Helene Melancon
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Dear Dominic,
“… truly listen to them without listening to respond.” How beautiful this is, it says so much about your full presence, rooted and open to the other. And as I kept reading, I could feel your authenticity and gentleness in being of service/benefit to others. What a gift you must be to them.
I recognized myself in being also someone who is best at ease in small groups to speak. I have learned from my previous work that the heart is the strongest muscle of the body. It is with all my heart that I approach my practice of meditation, and I think about this when I speak in public. And that’s definitely what I always felt when reading your essays.
Thank you Dominic, your contribution to the forum has always been important for me.Dear Kate,
“I am pretty good at recognizing everything as practice and I take joy in practicing.” What a gift you have, I am quite impressed by the depth of what that means.
And talking about your challenges with teaching, you write this: ” We’ll see what opportunities arise to give me practice in making mistakes and recovering from them.” It moves me because I feel this highlights your profound practice, and a trust in the unknown in presenting you opportunities for growth. I feel the firm roots of your practice in between your wording.Thank you for your writing, it has really been an inspiration to me. I wish you the best luck with your meditation and writing classes!Thank you Karen. I love the way you described your “overpreparation” as a headache sometimes, I tend to lean into this “overpreparation” as well…, but the positive strategy that resulted from it eventually.
I’ve always learned a lot from your essays. “What a marvelous tool we have In “just feeling” the breath!”, I will remember this sentence too.
I am convinced that all we’ve learned in this teaching course will enhance your art and calligraphy. Good luck with the continuation !I find it is a challenge to reflect on my particular gifts and challenges as a teacher, but it is truly a gift to be aware of them. So thank you for this question.
As for the challenges…, perfectionism comes on top of the list. Even though I’m not there anymore and I am recovering from this, in part it comes from my training in the performing arts world from a young age, it is still ingrained in me and it sneaks in the way I teach. When I start to worry about how I say or express things, as well as judge and evaluate when I feel I might have made a mistake, it takes all my attentive presence to observe and adjust this, while reminding myself I am a human being (!!!) and that no matter what I say or do I can always amend or come back on the subject when necessary. And bring awareness to my own expectations for myself and others. I love how meditating each morning uncovers my inner landscape, I find respite in the rhythm of the breath, I let myself re-discover the exquisite vulnerability of being human.
Another challenge is to take time before to talk or to answer, to offer myself and others a precious pause. I can occasionally be quick with an impulse to talk or respond, and I recognize it is a way of functioning. It has helped me to remember that in the teacher’s role it is always worth taking a moment to weigh up. It is all about transmission, I’m a conduit for information that others will meet with their own richness within.
The challenge of having a part of me who frequently wants to help others so that they feel better or at ease. “Not taking care of them, caring about them” as Susan said many times. Committing to remind myself this nuance is crucial for my students and for myself.As for the gifts…, I have always been an attentive listener. I am at ease with silence.
Honest. Patient. Highly intuitive, with a knack to find strong images when writing or describing.
A curiosity who is more one of a seeker, discovering in other ways to understand, trying not to always take the same paths.
This ability to see and feel in relationships when something is not openly transparent, I consider it a gift and a curse, because once it’s seen it is impossible not to raise it. So putting myself in a vulnerable position instead of proving a point or defending myself is a “forte”, despite the fear.
Really resilient because of my way of perceiving human beings and life fundamentally as being enchanting.
And…, a sense of humour (which has not been expressed here in this forum:)). Knowing how to play things down, make people smile, laugh at me or a situation gently, when humour makes things easier, I have found this an asset in my teaching.As it is our last essay…, I want to tell you how fortunate I feel to have been a part of this amazing group, and to participate at your side in learning to become a meditation teacher. To cultivate my meditation practice and awareness of what happens while meditating is to me a dear way of being with life. I was engaged here with you in the very thing I love most, and through it, we journeyed together on our spiritual path. Thank you to all of you <3.
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!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.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!
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.
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.Hi Christine,
Your thoughts on parenting stroke a chord in me. How sometimes I chose a more passive, soft response when firmness and taking the time with my children to understand more deeply the situation was necessary. Reflecting on this, I realize ( once again! ) how excellent teachers they were and still are for me, and also that I was able occasionally to come back and correct the course.
Your image of the tree as an example of wise compassion brought a feeling of peace in me. It expresses as well a sense of strength, of presence.
Thank you.Eleanore,
Thank you for your enlightening, revealing comments.
What a beautiful and powerful image to describe with finesse “real compassion”, not as a goal sought for its own sake, an ultimate objective, but as something alive, a continuous, incessant movement, like breathing.
This image is engraved in my heart. It has expanded my understanding.Happy to read that you knew about this expression « We’re all bozos on the bus … ». In fact the author explains in her book that this line she co-opted for her workshops is from clown-activist Wavy Gravy. So inspiring to read about his life.
Rena …« To me, moments of true compassion have arose out of simply being present and opening my heart to whatever or whoever is in front of me. It comes from an embodied place (instead of a thinking/mental place)… »
An embodied place. Yes, I find this is so key. It is a huge reminder to me. And suddenly my mind traveled to the experiences I had being with loved ones dying, when everything of me fell down to uncover the essence of just thereness.
What if compassion were pure presence?
Thank you, what a beautiful reflection you helped me to unlock.Dear Rena, I’m extremely touched by your thoughtful words, but especially to learn how much what I’ve written resonates with you and can move you.
I’m surprised and filled with gratitude…
You’re offering me a beautiful gift by sharing this with me.
Because writing is like talking to companions in the dark. And because in the last few years I’ve shut down my voice following a painful experience with a mentor…
Bu through this program, I’ve rediscovered the joy of writing thanks to all these in depth and luminous questions I felt this call to reflect on. And especially thanks to the trust and the respect of this Sangha where I felt safe to write.
With all my heart, thank you …Jenn…,
« Sometimes doing nothing is compassionate »… Waow. Simplicity, and wisdom, in 5 words. It resonated with me a lot. Like the needle of a seamstress, passing through the right place.
I feel there is a real beauty and strength in refraining at times and choosing mindfully to do nothing.
Thank you <3.