Hello you (from the floor in my office),
The wonderful writer and founder of The School of Life, Alain De Botton succinctly quipped that “A good half of the art of living is resilience.”
Otherwise said, a good half of the art of living is our ability to hit the ground and bounce back up. Human elasticity. Especially in the face of hardship.
Last week, my dear friend and fellow meditation teacher Amanda Gilbert invited me to chat on her Instagram Live series — called Cultivating a Resilient Heart — and it got me thinking about what resilience actually means at this moment when we’re weathering a global pandemic.
I've been paying close attention to my own moments of loneliness, melancholy and restlessness, and what questions have been useful to deploy -- to make this unsettling moment a little more bounce-back-able into some semblance of sanity and ease: without minimizing the reality of what we're experiencing here. Together.
(Which can be a reassuring reminder unto itself.)
Here are the questions that have become my lamp posts, just in case you might find them helpful, too.
1. Is it possible to feel what is difficult right now without making the feeling a problem?
As we adjust to the "new normal" of economic seizure, isolation, and spiking rates of infection, I find it helpful to remember that this isn't "normal" at all, actually. And our nervous systems know it.
Our sweet little bodies come equipped with a functional alarm system to let us know when something is amiss. And thank goodness for that.
This means that it isn't a question of IF highly charged emotions will arise, but rather WHEN. Anxiety, fear, anger -- and even guilty feelings if we're having a fairly nice go at this pandemic are pretty much par for the course.
There is a phrase in Buddhist cosmology--"shooting the second arrow"-- which refers to the practice of having a difficult experience (like, anxiety) and then making ourselves "wrong" for feeling the way that we do.
This is not helpful. We could shame, coerce, or badger ourselves into tucking our feelings away, but negating our emotional intelligence is essentially just kicking ourselves while we're down.
What might it mean, instead, to anticipate that we will be in our feelings, at certain points during this whole affair, and create space for that to be okay? Welcome. Respected. Invited, even.
I'm obviously biased, but I've found meditation has been pivotal in learning how to hold space for myself.
Which opens up the second question(s):
2. What kinds of routines or rituals will offer me a soft landing during this time? What might it mean to make my space a sanctuary over the next several weeks... or months?
This moment in time will play out.
Anybody who tells you HOW it will play out, however, is just grasping at straws. The truth is, we don’t know. Will it get worse before it gets better? What will the lasting repercussions be? Will the repercussions be favorable or unfavorable? Both? Neither?
Living in uncertainty can be scary. Especially if we’re more accustomed to living by the answers than living into the questions. And ESPECIALLY especially if our safety, livelihood, or wellbeing are on the line.
This is why self-guided routines and rituals can be such a stabilizing force — we’re creating a reliable structure to relax into when very little else can be relied on.
I've been taking my cue from all of the meditation and writing retreats I've been on over the years -- periods of deliberate isolation -- that were structured with the intent to allow participants to just drop in. Relax. And feel cared for and uplifted in the process.
This means creating a daily schedule with consistent wake ups, bedtimes, mealtimes and meditation. Ironing my clothes. Fresh flowers weekly, for every room in the house. (Even something cheap and cheerful, like carnations does the trick.) Throwing the windows open for an hour of fresh, nippy air.
Incense, palo santo, candles. 30 minutes of news, maximum. Stretch breaks. Tea breaks. Dance breaks. Journaling. Done with work by 7pm. Epsom salt baths. Cleaning the house like the Obamas are coming to dinner. Or Dolly Parton is coming to dinner. Or Tom Hanks is coming to dinner.
[insert your revered humans of choice]
Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Until routine becomes muscle memory and ritual becomes habit.
How about you? What does it mean to make your space an uplifted sanctuary -- complete with a daily routine that you can relax into?
3. What are the opportunities available in this moment? Personal opportunities? Collective / societal opportunities?
The only thing that we can know for sure is that the flip side of the uncertainty is the gold of pure potential. In Zen, this is sometimes called "Don't know mind" or "Beginner's mind". We don't what will happen, so what happens could be anything.
I've been having conversations with friends and meditation students alike, about how they're relating to this time of uncertainty/potential as a gold mine of opportunity -- both on the personal and societal front.
For some, this is the opportunity to connect with college friends whom they haven't seen in a decade, organizing group calls now that we're all less entangled in the hustle. For some the opportunity to finally let their hair grow out grey, let their nails heal from years of gel manicures. Mend the holes in the pockets of the winter coats, learn to crochet from YouTube tutorials, read books again, rediscover recreation.
Collectively it might be the opportunity to examine whom and what is left neglected or unprotected when we're otherwise tied up in the grind. The cracks in our social systems and are laid bare right now, which may be a real opportunity for solidarity, action and change.
These are the questions that I've been resting with -- please use them as journal prompts or lamp posts if they're useful to you, too.
It's a very bizarre moment in time, and knowing we're doing it together makes it tenable. Joyful, even. In the sense of the word that includes all things. Preferable. Un-preferable. Comforting. Discomfiting.
And honestly, I can't think of a more apt description of what human resilience can be.
Hitting the ground, and bouncing back. Together. And with joy.