Author: Mina

Writer. Playwright. Performer. Citizen. Traveler. Enthusiast. Author of Run Like a Girl: How Strong Women Make Happy Lives and Run Like a Girl 365 Days a Year, plus other stories, books and plays.
When to NOT Try New Things
chi running · Crossfit · Fear

When to NOT Try New Things

Mina6 Comments

I’ve been TNT’ing (Try New Things) a lot in the past couple of years. In addition to the fact that much of my current life is new and definitively not new things I wanted to try—such as, my breakup, my fear-provoking financial situation (which I wrote about here), my new (and only temporary) home, my cat-less-ness and my auto-immune challenge (induced by all the stress of these new things and which I wrote about here)—I’ve also been voluntarily, even enthusiastically, trying quite a number of other new things. In an earlier version of my life, I was a regular TNT-er. I’m an expert on being a beginner. TNT-ing stokes my enthusiastic nature. Plus, they say, that great, amorphous they consisting of experts, influencers, ordinary people and basically everyone who is not me (oh, and also me, here) … they say that trying new things keeps us young (in outlook) and/or sharp and/or curious. So sure, I’ll have what she’s having. Maybe it will nourish new shoots in the devastated territories of my life.

Yet, I hit my TNT limit a few weeks ago. A brick wall of I-can’t-do-this-and-I-don’t-have-to-or-want-to. I’ll come back to that in a moment.

Here’s a short list of new things I’ve been trying:

Trying a new running technique. After 30 years of serious running, I’m going back to basics. Deconstructing my running style, to then reconstruct a more sustainable and efficient technique. Or at least that is the promise of chi running. Yes, I am exceedingly late to the chi running party. The book first came out in 2004. It turns out that now is just the right time to refresh my relationship with running. I listened to the book once through and now each time I go out running I listen again to the two guided runs, in which Danny Dreyer moves through a series of what he calls focuses. My favourite focus is the instruction to imagine that my stride begins partway up my spine at my T12L1 vertebra. This is the last vertebra on the thoracic spine and sits just above the lumbar spinal column. T12L1 is the spot that Chinese medicine calls the Gate of Destiny (or Center of Vitality or Gate of Life, among other things). He instructs me to run from the Gate of Destiny. How beautiful is that image? Prosaically, he means for me to bring my attention to the gate, without intentionally twisting my back to initiate my leg swing. To notice the origin source of my legs’ impulse to move. I love tuning into the channel of that electrical twitch of desire that lifts me from my bed and accompanies me out the door. The image of running through the Gate of Destiny has a gone a long way to renewing my love of running. It’s also possible that my running is more easeful.

Trying a new breathing technique. About two months ago, I listened to James Nestor’s book, Breath, which has inspired me to focus on breathing through my nose as much as possible. I mainly focus on this when I’m running (to which I’ve also added the chi running focuses). In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been experimenting with taping my lips closed while I sleep, to force myself to breath exclusively through my nose. So far quite interesting. I’m not sleeping worse and possibly better. I wake up less thirsty. I may go to the bathroom less during the night. At first, it seemed like my dreams were more vivid, though as time has passed, I’m not noticing that effect anymore. I had an amorphous hope that the new breathing technique might have a positive effect on my Addison’s, but sadly my blood test last week showed that the extreme breakup stress I’ve been under this last month has boosted my potassium and renin up past the high ends of the healthy range again. Thankfully, so far, I still feel okay, though I may need yet another dose increase and the diet restrictions are unjoyful.

Trying CrossFit. In mid-December I tried a CrossFit-like class for the first time. Prior to that moment, I had never lifted a barbell in my life, nor a dumbbell (DB, in XFit acronymic lingo). Unless a 5lb weight counts as a DB (there aren’t any on the rack at the gym). I thought I wouldn’t like the classes. I thought I’d find them macho or meathead-ish. Instead, I was inspired by the intensity. I think it helps that the gym I’m going to is pretty low key. I don’t mean the classes aren’t hard. They crush me. Every time. And the music is loud. And the coach claps and encourages us in a loud voice. Yet, in the midst of all the loudness and crushing-ness, the vibe is friendly and non-competitive. Everyone seems to be focused on their own thing. To be transparent, I’m not totally focused on my own thing, because I have noticed that my DBs are the lightest weight of anyone else in the class. I’m okay with that. A couple times I’ve felt discouraged at the end of a class. Mostly, I feel vivified and I notice that I’m getting stronger. Slow but steady.

15lb dumbbells (my kind of weight) Delaney Van on unsplash

Trying Capoeira. Here’s the brick wall … Picture me at the base of that wall in Game of Thrones. Impossibly high and thick. Capoeira is an Afro-Brazilian combination of martial arts and dance. In its original conception, it was developed by slaves who wanted to train in the martial arts, without giving away that’s what they were doing to the malevolent outsider watching. It’s quick, elaborately choreographed, acrobatic, intensely aerobic and beautiful to watch. And totally incomprehensible from the outside. I realized early that my fitness was not enough of an advantage, not even close. The speed is dizzying, not to mention the cartwheels, handstand-like moves and near constant level changes (from standing to crouched to a push up posture and back up again). The complexity is confronting for a beginner, especially with no dance or martial arts background. I was overwhelmed. As much as I wanted to learn (or did I just not want to give up?), I recognized that the psychological and time investment, not to mention the financial commitment, was not where I wanted to put my resources. Psychologically, I didn’t feel good about myself in the few classes I went to. I felt like a total incompetent with no hope of improvement. Time wise, I understood that, if I was to have any hope of improving, I would need to make room for a twice a week commitment, which would mean giving up other sports and activities I loved. Financially, that frequency would have been an expensive proposition. Did I want to commit time and money to a pursuit that was massively discouraging? Instead of coming to the obvious conclusion, a voice in my head doubled down on my discouragement, criticizing me for not being tough enough to take on the challenge. A week-long wrestling match took place inside my head. One voice trying to shame me into going back, taunting me for not being intrepid enough, for wallowing in a rut of breakup self-pity. There was another voice though. She invited me to focus my attention on things that give me pleasure. In the end, that second voice prevailed. She pointed out how much else on my plate was new. She forgave me my lack of go-get-em-ness, acknowledging that my self-esteem is not at an all-time high and that it is perfectly okay to be easier on myself.

The depth of my relief when I canceled the booking that I’d made for my fourth capoeira class was profound. A huge weight lifted off my chest and I could breathe easier. After all the self-criticism and shaming that my inner voices had rained down on me, once I made the decision, every single one of them quieted. No second thoughts. No shame.

I feel surprisingly easy with my choice. Even weirdly proud. In a period when I’ve been having some self-compassion gaps, this was a rare moment of solicitude for my current condition. I still believe that TNT is a worthwhile beacon. And, it is not always what’s needed.    

Discernment Is My 2024 Challenge
challenge · WOTY

Discernment Is My 2024 Challenge

Mina1 Comment

The first thing I did on January 1, 2024 was climb up a mountain with a friend. A little more than four hours on snow and ice in very cold, grey conditions. When we got back to the car, I couldn’t even manage to click the car remote to unlock the doors, my hands were so frozen. And it was glorious to open the year in nature, in the vigor of my body (which has not always been a given this year), with a challenge and great company.

Frozen waterfall on Mt Mansfield
Mina on Mt Mansfield
Mt Mansfield Trail

2023 was its own mountain and as much as I love mountains, I’m hoping that 2024 will bring fewer tears and fears and more ease and flow.

Every year (as many of you do, no doubt, and many of us here at Fit Is a Feminist Issue) I choose a WOTY (here’s last year).  Sometimes the word is aspirational and other years it is a beacon. This year it is the latter—a lighthouse to indicate the shoals, when I fall out of alignment with its intent; and a north star to guide my speech, actions and spirit.

My word is going to be DISCERNMENT. I had a lot of resistance to my WOTY last year, which was WELCOME, because, well, the year was even harder than I anticipated when I chose the word. Now, heading into another opportunity for a reset, I wanted to find a word that was neither overwhelming, as last year’s word felt at times (when I hadn’t just blocked the whole word from my mind), nor punitive. I say that because my first potential word for this year was FRUGAL. Oof. That felt like punishment and deprivation. And yet, I want to capture the intention I have going into 2024, to be more conscious of the choices I’m making. In particular, yes, the financial decisions I make, since my situation post-break up is radically different than it was when I was with my partner. I wrote about the results of those relationship choices in My Fit Feminism Is a Fraud.

Last year was also a no-shopping for clothes year (that was my annual challenge, which I usually have, in addition to my WOTY), so I didn’t want a word that doubled down on 2023. Which brings me to DISCERNMENT. A word that feels more about choices, all my choices, from how I spend my money, to how I spend my time and with whom. I feel, too, the grace in this word and I’m looking forward to exploring that aspect. And, how lucky that I have an accountability partner in Tracy, co-founder of this community. I’m hoping that having her company will help me with the alignment I had trouble with last year, as my 2023 word kept falling out of my mind.

As for my annual challenge (not a resolution!), I’m going to use my word as my challenge. For example, I’ve signed up for Home Exchange, which will enable me to go places that might not otherwise be in my budget. And, after a year without new clothes, shoes or accessories, I want to work on easing back into shopping with discernment, too. The last time I ended a no-shopping year, I was back to my old shopping habits more quickly than I would have liked. I’d like to do better this time. Starting, for example, with much more vintage and second time around, not only to be mindful of my spending, but also to be mindful of the environmental impact of my love of clothing and shoes.

And yes, I did shop on January 1 (while I drank my hot chocolate after the arduous hike) and I’ll admit that I’m excited to wear a new-to-me pair of black jeans and cozy sweater!   

Is It Really Meditation If It’s Sweaty?
meditation · mindfulness

Is It Really Meditation If It’s Sweaty?

Mina

I chase sweat. I love activities that make my heart beat strong and fast and provoke sweat. I have long felt that many of my sweaty activities were akin to a meditation—running outdoors, dancing, the flow of mountain biking on a trail, cross country skiing. They are activities that can simultaneously focus the mind and unhook the mind from its usual patterns.

Back in May, when I lost my meditation streak (which I wrote about here), I counted my 5Rhythms dance group as a meditation the first day I forgot to meditate. At the time, I felt like I was playing fast and loose with the definition of meditation. So, it seemed appropriate when a few days later I forgot to meditate again and ended my streak. As if the universe was catching my fast-loose-ness and correcting the error.

Then, a few weeks ago, I was in a training about how to use Internal Family Systems in psychedelic-assisted therapy, and the trainer mentioned that traditional seated meditation worked less well for her than moving meditations, like dancing, because she felt more in touch with her body and the feminine flow of movement. Oh, I thought. As if she had given me permission to approach meditation more expansively.

In the same week, I went to a three-day, silent-ish meditation retreat. Silent, because we were not allowed to speak to each other. Silent-ish, because there were moving meditations, so vigorous they left me drenched in sweat. We also made a lot of loud noise. One of the moving meditations we did each day was Osho’s dynamic meditation. I was dubious at first. I’m not an Osho devotee and resist gurus. Despite which, I loved this meditation. It lasts an hour and has five parts. The first is 10 minutes of chaotic breathing. The second is 10 minutes of cathartic explosion, using body and voice. The third is 10 minutes of jumping and vocalizing the word hoo. The fourth is 15 minutes of stillness. And the fifth part is 15 minutes of dancing. I felt like I’d been waiting for this meditation all my life. So much permission.  

I have always missed the vibrancy of connecting to my vital energy in movement when I’ve been at silent retreats in the past. I have memories of going out for a run at one retreat, only to encounter the glares of two women out walking (silently, separately and slowly) in the woods. As if running were heretical, even though I was silent and alone, without a phone, so no possibility to listen to anything either.

The opportunity to breathe deep and sweat out the internal muck that was loosening during the silent-ish retreat was life giving.

All this permission has made me rethink my theory that the universe was smacking me down for defining dance as meditation. I have a new theory. The universe was inviting me into more ease, loosening the rigidity of my counting and defining.

There was a forest with trails at the retreat center. Every day I went out on the trails to play. I’d walk until I felt like running. Run until I felt like walking. There was a thin layer of snow over wet leaves and ice in the mornings. I wore my big winter coat and boots, reveling in the solitude and the joy of moving, breathing and sweating. By the end, my coat would be unzipped and hanging off my back. While I would have gone into the woods, no matter what level of official permission I had, I felt more ease and freedom, knowing that no one was going to frown at me.  

The retreat had a second silent-ish element. We spent a lot of time contemplating one particular Zen koan. According to Britannica a koan is, “a succinct paradoxical statement or question used as a meditation discipline … The effort to solve a koan is intended to exhaust the analytic intellect and the egoistic will, readying the mind to entertain an appropriate response on the intuitive level.” One of the most famous koan’s is, What is the sound of one hand clapping? If we can resist our first smart ass response, the koan’s begin to burrow inside our psyche. The koan we contemplated was, Who Is In? The mode of contemplation was this: Our meditation cushions would be turned to face one another in a row of dyads. We would sit facing one of our fellow retreat participants, looking them directly in the eyes, a gong would sound and either the person facing the lake or the forest would be invited to ask the question, Tell me who is in. The answerer would speak for five minutes, holding eye contact and saying whatever was arising in that moment for them. The asker was to maintain a steady, neutral gaze and body posture, listening actively and not responding with facial expressions or gestures. Then the gong would sound again, and we were instructed to switch. A round could go back and forth for 50 minutes at a time. In between rounds we would have a break, some silent meditation, possibly one of the moving meditations I’ve mentioned, and then we would begin again, with a new partner.

Just holding the eye contact for that long was a struggle. Then speaking truly about what was arising was another uncomfortable challenge. And not being able to respond to what others were saying, was its own struggle. I simultaneously hated it and loved it in the moment. In hindsight, I just plain love it. The contemplation was like an internal scrub. In the connection of the eye gaze and the complicity that arose, as we noticed the universality of our struggles, I began to feel as if I were walking down a long hall with windows covered with vertical blinds, so that the hall was striped in the rays of light coming in through the gaps in the blinds. Each person I sat across from became one of the strips of light, as we connected through our eyes. With each exchange, the silence of the rest of the retreat had a richer texture. We were progressively tuning in to each other’s frequencies.

At a certain moment, toward the end of the retreat I was starting out the window at a winter tree filled with birds. A sight that never fails to move me. All at once the birds lifted and wheeled into flight and I felt their lightness in my own bodymind. Silent sitting alone would not have gotten me there.

Since the retreat I notice that I feel more ease in my seated meditations, as if knowing that I could meditate in some other, sweaty way, makes being on the cushion more choiceful. (Side note: Choiceful is a word I’m considering for my word of the year for 2024). I’ve also adopted the language of the retreat leader, who named everything a meditation. As in—shower meditation, breakfast meditation, sleep meditation. More permission.

Before I wrap up, in case the answer to the question I pose in the title of this post isn’t clear—YES.

The final meditation of the whole retreat was an irreverent coup de grace, leaving us all helpless with laughter. I offer you that meditation here. Laughter is, after all, the ultimate healing agent.

Is Enough Abundant?
fitness

Is Enough Abundant?

Mina1 Comment

As the holidays and 2024 approach, I declared the start of my personal new year on October 28th. The day after the one-year anniversary of my mother’s death, in a year of substantial loss—in addition to my mother there was the loss of my beloved 17-year-old cat, the loss of my 28-year marriage, the loss of my home and financial security and the (thankfully temporary) loss of my health. All of which I’ve written about here during the course of these last months.

I want to look forward. And, I’m struggling to feel like I’m enough, that my life is enough and, to put it bluntly, that I have enough resources. What does enough even mean? And how about this business of abundance? Abundance is one of the words of the moment. I feel inundated by invitations to reframe my thinking, to have an abundance mentality. Most days now, I fail to have an abundance mentality. Enough feels like a stretch goal.

Recently, I’ve been listening to Beautiful Chorus chants when I meditate. One of my current favourites is I Am Enough, which I often follow with their chant Abundance. After all, I’m not against abundance. I would like to have an abundance mentality. I just can’t seem to achieve it. I notice the chants feel different. My body yearns toward enough, as if my cells know that I’m enough and want me to know that I’m enough. And my body often resists the abundance chant, as if my cells don’t believe that abundance is possible, or that the whole notion of abundance is just a quick fix fad or worse abundance is greedy.

Egg carton from Abundance Acres Farm with sunflowers from the farmer’s market, too. It turns out I’ve been buying abundant eggs.

Or, are enough and abundance actually the same thing? Maybe if I could truly feel like I am enough, then I would have achieved that elusive abundance mentality. Are they both just different ways of expressing a feeling of wholeness?  This is a philosophical cycle that could end up with me dancing on the head of a pin with the angels. My mother used to say that when my father would come back from synagogue with a story of an extended debate about, say, whether using a light switch was allowed on the sabbath. She’d say, “Now it’s just angels dancing on the head of a pin.” And, as I wrote this, I wondered, where did her saying come from, only to learn that it refers to tedious religious controversies from the middle ages.1

Enough with the angels. Let me get concrete.

I’ve faced some health challenges lately. So, I’m even more acutely sensitive to my level of energy when I run, or really do any physical activity. Over the many months of slower and slower runs, as my energy depleted, I had re-calibrated my expectations. Just getting out was enough. At first, as the medication returned me to the energy level that I was accustomed to in the past, every drop of extra ease and speed in my body felt like abundance. Now, only a few weeks later, as I settle back into the new-old normal, I notice that feeling of abundance recalibrating back to enough. In other words, I see my mindset shift. As if abundance is an unstable state and enough is the stable state. Abundance is an overreach. I couldn’t possibly merit abundance and anyway it’s a fickle, fair-weather friend. I’m scared that if I relate to my energy as abundant (versus enough), then it will be taken away.

To which the universe offered me this: Feeling frisky on a recent run, I picked up my pace, only to ping my hamstring. Really? The universe can’t let me have a quick run? I need to be put in my place that fast? As if proving my point about the unreliability of abundance.

Sigh.

And then I noticed that right behind the frustration was another feeling. Oh the joy, to be running fast enough to ping my hamstring. There was a part of me reveling in the privilege of the ping. And I had a glimpse of the abundance mentality. Being alive and running strong is enough and abundant. The universe invited me to let the feeling fill me up. And then reminded me not to get attached.

Maybe that’s the difference between the two—I am enough, even if I don’t know it all the time. Everyone is enough. As they are. Right now. We can’t be attached to enough. We are. It is. Whereas abundance happens in the moments we notice that we are enough or that what life has delivered to us is enough. Noticing that causes our cup to run over. To know I am enough, or that what is is enough, is abundant. And it’s hard to feel so fulfilled and not get attached and want that feeling of enough-ness to last. That’s the slipperiness of abundance.

Or not. I may still be dancing with the angels.

Three examples:

  1. I accept a 25% pay cut to continue doing work I love, that feels meaningful, because the company is in a tight spot until it finds more investors and/or earns more profits.
  2. I get the news that my kidneys are functioning normally, after months of alarming blood tests.
  3. I arrive at the Citibike stand, needing an e-assist bike, because the ride home is long and I’ve already danced for 2 hours. There are plenty of e-bikes docked at the stand, but all are red lighted and unavailable, except one, which also has enough charge for the distance I need to go. I cruise home in the autumn sunshine.

Enough or abundance?

  1. ↩︎
When Depression Glues Me to the Couch
fitness

When Depression Glues Me to the Couch

Mina7 Comments

I’m in my mountains. Truckee, California. I call them mine, because I’ve been coming out here for three months a year for the last 14 years. And, usually, they are my happy place. A chance to slow down, to be more connected to nature than usual. To be on trails—running, biking or cross-country skiing.

But things are different this time.

I’m in the house I own with my ex. Filled with memories and my failure. What’s wrong with me, that I could not hold my 28-year marriage together? The house, with its lovely mountain view, is also a reminder of what I do not have anymore—financial security (I wrote about that back in March here). The house will either be sold, or my ex will keep it. In either event, I will, at least temporarily, lose the connection to nature that has nourished and sustained me for so many years. Yes, I acknowledge that I lived with great privilege. And, I wish I were a better person, a black belt in non-attachment and gratitude, able to move on with ease. I’m not. Instead, this is all depressing.

And there’s my health. A new diagnosis of Addison’s Disease, which continues to involve increases in my medication, as my potassium does not seem to want to settle down into normal range (I wrote about that last month here). My energy has returned, but the ongoing stress of regular blood tests, bad results and worried doctors is also depressing.

And it’s October—normally I would have come out to the mountains in the summer (and then again in the winter), but I couldn’t bring myself to come this past summer. My failed relationship felt too raw. Now I’m here, and I see that I have not healed enough. The grief rushes in, threatening to drown me. Plus, it’s cold (2 degrees Celsius) and dark in the mornings (we did a group post about the challenge of fall dark here). This past weekend was not only cold, but also a drizzly grey.

So, getting off the couch has been hard. I feel glued to the familiar, sun-faded fabric, where I used to spend easeful hours reading with my cat curled up close by. I lost her in April. Instead, now I’m watching endless Netflix, clicking on whatever the next show is that the algorithm proposes to me, too lazy to even choose. Reading feels too hard. My attention flees the page with restless lethargy.

As for getting outside in the mountains? Why bother? All this supposedly healthy outdoor exercise and I still ended up with a disease. An inner critic tries shaming me off the couch. You lazy piece of crap, you’ve got nothing better to do. Another voice in my head tries berating me off the couch. Just get the f*&%#k up. Fruitless.

Except.

Then there’s a quiet, gentle voice, barely audible at first. You will feel better. I promise you. You love the mountains. It’s never been about the exercise. It’s about joy. I retort that joy is impossible. Yes, the gentle voice says, that’s true. I won’t promise you joy. But being out there will be a tiny bit better than being glued to the couch. You don’t have to go for long. You don’t have to go hard. Go outside. Take some breaths of fresh air and be with the trees you love. Netflix will be here for you when you get back.

The gentle voice convinced me on Saturday. I went out mountain biking. My first day of the season, which is barely the season anymore. I felt less tentative than expected, given my sticky bum, so recently unglued from the couch. If I was in a better mood, I might have said that I felt bolder than expected. But I didn’t feel bold. I just didn’t feel scared, as I’d anticipated. There were even passing moments of almost-joy.  Moments I overcame obstacles. Moments of flow. Moments when I danced with my bike. There were the trails, too. Familiar. Beautiful. Peaceful and wild. That’s enough. For now. A glimpse of the possible. In the future.

Given my experience on Saturday, I thought it would be easier to get out on Sunday. It was not. The glue set hard overnight and the couch would not let me go. A new voice in my head had all sorts of excuses. It’s foggy, rainy and cold, it could be dangerous on Castle Peak. There might not even be anyone else out there. Extra risk. It’s a whole different world now if something happens to you. A medic-alert bracelet isn’t much help if there’s no one to find you in the first place. Plus, there won’t even be a view. Why bother?

Again, the gentle voice intervened. She made several deals with me. I could finish my latest television binge first. I didn’t have to run the trail, if I didn’t want to. I’d take extra medication with me. I could listen to my book, Entangled Life, by Merlin Sheldrake, about all things mushroom. I’d turn around if it seemed dangerous, no shame.

Toward the top of Castle Peak in fog and Mina at the summit.

My bum had racing stripes from tearing away from the couch. I worried it would re-affix to the car seat and I wouldn’t get out when I got to the trailhead. Even as I got out of the car, I had doubts. Tears hovering in the wings. The first comfort were the cars in the parking area. The benefit of having been couch bound and coming hours later than I normally would. I wouldn’t be completely alone. I set off at a hiking pace, promising myself that I’d only run when I felt like it. Which turned out to be within 100 meters of starting. Every so often on the first half of the ascent I’d scale back to a hike, only to find that my bodymind wanted to keep running. Running felt better. As I reached the final steeper sections of the ascent, I moved into a fast-hiking pace, which is all I’ve ever really done in those bits, since it’s faster (something I learned when I was doing long trail events). At the top, the fog closed in on every side. There was snow on the spindly trees and shrubs still clinging to the rock at 9,000 feet. Unusually, there was no wind, so I could hear the ticking sound of small clumps of snow falling to the ground. Looking over the edge, the drop down to the valley below seemed even more precipitous than usual, because there was nothing there. I was inside the clouds I’d seen from below.

My last day on Castle Peak and I could see no further than a few feet in front of me.

The perfection of the metaphor was somehow comforting. I told myself that I was going to be okay, even if I had no clue yet how that would happen. I lingered on what I could see. As I listened to Merlin Sheldrake talk about the complexity and phenomenal resilience of lichens, I took in the bright green lichen on the rocks, geological time made manifest. My life, a blink of an eye.

Then the chill overtook me and I knew it was time for me to head down. I started at a slow run, re-discovering my agility as I went, recovering my confidence with every step and every misstep I navigated, until I hit cruising speed. Again, there were brushes with joy. Grief rinsed through me, too. I got back to the car with a sense of energized calm. I will be okay. It will take time. I will be okay. It will take time. I will be okay. It will take time.

Back home, the couch was cleared of glue. I could sit and read a novel. I know this is a cycle. I hope it is a spiral, in which each time I’m glued, I can remember sooner that getting outside helps clear a tiny portion of the clouds of depression. And even the itty-bitty-est more ease is something, after all.

In this way, I’ll climb toward the light.

Does a Diagnosis Change Who I Am?
death · Fear · health · illness · mindfulness

Does a Diagnosis Change Who I Am?

Mina8 Comments

Two months after an emergency visit to the hospital for 3 days (which I wrote about here), I’ve finally been diagnosed. I have Addison’s Disease. So, not enough for me to have a name for what ails me. It has to declare itself a disease. That causes a lot of dis-ease for me. There’s a strand of thinking that says we are empowered once we are diagnosed. Along the lines: Knowledge is power. Now you know what you’re dealing with. And that classic marketing tag line: If it can’t be measured, it can’t be managed. With a diagnosis, I’m in measurable territory. There’s a map. I can manage.

I should be relieved.

Instead, I feel defeated. I’m not yet able to accept that the price of staying alive is medication for the rest of my life. Before, when my condition was nameless, I could imagine it being easily solved by the integrative medicine protocol that I undertook with great optimism. In fact, the calculated risk I took in going off of the prescribed conventional medications did not, at least in the short term, work out. I had imagined myself proudly declaring to my medical doctors that I’d been off the medication and wasn’t my healing capacity amazing. Instead, I ended up with blood work results that clearly indicated my body spiraling toward another emergency visit. I could feel the deterioration happening. The exhaustion coming back. Instead of my smug satisfaction with the medical doctors, I was contrite, owning up to my infidelity to their recommendations. As the endocrinologist said, I can’t impress on you enough how important it is that you take these medications seriously, if you want to stay alive.

I do. Want to stay alive.

Most days.

My energy rebounded quickly after getting back to the recommended protocol. And, I feel ridiculously fragile. Death accompanies me everywhere. Sure, I know in that mindfulness way that, I could die at any moment. Now this consciousness is not about mindfulness, it’s the knowledge that if I stop putting these little pills in my body three times a day, then my heart will quit. Some days, I hold the pill in my hand and toy with the idea of not taking it, of letting nature take its course.

I wonder if my vitality even counts anymore. My energy is so much a part of my identity. If it’s not real, am I a fake? Who am I?  

I understand that the fact that I have not been on medication before now is a massive privilege. I was not nearly as aware of that privilege as I am now. I understand that what I write here risks triggering people already on medication. You have every right to think, Get over yourself.

I had distanced myself from the possibility of disease. That won’t happen to me, I thought. I took credit for my health; thought I deserved it. After all, I exercise, eat veggies, sleep, meditate … you know, all the things we’re supposed to do. Right? Then my adrenal system stopped functioning. For no discernible reason. Except … these last 18 months have been stressful—my 28-year marriage dissolved; I lost my financial security, my home, my mother, my cat; and now, the cherry on top, this business with my health. I’ve written about the mountain of grief here and the psychological toll of my financial insecurity here.  I haven’t even gotten to the perilous state of the world. 

A loud inner critic attacks me: You failed to manage your stress. This disease is all your fault. More. You deserve this disease, because you have not had adequate empathy for others’ illness, because you were so cossetted in your healthy person privilege. You have brought this on yourself with your hubris, with every time you’ve answered a health questionnaire with the word robust to describe your health. The critic could go on at much greater length, but you get the picture.

A friend of mine, who was trying to be helpful, recently told me that I just needed to shift the narrative in my head. She tried to reassure me by saying that everything happens for a good reason, that there’s always a silver lining and that I need only put a different spin on the events unfolding. My inner critic was delighted to be so affirmed. See, she said, your fault. Oof. I get that my friend and my inner critic have good intentions. They fear that I’ve lost my belief in myself and they want me to pull up my socks. I want to pull up my socks. There’s nothing more annoying than a falling down sock that pesters the foot. Yet, sometimes I just want a caring human to sit down beside me while I take off my shoe and look at my sock and bemoan it’s falling down-ness, as if I were a character in a play written by Samuel Beckett.

At the same time, I actually do want to put one foot in front of the other and I know that will be easier with functional socks. So, even as I still crave the accompaniment and patience of another human, I’ve come up with a sock-friendly narrative I am working on adopting. New narratives don’t happen in a minute.

Here it is: Everything that’s happened in my life, just happened. Not for a good reason. Not with a silver lining. I am grateful to Thomas Moore, the author of Dark Nights of the Soul, for his clear-eyed book, in which he spoke with many people who had been through serious ordeals. Although they had all learned from their challenges, they did not say they wouldn’t have it any other way, or that they were grateful to their ordeal for having awoken them from their slumber. Instead, they said, in more eloquent words than the ones that follow, what happened sucked, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, and, despite the bad hand I was dealt, I made the decision to grow from the experience and not to fold beneath its weight. The book gave me permission to feel all my grief and rage. Life will serve lemons. We have the right to gnash our teeth and wail or not get out of bed or whatever we need to do to honor and embody the ordeal. What doesn’t serve us is to resist the dark feelings that come with the dark nights. And, the and is key, we then have a choice about how we want to alchemize the lemons we’ve been served. We can bypass and add lots of sugar, hoping to hide the bitter. Or we can make bracing fresh lemonade that cleanses our system.

What is, is. I can either fight against what is, or I can work with it. Some years ago, I had the word compassion tattooed on my arm. It was supposed to remind me to have compassion for others and, crucially, for myself. This ordeal has brought me face to face with the compassion gap caused by the unconscious bias of my previous privilege. My inner critic screams into the gap, provoking an echo response from the canyon walls inside my head. The lemonade opportunity in all this is compassion. So simple. And so not. A super tall, skyscraper of an order.

I have the beginning of a to-do list for this new narrative: I need to begin with a hand outstretched to my critic. After all, compassion, like most things, starts at home. She is working hard to keep me upright and aware. I want, too, to create more ritual around taking my pills, to honor the fact that every time I take one, it’s a conscious choice to live. My friend Lori, who is a Reiki Master, suggested that I infuse my pills with the energy of Reiki and bring to them the intention of receiving their grace into my body as pure light and healing. I had a sudden flash of, Oh, that’s what my levels 1 & 2 Reiki certifications are for. More compassion put into practice.

The last thing that I’ve come up with so far, is to be compassionate with the critic and with all the other voices in my head who are having a hard time: The anxious part of myself, who trembles faced with all the unknowns in my life right now. The grieving part. The demotivated part. All of them.

Just as I long for someone to sit beside me and my falling down sock, I will sit beside my critic and my anxiety and my grief. After all, they are friends who need my support. Earlier in this piece, I wondered who I am and whether my diagnosis changed the answer. I’ve found my way here to several answers. First, I am the same person, with many different, sometimes conflicting and hopefully evolving characteristics. Another answer is aspirational, I want to be a person who sits beside others. And I’ll start with myself.

Now.   

Fear · mindfulness · self care

How Do I Keep Moving Through Uncertainty?

Mina1 Comment

On the morning of June 14th, I went for what was to be a vigorous walk with a friend. About 30 minutes into our walk, we took a set of stairs up and out of Riverside Park. Stairs I’ve walked and run up for almost 30 years, with ease. I was so winded that I needed to take stop to catch my breath. Then I got dizzy and my friend suggested we sit down on a park bench. I started crying. This is what I was talking about, I said. I’d been telling her about my increasing tiredness these last months. The trouble I was having mustering for a workout. Not mentally. Psychologically, I still wanted to move. Very much. And physically, my body was fritzing out on me. That morning I’d felt my physical exhaustion as I lay in bed. My heartbeat was erratic. The way it gets when I’ve had far too little sleep for several days running. I’d already made a doctor’s appointment to check my blood work for a clue about what was up. But it’s New York City. The appointment wasn’t for another month. I’d started taking more iron and a B-complex.  

We’re walking over to urgent care, my friend said. I agreed. Reluctantly. At urgent care the doctor took my pulse and blood pressure and pointed his finger out the door. You need to go to the hospital emergency right now. Whatever is going on with you, it’s beyond what we have the capacity to address here. I don’t remember his name. As I write this, I’m thinking that I want to go back to that office and thank him.  

I walked up the 10 blocks to the emergency department of the nearest hospital. With my note from the urgent care doctor, they whisked me to the head of the line of walk-ins and zipped me through intake. I waited a short time, that felt like forever, for them to take my blood. I sat on the last free chair, that had been wiped free of its streak of … was that shit or blood? I felt tired and frustrated and disconcerted among all the ailing people. Notice that I didn’t say “other ailing people,” because I wasn’t one of them. In my mind.  I was just anemic, or just … something else. A woman next to me on a gurney was sitting up and moaning. Pulling on her clothes and skin and hair. Begging for more painkillers. All the patients, regardless of race, looked like they’d been washed with a patina of grey.  

Then a nurse (was it a nurse?) came and crouched down beside me with a look of urgency. She explained things to that I didn’t hear. About potassium. About my heart stopping. About follow her, please. Now. She led me into the belly of the emergency department and after a search, found a bed to put me on. I was walking. How bad could it be? She was followed closely by a nurse (I know he was a nurse, because I saw him multiple times) who was carrying an armload of syringes and an array of coloured electrical wiring. Things went sideways from there. I was pumped full of many things, which I understood were at minimum saving my heart from severe damage and more likely saving my life. At one point I said to the nurse, trying for lightness, I guess I’m not wasting your time being here. He looked at me and shook his head. You are lucky you’re here.  

I feel lucky now. I felt less lucky in the thick of those next days.  

36 hours in the Emergency Department, which is its own kind of special hell. Bright interrogation room lighting. The sounds of people in distress. Incessantly beeping machines. The clank and clatter of other metal and plastic rolling around. Voices talking about dire situations, like the multi-car accident that landed a slew of people into the ED who needed to take priority over everyone else. From my bed, I could see the resuscitation room entrance where ambulances unloaded. At my angle, I could only see the heads and shoulders of the emergency response teams wheeling people in through the plastic antechamber. Then I’d hear the announcements asking for Ron and Sergey to the resuss room. I imagined those less lucky than me. I want to say it made me feel fortunate, but I was so exhausted and strung out, it was hard to tap into my inner resources.   

Friends brought me necessities: toothbrush and toothpaste, a phone charger, a pillow, noise canceling headphones, slip on sandals; also, pizza and chocolate toward the end of my second day there. Eventually I was moved to a regular floor of the hospital, where I shared a room with one other person and the relative silence was a deafening relief. Every few hours someone came and took my blood and gave me medications. They dripped sodium through an IV, then magnesium. They stripped potassium from my body. There was an urgent request that I drink successive cups of orange juice to stabilize my blood sugar, only to realize later that oranges are a high potassium food.  

I began to feel better.  

They did other tests, too—ultrasound for my kidneys, echocardiogram for my heart. Nothing yielded answers about why my body had tipped into such an extreme imbalance.  

I begged to be allowed to leave. Later, I saw in the doctors’ notes, Patient is anxious to leave. I was terrified by the lack of answers. And I was terrified to be in the hospital.

It’s been a month and a half since that experience. I’ve been washed through by tsunamis of anxiety. I’ve gotten partial, interim answers. Mostly on things that have been ruled out. I’ve seen a kidney doctor who gave me stopgap medication to stabilize my system and who has promised to be available to me until I get to the kind of doctor I need to see, apparently an adrenal specialist. I’ve had a CT scan with IV contrast, which was a trip to another level of hell. I’ve consulted an Integrative Medicine team, who have given me an alternative protocol to heal underlying causes, if I can trust them and have faith in my body.  

I feel shaken to the core. I cry a lot. I sleep, sometimes deeply, and then wake seized by terror.    

A foggy road through a forest … how my life feels. Santiago Lacarta on Unplash

And, in the midst of the unknown, my body has found a fragile interim stability. My energy has started to return. I’ve been able to run and go to yoga and Pilates. I don’t feel 100%, but I feel so much better than in the 2 months leading up to my hospital stay. Friends tell me I should take it easy. I rebel. I asked the one specialist I’ve actually gotten to see (a nephrologist, aka kidney doctor) whether I could be physically active. To which he said, Do whatever feels possible.  

I don’t want to take it easy. I’ve been drained for months. If I have a drop of renewed energy, I want to indulge in it. Revel in it. Be gluttonous. Feast on the energy and come back for a second helping. Moving is my happy place. And my happy place has been relatively inaccessible to me these last months. I’m scared my happy place will move beyond my reach again. I want to fill up on it while I can.  

I am more acutely aware than I have ever been that the future will do what it wants. The best I can do is live fully. Laugh when possible. Find joy where I can. And offer thanks to my body every day it can move me to a sweat.   

fitness

What Does Try New Things Really Mean?

Mina3 Comments

My latest podcast addiction is Dr. Sharon Blackie’s interviews on Hagitude, The podcast is conversations with a diverse collective of women approaching, experiencing or on the other side of menopause.  When it was first suggested to me, I had a moment of What? Who me? Oh no, is that what you think of me? I never lie about my age. And yet, her assumption that it would resonate for me, caught me up short. Brought me closer in on the reality of my age. This is, in fact, a podcast for me, a woman who has gone through menopause. Then, I listened to the podcast. And listened to another episode and another one and so on. Almost everyone had at least a nugget that grabbed my attention. And her interview with Peggy Orenstein  was unusually provocative. I found myself questioning them out loud. In the episode, Peggy talks about the need for women, as they age, to keep being curious. To try new things that we aren’t good at. Okay. Yes, and …

My question: what does she mean by new things? As in, brand new? Or might the newness reside in the very act of continuing things we’ve done for years, in a different way, as modified by age. I was thinking, in particular, about our engagement with sports. That special challenge of staying curious and engaged with a sport, maybe especially one we used to be quite good at, when we can no longer perform at the same level. When we are no longer good at the sport.

Sure, yes, there’s age-adjusted this and that. We rate ourselves now strictly against our cohort and might try to ignore the broader category of all women. I was never a terrific athlete. And, I did my share of road races and triathlons in which I placed in the top five among women. Now? That doesn’t happen. In fact, for the most part, I’ve given up participating in races. Age adjusting was not enough of a palliative. Because, the bottom line is that I am no longer as fast and strong and that loss comes with some mourning.

I am grateful that the loss did not make me want to quit, as I have seen (understandably) with many people I know. I am not the only one to miss my younger self. As I listened to Peggy talk about curiosity and new things, it occurred to me that continuing to engage with a long-loved sport is a genuine and valid version of trying something new. The curiosity comes in figuring out how to evolve the relationship with our bodies and the sport. We can truly inhabit the age-adjustment, making a mental shift that solicits our curiosity. And we can do what I did, which was to change the nature of my relationship with, for example, running. I needed to strip out the competitiveness, even and especially with myself. I had to get back to basics. Back to the why.

The joy of being in my body. And that required curiosity. 

As a side note, I do also try new things—in the last year I’ve developed a brand, new passion for 5Rhythms dance, which I had never before participated in; and I studied Reiki and got my Level 2 certification, with zero background in prior energy work.

And the universe may be asking me to try quite a few new things in the next months. I’ve recently had a too-close brush with my own mortality (more on that may come in another post). This, too, has required a reset around my physical activity (among other things). I am struggling with the issues that arise around my sense of myself, if I can’t just head out for a double digit run whenever I feel like it. Yes, I am acutely aware that to be able to do that has always been an enormous privilege. And it has been a part of my identity. Who am I, if I am not strong in the way I’ve always associated with my wellbeing? What does strength even mean and how can I redefine it for myself? Questions to be explored with curiosity. In the meantime, my relationship with my existing sports is going to transform into something new for some period of time, which may be forever. And I’m considering whether there are new opportunities for movement I might explore. Tai Chi?

My Long-Term Running Relationship with Central Park is Evolving
fitness

My Long-Term Running Relationship with Central Park is Evolving

Mina1 Comment

I have run in Central Park since 1993. I’ll let you do the math. When I first got here, I lived on 113th Street and came into the park at its northwest corner on 110th. Then, six months later, I moved to 85th street and then to Riverside and 79th. So, for 28 years, I have run into and out of Central Park at the entrances on 81st and 77th. One result of the demise of my marriage is that I have gone full circle. I run into the park at its northwest 110th Street entrance again. Welcome home. The cycle of life.  

Except two things—it doesn’t feel at all like home. Not yet. While I still carry inside me that 27-year-old, who learned how to be a runner in Central Park, I am not her. The clock has ticked. I turned 57 a few weeks ago. I am trying to find my new running groove. And it’s super awkward. Sometimes, as I pass my old entrance/exit, my feet are confused when I keep going. Sometimes when I run out of the park, my feet think I’m abandoning my run too soon. Too long. Too short.

Well, it is actually too short. There’s the mile that’s been stripped from every run, because now I’m only one block out of the park and not five long New York City crosstown blocks each way. I’m so tired so much of the time now as a result of the stress that it’s sort of okay that my runs are shorter. And the reduced distance makes me feel old and feeble. Sure, self-care suggests I should be easy on myself during this time. And self-care, for me, is not always doing less. Sometimes, it’s doing more, to remind myself that I’m alive and strong. 

I am surprised by how disconcerting it is to enter and exit in a different spot. I almost didn’t want to write about it, because it felt like such a slight topic. Then I was inspired by the poet Maggie Smith’s piece about google-mapping the demise of her marriage. If I were on Strava, all my statistics would need to be recalibrated to account for my new starting line. The pure physical sensation is strange. For one, I’m starting in the middle of the most significant hill in Central Park. So, I’m either headed up or down. I don’t get to enjoy the full challenge of the ascent, nor the full liberation of the descent. Unless I make a conscious decision to overshoot in one direction. For two, the landmarks take on different meaning. Each one now represents different mile markers in my progress. Belvedere Castle meant beginning and ending. Now it’s at 1.5 miles in or still to go.  The east side 90th street entrance was approximately halfway. Now it’s also 1.5 in or to go. The Harlem Meer was part of all the north hills. Now it means I’ve just started, or I’m almost home. For three, meeting my friend Auditi for a Saturday morning run is a whole different time and distance calculation—including the question of whether to lengthen my usual run with her by 1.5 miles each way, for a total of around 12.5 miles (not insignificant in my current running shape) or ride Citibike to and from our meeting spot.

And all those facts and figures say nothing of the weight of grief. Each place I ran or walked or sat with my partner. We fell in love running in this park. The tree roots and mycelium have converted the residue of our passage into new life. Is our intermingled breath in that small overhanging branch that brushes against my arm as I run by?

In a podcast I was listening to while running today, Katherine May (author most recently of Enchantment), being interviewed by Dr. Sharon Blackie on Hagitude, the show I’m currently addicted to (possibly more on that next month), talked about how joy is only possible when we allow ourselves to live fully into our grief. There is joy in my new relationship to Central Park. Because I arrive into the park beside the North Woods, and because I’ve been tired lately and running shorter, more playful routes, I am spending much more time in the forested bits. On my birthday a few weeks ago, I was up in the woods as my podcast ended. I noticed the birdsong, which seemed unusually vivid. I had noticed the same thing waking up. I stopped running, closed my eyes and soaked up the song, tilting my face to the sky, as if I might catch the scent of the notes. Shortly after I started running again, I came upon a birdwatcher. I stopped to ask him what he was looking at through his gargantuan telescope. There are often clusters of birdwatchers focused on an owl or an eagle or some other extraordinary bird in the park. He said, all of the birds. Then he told me there had been an unusually large migration overnight and that there hadn’t been so many birds in Central Park for years. I took the migration personally. The birds were there to sing me Happy Birthday. My heart swelled to embrace the joy that bloomed alongside the grief. If I hadn’t been living in my new place, I might not have passed that way this day.

Meanwhile, with each run, I write new memories, which will begin to encode their patterns in my feet. Step by step.  

Lying to Myself About Meditation
habits · meditation · mindfulness · WOTY

Lying to Myself About Meditation

Mina

Monday morning. May 8th 2023. I wake up after an unusually restful night of sleep. I know I got up to the bathroom once. Other than that, I have no recollection of sleepless restlessness, which is not the norm for me these last many months. The first thing I notice is the fading rose of the light on the buildings out my window, soft and clear. I am surprised the day is here. I check my iPad for the time. It’s on the bedside table. Reading a novel (on the kindle app on my iPad) in bed as I fall asleep is one of my life’s pleasures.

And, in that moment, reaching for the time, I realize this: I did not meditate yesterday. Horror! How could I have forgotten?

I comb back through the day. It was not my typical Sunday. To start with, I didn’t get into bed until 4:00 am. I was taking part in a big group photo shoot organized by some friends, which didn’t start until past midnight. That same morning, I stayed longer in bed than usual … waiting until the moment before I needed to leave for my 5 Rhythms group at noon. I left my iPad out in a particular location to remind myself to meditate when I got back. But not with a note, as I often do, if I don’t meditate first thing in the morning.

That was May 7th. My cousin’s birthday. He was born 4 days before me. It would have been 1617 days of meditation in a row. 617 days since the last day of the first in-person visit with my mother after pandemic.

My streak!!?? I couldn’t lose my meditation streak, too! Enough with the loss already (I won’t get into the details—I’ve written about them the last couple of months.)

I recalled that while I was lying in bed Sunday morning, I had thought to myself, maybe 5 Rhythms will be my meditation today. After all, Gabrielle Roth, who developed the technique, called it a moving mediation. Still, if I’m honest, I wasn’t thinking about that anymore when I got to the studio. I was just inside my body, inside the dance. So, did it count if I hadn’t thought to myself, in the moment, this is my meditation?

I’ve been meditating daily for more than 4 years now, and I have adjusted my expectations and the form my meditation can take several times. For example, when I started, I required of myself a minimum of 20 minutes. After a month, I relaxed into any amount of time counting, so long as I sat down intentionally. My meditations now are most commonly 10 minutes long. Another requirement was that I be seated—a cushion or a chair (airplane seats count) or a patch of grass. Just seated, you get the picture. Then, about six months ago, when life got especially challenging, I began to relax the seated requirement and relaxed into lying down meditation. Sometimes (often on days when I’ve woken up super early or am having trouble motivating myself to get out of bed), I start my day with a meditation in bed. 

So, I am not averse to adjusting my meditation habits over time. And, I’ve never made the adjustment unconsciously. And, I’ve never included a moving meditation in my streak, at least not before May 7th. And, I do think it’s appropriate to count 5 Rhythms as a meditation, though I’d probably feel differently if it was the only form of daily meditation I practiced every day, which is how I feel about lying down meditation, too. Yes, at times the system of rules and regulations and definitions of what counts and what doesn’t inside my head verge on the Kafkaesque. For example, I don’t count riding around town on a bike as my workout, but I’ve also realized that it is a factor that needs to inform the workout I choose to do on a day when I’ll be riding around town a lot.

Which brings me back to my immediate problem on May 8th—what should I do about the meditation streak?

First, I decided to meditate, with the intention to notice what was coming up around the issue. Then, I thought, why bother? You’re just fooling yourself. You’re back to zero. You won’t get back into the 1600s on a new streak until you’re into your sixties. Suck it up. I sat down to meditate anyway. I considered whether there was a freedom in not being on the streak anymore. I’ve got a number of new, unasked for and unwanted, freedoms in my life. I don’t want more of these types of freedoms.

These thoughts crowded my mind: I have deep expertise in the field of being hard on myself, maybe this was not the moment? But if I follow that logic, was I at risk of being too gentle? What long time discipline would I cheat on next? If I decided to count 5 Rhythms, was I lying to myself? What would I lie to myself about next? A rabbit hole of dire possibilities yawned open.

Then, as if switch flipped, my mind quieted and I heard, count it. Add the session into your log. The streak motivates you If after a few days, you feel like a lying, cheating fraud, you can always take it out.

Well, it’s been more than a week now. When I look at my streak count, which is, as I type this (on Friday May 19, is 1628, I feel no remorse. I’ve come clean here about my streak. That’s enough. No public hanging required. I will continue on with my streak.

That last sentence was supposed to be the end of this post. My intention was to let the writing sit over the weekend and come back to polish the next week.

…

Except.

…

Saturday morning. May 20th 2023. I finish my run and decide to meditate outdoors. It’s only then that I realize, holy fucking shit, I did not meditate on Friday. The very day I was writing my first draft of this post, I forgot to meditate. Again. And this time, there was no 5 Rhythms waiting in the wings to save me. I was stunned. Was this the universe punishing me because I was lying to myself about my meditation streak with my 5 Rhythms fiddle? I sat down to meditate on my new streak-less reality. As I listened to the wind in the trees and breathed the breeze, waves of grief, followed by waves of jubilation rocked through my body. Each wave swelling into the space of the receding wave, as grief rolled into jubilation rolled into grief. For everything that’s been happening. When I finished my meditation, I was shaken. And I accepted. No, more than that, I welcomed what was. That was my word of the year, here was a reminder of the practice. I was not being punished or tested or whatever. I was living and doing the best I can. Later that day I bought a bottle of champagne to share with the friends I was having dinner with. To celebrate the ongoing deconstruction of my life.

This was the quote on my Insight Timer app on the day I realized that I’d forgotten to meditate. It felt like a message addressed to me rather directly. And the other image is my welcome to what now is.

I’m on day 4 of my new streak today. Or so Insight Timer tells me. And I don’t intend to streak for the time being. I will take the days as they come.