Kate Wolfe-Jenson
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Realize
I’ve lived a privileged, relatively trauma-free life, so I appreciate this week’s topic. It let me know what I don’t know. After watching the video, I did some reading. I want to be sensitive to students who may have experienced trauma. I’m no expert, but I know more now than I did and I want to continue learning.
trauma-informed mindfulness: a guide at PsychCentral points out that 61% of people experience trauma, which it defines as “an emotional or physical response to one or more harmful or life-threatening events or circumstances with lasting adverse effects on your mental and physical well-being.”
Recognize
I wasn’t sure that I could recognize the signs of trauma. I got some help from How to Recognize The Signs of Emotional Trauma in Others. I understand why it’s tricky. Both mood swings and being emotionally numb are signs of trauma. I would have to know students well over time to recognize things like increases or decreases in appetite or weight. I’m remembering how Susan sometimes mentions “except for trauma…” in her explanations of things. I would like to do that too, when it’s appropriate.
Right now, I teach Creative Journaling classes online at a center for people with significant health challenges. I’m imagining adding meditation to my journaling classes. Those are single classes, though I often see the same students over time. Diagnosis and treatment may be traumatic experiences for some people. I want to treat people gently.
Respond
I read about using the senses for grounding exercises. That’s fits with journaling exercises I often do: writing about the sights, sounds, fragrances, flavors, and textures of an experience.
Avoid re-traumatizing
I want to encourage students to be safe, to be kind to themselves, and to back off when they feel like they need to do so. I want to remember to keep lines of communication open, so students can let me know how things are going for them.
I am remembering the words of pioneering psychotherapist Carl Jung, who said “learn your theories well, but put them aside when you touch the miracle of the living soul.”
Thanks, David, for your helpful description of your inner voice. It’s wonderful that we all (I think it’s all) have that inner wise self. Maybe it’s our basic goodness speaking? I like that you note sometimes we listen and sometimes not. Meditation helps us be aware of it. It helps us make space between thought and action.
Thank you for your elegant, eloquent language. I want to read it again and capture some of your phrasing so I can think about it more. You help me understand my process at a deeper level. My emotional undertow gets stormy too. Practicing meditation, practicing meeting things as they are without judgment, I am able to stay present. Turmoil softens.
Meditation helps me work with difficult emotions. It does this in at least three ways. First, I feel emotions more deeply and completely than I did before. Sitting there breathing in, breathing out, my mind thrums away producing thoughts, which give rise to emotions. Watch them come; watch them go; it’s no problem. Label the whole tangled mess “thinking.” No need to judge. No need to engage. Just let it go. John Muir said, “the grand show is always eternal.” He was talking about the natural world, but the same is true of our internal worlds. Especially when I sit in sangha, I marvel at the gathering of body-minds – each of us sitting, breathing, thinking. What a species!
I’ve learned from Pema Chodron to “feel the feelings and drop the story.” My chest tightens and feels weighty, my face flushes and my heart beats faster as my mind reviews what she said about that and the tone of voice she used. Hello anger. Feel the tight weight, the rush of heat, the speedy breath, then watch as it arises, abides, and dissolves. Things that used to seem so sure and solid turn out to be wobbly Jell-O molds. Take a bite and it turns into sweet life-juice.
One of the fancy dessert salads I sometimes bring to the potluck is the notion that my story and suffering are separate and special. It turns out that you suffer too, and your drama is just as meaningful and gripping as mine. My heart breaks open into compassion for both of us. In fact, let’s just toss away the Idea of you and me as separate selves and realize the gorgeous emptiness of it all. That’s when things get gloriously numinous.
For example, at a recent meeting I presented my carefully crafted description of a group and the work we are doing and plan to do. In mere minutes, two people stood up to explain why we were going about it all wrong. I could feel the internal urges to freeze, flee, and fight arrive simultaneously. I felt cold and hot, shame, embarrassment, and anger. I breathed and listened. I did not tell myself I was stupid. I did not apologize. I did not burst into tears, lash out or shut down. Discussion continued. We’ll rethink, retool, and try again next month. This is very different from how things would have gone 10 years ago before I was a regular meditator.
I feel like I have a new set of tools, but really, it’s one simple process. Breathing out, breathing in, relaxing, and giving myself unlimited fresh starts. It’s important because I am more mindful and have more choices. I am kinder (inside and outside) and easier to be around. Meanwhile, the grand show continues.
Thanks, Betsy, for describing your experience. There is so much there that sounds familiar. Feeling more in touch with “you,” (thank you for being you out loud in sangha meetings. You are brave and delightful.) It’s so much nicer to meditate when “relaxed and not hurried,” but I find it so important to meditate when I am triggered and rushed! I appreciate your language of “there has been a shift” and “ride the waves.” Thank you for giving voice to those experiences.
Thanks, Helene, for the story about Thich Nhat Hanh and telling us about the Buddha on your glove compartment. Both teachings will stay in my mind and be present with me on the road. Thanks also for introducing me to Kaira Jewel Lingo. I am enjoying reading more from and about her.
Thanks, Karen, for delving into the symbolism of ego as Brussels sprout. You added a new level of richness. Your story of the conversation with the Phillipina is instructive. These days, I find myself asking (internally) “are you saying this to connect with the other person or are you proving that you’re right?” My ego is on a quest to make itself solid and eternal when, as you point out, it is better soft and digestible.
A few days ago, my friend Doug called me panicked about the upcoming US election.
“If the wrong person wins,” he said, “we have to mobilize. No matter what, there’s going to be violence. What will we do?”
His voice was high and tense. He was remembering what things were like here in Minneapolis after George Floyd was murdered. Those were scary times, with demonstrations, riots, fires, and looting.
Before his call, I was deciding what to eat for supper and what to watch on TV – totally focused on my own comfort and entertainment.
But Doug was really worked up. It was easy to put my needs and wants aside and be there for him. We – along with a handful of other people – are working with the book The Quaking of America: An Embodied Guide to Navigating Our Nation’s Upheaval and Racial Reckoning. It’s predictions of political violence may have been contributing to his panic, but it also offered some words of wisdom.
“These are times of great peril and great possibility,” I told him, paraphrasing the book. “We do not and cannot know what will happen. As the future unfolds, we can act from the best parts of ourselves.”
We breathed together for a bit, calming down. We talked about what “acting from the best parts of ourselves” might be like. (It’s unknowable, which makes it a good subject for conversation.)
It was easy to let go of my “personal territory” when I heard the distress in Doug’s voice. Before the call, I was an individual seeking my individual little goals but, on the phone, we were together in warmth and sympathy.
The “I” who writes this is less solid than I pretend she is. When I remember that – even for a few minutes – my heart opens.
Now, what’s for supper?David, thanks for describing your experience so poetically. It seems almost impossible to live without expectations, but perhaps we can hold them more loosely and make more room for curiosity. Susan once described it as “entering life unguarded… No preconceived notions, no expectations.” I’m practicing…
Karen, ouch and yuck. Your descriptions of your distress really landed with me. How painful to pour so much love and effort into an organization and then have it snatched away. One of the first steps of self-compassion is to find the common humanity in our experiences. All that despair and rage is – as you point out – perfectly human.
Please continue to be passionate and invest your time and talent. The world needs people who live with their hearts open even when it’s risky.When I was in my mid-twenties, I quit my job and moved across the country to North Carolina following my husband’s new job. For the first time, I lived far from my family and friends. I knew it would be difficult, but it was worse than I expected. It became a time of breakdown and break through.
Based on what I had experienced in my family, I thought adults didn’t feel strong emotions. I was feeling sad and angry and fearful. I developed a phobia that kept me from driving. I had no skills to deal with the huge waves of grief that were washing over me. (This was long before Buddhist teachings entered my life.) I was sure there was something broken in me and considered suicide.
Instead, I was lucky enough to go to a 12-step group. There, I found compassionate people who were dealing with similar emotions (on account of being humans). They were honest about their struggles and the program provided a path.
Much of what I learned are seeds of what I now recognize in the dharma: I discovered that I could be resourceful and find pools of calm and strength within myself (Buddha). I practiced dwelling in the present moment. I learned not to run away from Big Feelings, but to make space for them. (dharma). I was surrounded by fellow travelers (sangha).
Through heartbreak, I found companionship, gentleness, and freedom. I started making art again, got a new job, and began taking yoga classes. I became, as Susan Piver puts it, “a more truthful version” of who I am.
A few years later, as I started driving the thousand miles back to Minnesota, the words came to me “you were born in North Carolina.” In many ways, that’s true.thank you for your post, Suzie. When someone once asked me my favorite Bible story, I told them it was Jacob wrestling the angel. I grew up wrestling with the concept of God and, in a way, I still do. One of my teachers is Jan Lundy, who introduced me to the idea of “fluid spirituality.” That gave me “permission” to honor several lineages. Since taking refuge, I consider myself a Buddhist, but I still maintain my membership with Minneapolis Friends Meeting (Quakers) and sit there on Sundays. People often talk of God there.
One Quaker prayer tradition I appreciate is “holding people (or situations) in the light.” This requires no words and no agenda. I simply imagine the person being bathed in light – as I do when I practice lovingkindness meditation. Sometimes in the sangha meetings on Friday, Susan asks us to sit with someone who is facing a challenge. That silent being with someone is powerful. I have that same sense when I request blessings before I practice.
I appreciate your reflection and the roads it invited me to travel.Jenn, thank you for your “concentric circles” model. It makes sense to me and is a useful way to organize thinking about lineage.
Your post invites me to gratitude for living voices (like Susan and a few other teachers I have heard). It’s wonderful to hear those people describe how we can respond to the current times. On the other hand, human nature hasn’t changed much over the millennia. We use different words, but we still deal with unskillful speech and actions driven by afflictive emotions. Humans!
Thank you also for reminding us of the issues of cultural appropriation. Learning from and honoring a different culture is wonderful. Misrepresenting and plundering it is not. May we each find wisdom as we learn.I’ve had a good time this week exploring what “lineage” means to me.
First, I thought about my family lineage. We have great stories, but my brothers and sister and I aren’t sure what’s true. Did grandma Wolfe really refuse to marry grandpa until he added the E because she didn’t want to be named after an animal? Did great aunt Lootie really die at 90 when she got conked on the head with a log by one of the people she was looking after in the nursing home? Did great grandpa Bennett really visit his neighbors to wash their feet as an example of discipleship? Beyond the details, I get a feeling of resilient, faith-filled, loving people farming in West Virginia and Pennsylvania.
Then I think about my Buddhist lineage. I looked up the Supplication to the Takpo Kagyu. More names and stories. Great Vajradhara (the nameless source), Tilopa (holding equanimity while pounding sesame seeds), Naropa (smart, proud, and humbled by a “hag”) Marpa (brought Buddhism to Tibet), Milarepa (tower building yogi-saint), Lord of Dharma Gampopa (I recognize him; I chant his four dharmas)… And so on down to Chögyam Trungp, Sam, and Susan. Resilient, spiritual, compassionate people.
I am grateful to the lineage of quadriplegics – Ed Roberts (founder of the independent living movement), Jill Kinmont Boothe (skier turned teacher), Sam Callahan (cartoonist, “he can’t get far on foot”), Stephen Hawking (physicist), Christopher Reeve (Superman turned advocate), and especially mouth artists like Joni Earickson Tada and Henry Fraser” Talk about resiliency!
I could go on to amateur artists and poets… And what about psychologists like Brené Brown and Kristin Neff? I use their work every day.
While I’ve been writing all of this I feel the surge of energy and “wind beneath my wings” that is the gift of remembering lineage.
How shall I use this in my practice? I want to keep things simple. Memorizing a long chant when I haven’t quite got the Heart Sutra solid seems like a bad idea. Maybe I can simply think “I bring the lineage of biology and Buddhism, quads and artists, resilient, creative, loving people.”
I like what Susan says about bringing a sense of “freshness” to my meditation practice. Maya Angelou is quoted as saying “today is a wonderful day. I’ve never seen this one before.” That’s the attitude I want to bring to each practice: “this is a wonderful practice session, I’ve never seen this one before.”Thank you Rachel, for slowing me down and telling it like it is. I recognize myself in your descriptions. (that living room blue was so beautiful when we first painted it, but now it seems so boring…) I am so impatient to get onto fixing things that I don’t take time to feel the feelings and understand the losses. Rushing through my suffering leaves me brittle. So much better to soften.