivating connection. And such a gift! And can also be a tricky dance of navigating boundaries. I feel like I’m sitting with this challenge every time I work with someone in a practitioner / teacher role, but through this course I’ve been so much more aware of it. Thank you for your words, I fully identify!
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I was comforted by Susan’s explanation of her experience of “Retreat Magic”. The sweet presence that comes after quiet dedicated study, the feeling of love/tenderness that comes from being present to others, and the supportive tidiness of schedule was evocative of experiences of leading and being on retreat. Susan wrote her words so clearly that I understood and warmly felt her meaning.
“There is an important non-parity between student and teacher.” & “ I am absolutely no different than any of them.”
I have often felt loneliness. I have felt it throughout my life, maybe not for any particular reason, or maybe it’s an inherited trait. But, the loneliness I have felt as a practitioner and teacher has been quite confounding. As a practitioner, I kind of understand it because socially I am on my own. My husband, kids, parents and most of my friends don’t relate, and they definitely don’t want me to talk about it as much as I want to talk about it. As a teacher, this loneliness was a mystery because I was sharing the work and sharing was so satisfying to me, it filled my heart up. I did recognize the other part where the sharing was sort of one-sided and required a lot of focus and determination.
“This loneliness creates an interesting crucible, one which requires further discipline to both maintain and blend in to the environment correctly. It -what I am feeling about myself, them, and the work-cannot be held separate from the work as it is the channel for connection…” This is illuminating! This loneliness and what I am feeling, is the container but it’s also the space inside the container. This space is the wiggle room for processing and connection. Thank goodness.
Every word of the rest of the essay pierced my heart, bringing back the memories of the year I was so fortunate to arrange and lead a 5 day kayaking and meditation trip through The Broken Islands on the outer west coast of Vancouver Island. I was so excited as I prepared our little booklet (journal), picked out pens and pencils for everyone. Each day was laid out with a gentle schedule, poetry and koans, and introductions to our practices.
Unthinkably, five days prior to the trip, my meditation teacher, Michael, died. He was kept on life support until the day before the trip when his organs were donated. I was heartbroken. This was like no loss I had ever experienced.
The next morning, the participants arrived at the beach where we were to launch from, our gear was gathered and we set about our first practice perched on big water soaked logs. I opted to share the news of Michael’s death as a few of them knew and had practiced with him. They were touched by my sharing, the folks were lovely, not too fussy with me, and we got on with our journey. Throughout our trip I took plenty of time away from the group and guarded my evenings, where I cried and tried to catch my breath. Sometimes there was cell service and I could connect with my sangha friends. I felt scattered and bereft. It was awful and amazingly beautiful. All through these days, what happened was gentle synergy. Our kayak guide managed our travels and our needs, the booklet reminded me what was at hand, my deep grief made me even more determined to be true to the form and wisdom of our practice, and the students understanding let me be a little more patient with my tears. The Along our way, we had some extremely beautiful practices and experienced connection as a sangha.
Through the experience of losing my teacher, I was how everything changed and nothing changed. The clarity of the teachings are the scaffold and love is the determination, the force that keeps my momentum. I painfully learned that this practice is alive, it doesn’t depend on any one person.
There was a fellow on this journey who was a long time Buddhist practitioner and teacher. He was a good person with a big heart (he still is) who said super offensive things (he still does). It wore thin, he felt alienated that no one liked his humour. How did it colour my responses? Well, firstly, I bristled, then a couple of times I had to quietly remind him that we weren’t his usual social group and that his language was too much. I had to talk with a few of the others about their struggles with him. It was mostly group management, after that, I felt awkward, but we just continued on our way. (Haha) Maybe it should have been a silent retreat….. ; )
How’d it go? It hurt, it was scary, but it was all quite beautiful.
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Erin, I’m so sorry for your loss. It sounds like it was an amazing and challenging retreat, (mostly) full of people who could give you the space and support you needed. <3
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Erin, what an intense experience this must have been, both in difficulty and beauty. I love what you say here, “The clarity of the teachings are the scaffold and love is the determination, the force that keeps my momentum. I painfully learned that this practice is alive, it doesn’t depend on any one person.” This is so touching and powerful. Thank you so much for sharing. Also I am totally with you in your loneliness as a practitioner. If you ever want to be in a small practitioner group to talk about the stuff that no one else wants to hear, I would be so happy to be part of it as well! <3
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Wow, Jana. It’s so lovely to see what I wrote reflected back. Thanks for that. It was a very intense week, but thankfully, the folks that were attending, were really with me in heart too. It was beautiful.
I would love to do/have/create a discussion group with you (and others, too). How beautiful would that be? Let’s do it. -
Let’s do it! Could be so lovely. My email is jana.sample@gmail.com. Let me know if you want to explore some ideas and try to get it going. 🙂
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I had a great therapist for many years. I was going through a lot (more than I even knew at the time, with fewer tools than I have now, and zero compassion for myself), and she seemed to understand me. Or at least see me.
I remember one session in particular where I had been sobbing, heartbroken and desperate, and we came to the end of our time together. The second hand hit the :50 minute mark, and she stood up and moved to the door.
I felt so abandoned and rushed. In that moment, I felt like just a $130 check to her. Like she didn’t care about me at all.
I held this against her for a long time. I became hyper-aware of how unwilling she seemed to go even a minute or two past our allotted time, and I was angry about it.
But in the years since, I’ve realized that she was enforcing a crucial boundary, not just for me, but for herself. (And how *I* was actually the one pushing that boundary by trying to “get the most” out of each session!)
How exhausting it must be, to be a receptacle or mirror for everyone else’s conflict and trauma. She was totally present to me, but also aware of her own needs — which (hopefully) kept her from burning out, and allowed her to stay present.
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Oh Lianna, your example illustrates perfectly how it’s so painful to come through to compassion for ourselves and others. I recognize this vigilance in myself too, looking to see that I matter, that I am valued. But, what an awesome example of boundaries that you learned through your vulnerability. It’s so beautiful that you were able to move through that resentment and turn to appreciation and compassion.
<3
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Wednesday morning. The results of the election are in. The Election. I hope it doesn’t become known to apocalyptic posterity The Last Election. You know the one I mean.
I teach 4th grade in Chicago, safe in the bubble. Two of my students walk in sobbing openly, the whole class is unfocused and mostly sombre. It’s immediately clear we need to process this a little. No point in trying to move on with scheduled curriculum until we can at least try to clear the air.
I call the class to the rug and futon, our little sacred space at the front of the classroom where we practice meditation twice daily together. We talk it out and process our feelings. This is where I’m right at the centre of things, gently directing the show, but quite alone in that I don’t want to share my opinions and fears.
We study US political processes and discuss them openly, but I maintain discreet impartiality with them about my voting preference. They often asked me who I would vote for and even maintained they could tell. Fine, but I’m not telling.
My job here is to create a container for these young people that’s safe and respectful. To set them a better example than our political representatives do, you might say. Not always easy, but we work hard at it.Talking to the kids, innocent as they are, helped me to take a longer view of the election result. All I can do is help them learn to be kind to each other, and hope that they will continue to do so long into adulthood.
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Jamie, What a gift! I am thankful for your reflection on your role as a teacher, to stabilize the circumstance for the kids in these wickedly tough times. It’s unthinkable! Yet, you held the container so that the air could clear and the kids could think again. You maintained your integrity. Like you highlighted, this process of teaching is reciprocal. What we set out to teach/embody for our students circles back to ourselves.
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