Sandie Paduano
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At my school we say, “Clear is kind.” I like that. It’s simple. Honest. When it comes to money and teaching meditation, I have feelings. Strong ones. But I don’t actually have a concrete plan yet to teach meditation. My philosophy is still forming. Still evolving. But this question brings a lot of my life experiences full circle.
I’m currently separated from my longtime partner, and money has been the biggest point of contention between us. Not because we have a lot of it. Not even because we had a little. But because we built it together and he unilaterally funneled all of it into his start-up. Experiences like that can shape how one thinks about money. And fairness.
I also grew up working class. First generation. My mom tried to work whenever she could. My dad was a talented craftsman who was exploited over and over again. Watching that was heartbreaking. It stays with you. I learned early how easily good work can be undervalued.
And then there’s my profession. I’m an elementary school teacher. Teachers—especially elementary teachers—are often not seen as professionals. I work at an independent school with no endowment. For hundreds of years it was run by boards and heads of school who believed female elementary teachers didn’t need to earn much because we had husbands who did. Meanwhile we work long hours, and our contracts are year to year. So when I think about offering something meaningful without compensation, I carry a lot with me.
Years ago when I was working on a yoga certification just to deepen my practice, I imagined maybe sharing it with small groups for free. When I told my aunt, who grew up incredibly poor like my dad in southern Italy and later became a teacher in Rome, she looked at me and said, “Perché lavoreresti gratis?”
Why would you work for free? That question has stayed with me.
Meditation came into my life because I was searching for something deeper. Spiritual goodness. Fullness. Wholeness. Sometimes I paid for guidance. Sometimes I didn’t. But most of the time I did, and I was grateful to. So maybe the answer is a middle path. Offer the practice with care. Be clear about its value. Allow generosity and accessibility at the same time.
If I ever teach meditation, I hope the exchange—whatever form it takes—supports both the practice and the people practicing it. When it comes to money, clear is kind.
Remaining connected yet separate is an essential spoke in the teaching mandala. I have been a teacher for most of my adult life and, for much of it, a student as well. Living in both roles has taught me the necessary balance between compassion and clarity, kindness and integrity.
I have long reflected on the balance between the art and the science of teaching. I have taught Yoga, high school subjects, and for nearly two decades now in a Quaker school in Philadelphia. The last thing I want to do is distort the mandala. Without connection, students feel unseen. Without separation, the clarity of the role dissolves. The art of teaching lies in holding both at once. The science lies in keeping the content sacred—whether I am teaching phonics, addition strategies, map reading, or Yoga. The relationship supports the learning; it must not eclipse it.
Over the years, I have had many teachers. None crossed lines, and neither did I. Some were incredible mentors. I did extra work for them and may even have been a favorite. Yet even in close relationships, there was a clear understanding of role and responsibility. The warmth never compromised the structure. I felt cared for, and I felt guided.
My years as a Yoga practitioner deepened this understanding. My longtime teacher encouraged us to take classes with instructors we did not particularly like. Meet your practice head-on, she would say. Do not rely on personality. That discipline taught me that devotion belongs to the practice, not the person leading it. The teacher is a guide, not the center of gravity. The same is true in the school where I work.
In a close-knit Quaker community, boundaries require particular care. Colleagues’ children become your students; your child becomes your colleagues’ student. My now twenty-two-year-old daughter once sat in the classrooms of my professional peers. As a faculty parent, I was deliberate about maintaining boundaries. I trusted the teachers and revered the role. My daughter rose to that expectation. Respect was not about hierarchy; it was about honoring the community that makes learning possible.
This year, my partner teacher is also the parent of one of my students—a child who is struggling academically and behaviorally. In a less grounded setting, that overlap could blur lines. Instead, we are navigating it with clarity. When I am her child’s teacher, I hold that role fully. When she is my colleague, she holds hers. Our mutual respect—for each other as teachers, as parents, and as human beings—anchors us. We allow space for mistakes, extend grace, and stay focused on what matters: the children and the craft.
In our culture marked by political division and the persistent realities of racism and sexism, professional integrity matters even more. When the world feels unstable, classrooms must be steady. Students need adults who are warm but principled, relational but firm. The teacher’s role is neither to be a peer nor to retreat into aloof authority. It is to stand in compassionate firmness.
Remaining connected yet separate is not about rigidity. It is alignment. Teachers honor boundaries not to create distance, but to protect the sacredness of the work. Folx flourish when they feel both seen and guided, both valued and held accountable.
The Paramita I Both Practice and Resist
Patience is the paramita I feel most connected to and most inconsistent with. I was with a partner for thirty years. We are now separated. I was deeply wronged, and yet I stayed longer than I probably should have. Even now, I’m still tied to him in ways I don’t fully understand. Thirty years doesn’t just disappear. If patience means staying with difficulty without forcing resolution, then I’ve practiced it for a long time. I learned to live with ambiguity. I learned not to demand immediate clarity.I’m now in a new relationship. On the surface, it looks like a new beginning. In many ways, it is. I don’t spiral like I used to. I don’t demand reassurance. I can tolerate uncertainty. I can let things unfold. But sometimes I wonder whether this is truly new or simply a steadier version of me and my old patterns. Am I more patient because I’ve grown, or because I’m more guarded? I’m not sure.
What I do see is that in close relationships, I am capable of real patience. I let my partner be imperfect. I allow misunderstanding without panicking. I don’t expect him to manage my emotions. That wasn’t always true. I used to react quickly and stay wounded. Now I can pause.
But at work, it’s different. I’m quick to judge. I get irritated by incompetence. I sometimes pretend to listen while forming my response. I’ve been in my career for a long time and I have high standards. I’m not very patient with colleagues, and I’m especially not patient with myself as a teacher. I expect myself to know better.So my patience is selective. I have it in love. I struggle with it in ego-driven spaces — work, performance, identity.
Maybe that’s the real work now. Not enduring betrayal or surviving uncertainty, but practicing patience in ordinary moments: in meetings, in feedback, in my own self-critique.
I don’t need patience to hold together a thirty-year relationship anymore. I need it in smaller, daily exchanges. And I’m still learning.When I think about the fact that I gave meditation instruction to a complete stranger over Zoom, I can feel myself start to spiral — imagining how awkward it could have been. But when I focused on the actual experience rather than the idea of it, it was surprisingly natural. It simply felt like what it was, a shared learning exercise.
I was glad to go first, though I found myself overly focused on time. I worried that checking my watch or moving on screen might distract my partner, which pulled me slightly out of full presence. When I later received the meditation, I noticed my mind replaying my own instruction and wondering if I had missed anything, which made it harder to fully settle.
There wasn’t much time to overthink beforehand, and I must have felt supported by the shared container of learning we’re all in, regardless of experience level. I tried to keep my guidance simple, though afterward I immediately compared myself to my partner and questioned how I had done.What’s interesting is that I’m trying to reflect objectively, but I realize that’s difficult. Even so, I felt relatively comfortable teaching even though writing about it feels uncomfortable. I was meditating while instructing, just as she was when she guided me. It felt like a safe space to me, yet I find myself wondering whether it felt that way for her. And if it didn’t, then I question my perception entirely. That’s where the spiral begins — even though there was genuine comfort in teaching.
The next day, I continued reflecting — wondering whether I spoke too much or too little, whether I left enough space, and how my words may have landed. Ultimately, I don’t really know how I feel about it and I’m not going to spiral because of it.
I totally agree. I love how Folx reflected their lives now to lineage. I tried that and thought more about my past and what got me here. I’m going to reflect some more about how my lineage carries the stories and roots of those who came before me, grounding me in a history I did not choose but inherit.
The groups I move through now reflect who I am becoming, the communities I choose and the connections I cultivate. It’s deeply human to seek belonging, to find spaces where our presence is recognized and valued. For me, this sense of belonging is also tied to my indigenity—a reminder that my identity is inseparable from the land, culture, and ancestors that came before, even as I navigate new circles in the present.
When I hear lineage, I think of monks, ancestors, bloodlines—and for me, paesano. My parents were both from Roggiano Gravina. My father was one of the first to come to the U.S.; my mother arrived earlier through Ellis Island. After I was born, we moved to a Philadelphia neighborhood that slowly became a recreated Roggiano. Our house was a gathering place for paesans—parties, meals, card games, dancing, and conversation filled every corner. You could say it is where the Roggianese sangha in Philly met at that time.
I didn’t know the word lineage then, but I lived inside one. I absorbed how to endure change, work without guarantees, and rely on community. I moved between worlds—Italian and English, home and school, old world and new. Being a translator for many of my paesanos felt ordinary, and it trained me to listen, attune, and carry meaning across gaps.
Maybe this is why finding Buddhism seems very natural to me. Buddhism gave language to something that had already been formed through my family’s history. My parents lived impermanence long before I learned to observe it on a cushion.
I now understand paesano as a lived lineage.Hi Kimberly,
Your line that you referred to as judgey, “I know so many nonbelievers that are amazing humans and so many believers that are just not”, really lands for me. Perhaps because I’m very judgey. But it is also an entry point to the The Middle Way for me. I notice how believer/nonbeliever dualism gives me a sense of ground. But in reality, it’s not helpful. At least this is what I’ve been learning from my self-study and reading teachings by Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche and Pema Chodron. Let go of fixed views and relax into everyday life. This reminds me often that goodness isn’t about belief – it’s about how I meet suffering.
I was raised Catholic by Italian immigrants who believed that hard work was moral. They came here to escape poverty and my job was to endure and not really question much. Meaning lived in effort. God kept score.
Education dismantled that story as I learned (still am) the real history of this country that my parents emigrated to for a better life. The American Dream was less about hope and more about cover. Nihilism followed. Not despair, nor cynicism, but honesty. Detachment felt right in a culture built on denial.
White, privileged, disillusioned, I thought love would save me believing intimacy might offer something grand. Perhaps impermanence since institutions didn’t. Love didn’t interrupt that reckoning. It collapsed like everything else. Although heartbreak was devastating, it confirmed what I was learning. Permanence is a myth and impermanence is terrifying.
After learning from ancestry, education, and love, still wounded I met Yoga. It taught me (slowly and unevenly) to wake up my body. Angry, exhausted, numb, and still unkind, it brought me back into my body at a time when withdrawal was feeling like wisdom. Then I met Buddhism. It didn’t argue with Nihilism, but it did start to clarify some things gently and in the most uncertain and magical way.
Nihilim sharpened my vision. Eternalism was all in my foundation. So the quote by Tupac Shakur, reality is wrong, dreams are for real, still resonates with me well after many decades of hearing it and witnessing it. But a practice where attention and presence matter most, means more. A lot more.
So now nearing 60, I don’t believe hard work redeems suffering. I don’t believe history bends toward justice. I don’t believe goodness is rewarded. I believe in practice – one that asks for quiet and one that demands staying awake. Doing away with hardening, away with stories, nothing is certain. No ground, just practice.
Hi Toni,
Reading your words, how discovery grounded in humility allows the searcher to live in reality, staying with what is rather than clinging speaks to me. Being true and being real primes us for learning, discovering, uncovering even. Mentioning having humility as part of the foundation is really helpful for me…thank you!
Supporting discovery means creating a space where students uncover their truths, connect their own background to what they’re learning, and experience something new that will stick with them. Some important tools for a teacher creating the space necessary to support discovery are listening, bravery, and integrity.
A teacher who listens can create the container for folx to show up as themselves, learn meditation as the ancient practice it is, then practice it as consistently as they can. When listening is the norm and so natural in the container, practitioners are set to make connections.
And the teacher who brings bravery into the container can create a space where students are safe. In a safe space, there are no expectations because every time a practitioner sits, it’s new and fresh. No one knows what will come up during the practice or instruction. Then in post meditation, teacher and student can explore the practice they just had.
During this exploration, a teacher facilitates a post meditation discussion with bravery which can make for a provocative process. And in this safe space, truths are uncovered. This is new and fresh every time as well.
The only thing that is constant is that the practice is ancient even though it is training the mind to be open and present. The ancient practice of meditation is sacred despite its simplicity. We’re just sitting. All this in one practice is to be revered which is why another tool for supporting discovery is integrity.
What will come up is uncertain and a teacher with integrity stays true to the practice while creating the space where students are supported. Together, they discover for themselves what they need to practice intentionally and regularly.