Scar Tissue, Loss, and Gratitude November 17, 2020 15:26

 To listen to this blog post, please click here.

Ever since I was a kid, I've had ear trouble.

Right ear trouble, mostly. From chronic ear infections, tubes in the ears, and, eventually, a skin graft to repair the gaping hole that would not heal, thanks to a bad bout with hay fever. Because of scar tissue, the repaired right eardrum did not move in the same way that the healthy left one did. Its stiffness and rigidity resulted in significant hearing loss in my right ear.

I adapted and managed. After all, I had my left ear to rely on...until recently.

Two weeks ago, I made spaghetti with a soy-based meat substitute. I did not purchase these "soy balls."  My husband Jim picked them up for me when he went to the grocery store. He was being kind and thoughtful--and even though I knew I would have some kind of reaction (my body does not respond well to processed soy products), I didn't want to waste them...and...I'm not gonna lie...I was hungry!

So, I had a plate of spaghetti with three small soy balls, and within fifteen minutes, I noticed a rushing, roaring, and ringing in my left ear.

I occasionally experience ringing in both ears, but it typically lasts a few seconds or minutes. This lasted for hours--and I noticed that I was sensitive to certain sounds. The television news commentators' voices sounded tinny and metallic. I brushed it off thinking it might be an issue with the station.

The next morning, the roaring and rushing sounds had subsided, but my left ear felt full. I wasn't in pain, but it felt like I had an ear infection. Jim picked up some Benadryl for me, which did help alleviate the pressure and helped the ear drain. 

I thought that was the end of it. Nope!

When my alarm rang on Monday morning, I could barely hear it. It was low and faint, and I honestly thought our clock had broken. It hadn't, and that's how I realized that I could not hear out of my left ear.

I was not in pain, I was not dizzy, but my ear felt full, numb, like it was made out of rubber or plastic. And the roaring and rushing sounds had returned full blast.

Later that morning, I scheduled a teledoc appointment with my primary care physician for Wednesday afternoon.

I also left a message with my ENT. By this time, I figured it was more serious than a spaghetti dinner. Surely, the soy was not the culprit or cause of this, right?

While I waited, I did a little research. This can be a dangerous thing for me to do (Googling medical symptoms), but I'm glad I did in this case.

I found an article from a reputable source (The Cleveland Clinic) that had a single line that literally made me stand up and take action: "Sudden hearing loss is considered a medical emergency."

I spent Election Night at the ER. The lobby was eerily quiet. Seats were occupied with waiting patients. A corner television aired a Friends rerun, but the volume was too low for me to hear.

Everyone who interacted with me that evening was extremely helpful, efficient, and demonstrated genuine concern. I left the hospital with a prescription for a steroid and the faint hope that my hearing would be restored.

My ENT's office called the next day, and we scheduled an appointment for a hearing test for Thursday.

In the meantime, my world shrunk to the size of a crappy soy ball.

My communication with my students was limited to emails. I couldn't watch the news or listen to music. I couldn't hear Feldenkrais lessons on my tablet.

The house was oddly quiet--and leaving the house was disorienting for me. I was afraid of not being able to hear emergency sirens while driving.

I did stop by Fresh Thyme for a few things. I couldn't hear the background music playing in the store, only the roaring in my ear and the loud humming of the freezer and refrigerator units.

I spent a lot of time reading and found great comfort in my meditation practice.

I was facing uncertainty, and the stark reality that I could not hear in a hearing world.

The hearing test on Thursday did not go well. My hearing in my left ear was far worse than in my right, and my ENT was concerned about the numbness I was experiencing in my left ear. He gave me an additional prescription for the same steroid to extend the duration. He also suggested scheduling an MRI to rule out a tumor, and asked me to return in two weeks for a follow-up test.

No explanations were offered--no diagnosis--just more uncertainty, more wait-and-see. And, uh...TUMOR?

In the meantime, I continued to practice. It was the only thing that kept me moored in the present moment. I even took a trip to Bloomington on Friday. The weather was gorgeous, and I hadn't been to the Tibetan Mongolian Buddhist Cultural Center since late February because of the pandemic.

Walking the grounds was the medicine I needed. I had sent messages to a couple of my dharma friends letting them know what was happening. I appreciated the support of their prayers and the opportunity to slow way down, enjoy the beautiful surroundings, and appreciate what I had rather than worrying about what I didn't have.

I walked around the Kalachakra Stupa and prayer wheels. I stood under long rows of colorful prayer flags and gazed at the clear blue sky. I wandered around the Lotus Pond dotted with autumn leaves.

Geshe Kunga was setting up for a puja the next day in the temple. He invited me in--I lit a row of candles on the altar. He gave me a tangerine and a bottle of orange juice and let me sit quietly in the temple to meditate for a while.

Later, I chatted with my friend Staci in the Gift Shop. It was good to be in this beautiful place with warm, kind-hearted people.

After a few days, I noticed that the steroids did help. The constant roaring and rushing subsided, and slowly, but surely, my hearing in my left ear started to improve.

I wasn't sleeping well (one of the many side effects of the medication), but my hearing was returning, so I wasn't complaining at all! I'd rather lose a little sleep than my hearing.

Late night Feldenkrais lessons and early morning meditation sessions were calming and self-regulating practices as well.

I see a holistic chiropractor every few weeks as part of my self care routine. I'm so glad I happened to have an appointment with her on Friday afternoon (two weeks after the initial symptoms).

Dr. Amanda was the only practitioner who acknowledged that the soy could very well have been the catalyst for all of this. It may not have caused the hearing loss, but it may have triggered the inflammation that led to it.

She focused on adjusting my cervical spine, and gave me a couple of supplements to foster drainage and boost the immune system as I was tapering off of the steroids.

That was my big worry with all of this--what if the hearing deteriorates after I stop taking the meds? How badly will they suppress my immune system? COVID numbers are off the charts right now and currently spiking in our local area.

At any rate, it felt good to be validated,  "heard," and acknowledged. I left this appointment feeling hopeful. Dr. Amanda did not mention anything about possible tumors, the possibility of cochlear implants, or brain surgery, which was also a relief! 

I also left feeling extremely grateful. Over the last two weeks, as my hearing steadily improved, I relished everyday, ordinary sounds that I typically take for granted.

The sound of Zora purring

Maya softly snoring on my lap

The sound of the furnace kicking on through the vents

A  ringing telephone

Birdsong

Crickets

Rustling leaves

The steady hum of a neighbor's lawn mower

The crackling sound of burning leaves

And yes, even the sound of the alarm clock 

My world was slowly beginning to expand beyond the size of a toxic soy ball, and I was ecstatic about that! I will also never, ever, ever consume processed soy again! And I have asked Jim to never purchase it again :). 

I am grateful to be recovering.

I am grateful that I can hear!

I am grateful to have kind, supportive friends.

I am grateful to have a practice that I can rely on and take comfort in during challenging times.

I am grateful for multiple modalities and approaches in health care, and I am grateful that I had access to much-needed health care--I needed a hearing test...steroids...a spinal adjustment...and natural supplements for healing.

It is November....and I am grateful!

Thank you for reading or listening today. While you're here, please visit middlemoonmalas.com to view the current online collection of one-of-a-kind malas.

Oops! Mistakes as Opportunities for Practice October 20, 2020 15:45

If you prefer to listen to this blog post, click HERE.

I've been working on a mala design for a friend who will be opening a new studio in January. It is a Tiger Eye mala with alternating 8 and 6mm beads.

When I finished stringing the 108th bead and brought the two ends together to attach the guru, I noticed that something was off...WAY off. The beads weren't lining up correctly, and with different bead sizes, this is particularly critical.

I tried tugging the mala on one side to even out the difference, but no luck. When I counted the beads again, I realized my mistake. I had miscalculated the midpoint of the design, so the balance of the entire design was off kilter. If I had attached the guru and tassel, the beads wouldn't have lined up properly, and the whole design would have been a little wonky. Five hours of steady work and time wasted....or, maybe not.

I resigned myself to starting over with this mala. As I was snipping each knot between every bead this morning, I realized that mistakes offer valuable insights, blessings, and opportunities.

*Opportunity to Revise:

To revise means "to see again." When I taught creative writing at a local high school years ago, I encouraged my students to revise their poems and stories. The first draft is rarely the best draft--it is merely a starting point--a beginning to something even better.

This is true for other endeavors, too, even designing malas.

I have a work tray that I use to layout potential designs, but this tray isn't foolproof. Errors can still occur--as they did with this Tiger Eye mala. However, it also gave me an opportunity to reconsider the original arrangement of the beads, and the possibility to substitute a few different beads to add more visual interest to the design.

This mistake actually gave me the opportunity to improve this mala for my friend, to make it even better than the initial design.

*Opportunity to Practice:

It's not unusual for me to practice mantra recitations while I'm stringing a mala, especially when I know in advance who it will belong to.

Often, when I'm working on a custom mala design, I will recite a mantra while I'm working and offer the merits of the practice to the recipient of the mala.

Restringing this design will give me even more time to devote to my own practice, and it will allow me to dedicate even more benefits to my friend and to the success of her new business. 

By reframing this mistake, it allows me to see it as a blessing rather than an inconvenience or burden. It also gives me something to look forward to, and it adds purpose to the work and time required to complete this design.

*Opportunity to Generate Kindness

I am my own worst enemy when it comes to making mistakes. I can be extremely self-critical and unnecessarily harsh with myself.

I can be kind, forgiving, and compassionate with others when they make mistakes, but quite brutal with myself, even with minor errors.

My inner critic can be quick to lash out over the smallest mistakes: misspelling a word in a Facebook post or comment, forgetting something (phone, wallet, etc) when I leave the house, screwing up a dinner recipe, or remembering something ridiculously minor or stupid that I said or did many years ago.

Practicing self-kindness is just as important as practicing kindness toward others. Making mistakes give me an opportunity to demonstrate LESS judgment and criticism and MORE tenderness, gentleness, and compassion toward myself. 

I've carved out some time later this afternoon to work on this new-and-improved mala for my friend. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to revise and improve, to dedicate time and effort to the future success of her biz, and to direct much-needed kindness, patience, and compassion toward myself as I restring her mala.

Thanks for reading or listening! If you haven't checked out the MMM online collection in a while, click here. Several new designs have been added recently. Do something nice for yourself or a loved one, and support a small Hoosier business, too.   

(Here is the revised mala design. I wound up changing the sutra and tassel color--from navy blue to honey flax)

Unlikely Offerings September 15, 2020 15:52

If you prefer to listen to this blog post, click HERE.

It's early morning. I light a stick of incense, grab a Granny Smith apple from the bowl by the fridge and a scoop of birdseed from the bag near the front door. I pick up Maya with my free hand (which is a challenge because she's jumping up and down in excitement) and slip into a pair of sandals.

With both hands full, I carefully open the storm door with my left elbow and walk toward the small garden in the front yard.

The tip of the incense stick is glowing bright red in the early morning light, and white smoke that smells of juniper wafts around us.

I am thinking about my friend's dog who recently passed away. I am also thinking of another friend's son-in-law and a former colleague's brother--both of whom have died within the last few days.

I carefully place the incense stick in a small metal bowl at the base of a tree stump and sprinkle the cup of birdseed into the open palms of a concrete Buddha statue.

Maya and I walk down the driveway looking for a few acorns that have fallen from a nearby white oak, and I also pluck a few black-eyed Susans that are blooming near a mulberry bush. 

I place them on the tree stump near the Buddha statue, along with the green apple.

We do this twice a day, this simple ritual of offering. It's dedicated to all sentient beings: insects, animals, loved ones, strangers, celebrities who have passed away in the last 49 days (in Buddhism, the intermediate state, or bardo, can last up to seven times seven, or 49, days).  We make these offerings so that these beings may navigate their way safely through the bardo in the hopes that they find happiness in their next life--so that they may be of benefit to others in their next incarnation.

I offer a brief prayer to the outdoor altar, and then Maya and I make our way back to the house.

This is an example of a traditional offering: flowers, fruit, incense. However, offerings don't have to be traditional to be meaningful or valid.

Offerings can be very simple, subtle, and sometimes...unlikely.

Anything given with an open heart and from a spirit of kindness and generosity could be considered an offering. Here are just a few practical examples:

* Sharing home-grown veggies from your garden with friends or neighbors.

* Helping someone who's having technology issues or a friend who needs help with a home-improvement project.

* Letting someone enter the flow of traffic, especially when traffic is heavy.

*Offering kind words of encouragement.

* Acknowledging and thanking a cashier or clerk by name at a grocery store, bank, or gas station.

* Wearing a mask and honoring social distancing guidelines during a pandemic.

Offerings can also be a blend of the traditional and everyday common courtesy.

I often practice japa when I'm driving. I use a clicker counter or knitter to keep track of the recitations (and it's safer than using a full mala for me). Often, when I'm reciting, I offer the benefits (or merits) of the recitations to the drivers, passengers, and pedestrians around me: 

* May they arrive safely to their destinations 

* May they be happy

* May they be well 

Even during a more formal sitting practice or during a sadhana, it's not unusual for miscellaneous memories or sudden flashes of people I haven't seen or thought about in years to pop into my head. Instead of viewing this as an annoying distraction to resist or push away, or interpreting this as evidence of being an undisciplined meditator, I briefly acknowledge them and wish them well:

*I see you

*I love you

*I remember you

*I forgive you

*I honor you

Usually, when I take the time to witness and appreciate these "surprise visitors," they dissipate fairly quickly, and it opens up even more space for my practice. In fact, I see acknowledging and honoring these memories and flashes as an important part of my practice.  

So, what are the benefits of making daily offerings, whether they are tangible objects, courteous acts or gestures, or meditative thoughts?

* They encourage generosity and selflessness 

One of the quickest ways to bust out of an "I,I,I...me,me,me" mindset is by considering or giving to others instead of thinking about yourself.

 * They foster connections and interconnection with others

Offering words, thoughts, or things with a kind-hearted spirit helps dissolve feelings of separation or disconnection toward others.

* They inspire a sense of purpose and meaning

On an individual level, offerings can add a little structure and motivation to a practice. When the intention is right, and when the desire for recognition is absent, it feels really good to do charitable things or offer kind words of support to others.

Offerings can strengthen and bolster compassion for self, for others, and for the planet. 

By the way, supporting a small business is another wonderful way to make a meaningful offering. Feel free to visit the Middle Moon Malas online shop (here) to purchase a one-of-a-kind mala for yourself or a loved one. These beautiful designs are intended to enhance your own practice, and they make wonderful gifts....or...offerings.

A Beautiful Tangle: Sitting with Confusion August 5, 2020 15:18

If you prefer to listen to this blog post, please click here.

We are living in a time when we have have many opportunities to explore our relationship with confusion. We're navigating the uncertainties of our own daily lives in the middle of a global pandemic. Some of us are working from home, some are seeking new employment, some are struggling to keep food on the table or to pay bills, and we're all trying to stay safe and healthy during this challenging time.

We're also dealing with the upheaval of social protests and finally facing the consequences of systemic racism in order to move toward necessary and meaningful change.

We're gearing up for a pivotal election in November. It's certainly been a long 3 ½ years, and unfortunately, our struggles are far from over.

 Confusion gives us the space to explore, to experiment with different solutions, to ask questions, and to research. Sitting with confusion is not always easy or comfortable, but it is imperative to novel discovery and learning.

Over the past several months, I have immersed myself in studying the Tibetan language. Progress is painstakingly slow, but learning new things is great for the brain. It broadens viewpoints and perspectives; it fosters creativity and curiosity; and it has given me many opportunities to practice with confusion.

* The Importance of Feeling Stupid

Early on in my studies, I was working with two Tibetan tutors online, additional materials from the Tibetan Language Institute based in Montana, The Manual of Standard Tibetan, and a variety of YouTube videos. Inevitably, I found conflicting information, especially regarding pronunciation (there are 220 Tibetan dialects). In the beginning, having too many sources was overwhelming for me, and it just made me feel incredibly stupid and inept. Navigating contradictory information created massive confusion and self-doubt. However, I found that by sticking with my tutors until I mastered the alphabet and basic sentence structure helped me negotiate the rough waters of hopeless confusion.

Curiosity is a motivator, and it is often driven by productive confusion. This curiosity led me to ask questions, to take my time practicing and writing out each letter, to make flash cards of simple words, numbers, and phrases. It also helped me weave my way out of self-doubt and discouragement, to seek understanding while simultaneously moving beyond the realm of the familiar.

*Time

I found out the hard way that I need to study in small bursts of time rather than in lengthy marathon sessions.

A few weeks ago, one of my sessions with a tutor went way over time (over 2 hours), and by the end of the session, I was discouraged, frustrated, angry, and more confused at the end than I was at the start.

Hour-long sessions are ideal for me. I can deal with 90 minute sessions, too, but anything beyond that is too much. Setting clear boundaries with my tutor regarding time limits proved to be very helpful.

Even when I study on my own, I find that daily sessions of 15-30 minutes is just right. Finding that tipping point where productive confusion slips into hopeless confusion was useful for me. It helped me to stay focused and engaged, and it helped to avoid sabotaging my own practice.

*The Importance of Rest

Taking breaks and resting between sessions is also crucial to learning anything new and managing the discomfort of confusion.

I already understood this from a somatic perspective. In Feldenkrais lessons, we move slowly and repeat movements with thoughtful, mindful attention. Between movements, or before layering movements with variations on a theme, we rest.

The rests function as points of integration. These necessary pauses allow the nervous system to process information.

It's the same with learning a language, or anything new, really. I found that if I spent a few minutes reviewing words on flash cards, then took a break to read, go for a walk, wash dishes, or nap--when I returned to review the same set of cards, my accuracy, speed, and retention were much improved.

*Letting Go of Expectation

The most important aspect of managing confusion while learning is to let go of expectations and judgments. This is also much easier said than done :). 

Putting too much pressure on myself when I'm learning something new only invites the inner critic to tear my enthusiasm and self-esteem to shreds. Sessions that don't have an agenda or specific expectation (I'm going to memorize all the vegetables in Tibetan in 15 minutes) allow me to enjoy the exploration and discovery process. These sessions are more playful and relaxed compared to pressure-cooker sessions where I'm striving, pushing, or rushing myself. There is more ease in the effort, and the cognitive connections are stronger and more relevant.

In addition to learning something new, I'm also reinforcing the importance of being patient and compassionate with myself. And, in turn, this carries over to being more patient and compassionate with others, as well. 

* What the Heck Does This Have to Do with Meditation and Japa Practice?

Well, pretty much everything! When we come to the cushion to sit or practice japa, we learn something new about ourselves or how to relate to others in the world.

The same tips above apply to maintaining a healthy meditation practice. Confusion surfaces regularly during sessions--maybe not in the same way as they do in learning a new language. Confusion appears in finding difficulty settling in to practice. Distractions arise--both internal and external (discursive thoughts, memories, random song lyrics or commercial jingles, a ringing phone, the sound of a television in another room, your partner or spouse talking to you while you're trying to practice: "It smells like you're burning underwear").

So, things will come up during meditation. Don't let that discourage you. Instead, find time every day to practice, even if it's ten minutes.

Every meditation session will be different, so don't micromanage or squelch your practice with a specific expectation or agenda. Instead, have the courage to explore whatever arises at that time, and in that moment.

Take breaks between sessions if you meditate more than once a day. Ideally, I like to practice three times a day. I have a short sadhana session in the morning, a japa practice in the afternoon, and then a longer sadhana session in the evening.

Remember that productive confusion is a necessary part of the learning process. It stimulates curiosity, it encourages inquiry, and it opens new doorways to awareness and understanding.

 Be curious, be open, and give yourself permission to sit with confusion in your practice. Invite it to tea without an ulterior motive. Follow its loops, twists, arcs, and jagged edges to see where it might lead you.

Happy practicing and learning, everyone!

By the way, I've added several new mala designs to the MMM website recently, so if you haven't visited in a while, I invite you to view the online collection at middlemoonmalas.com.

Controlled Burn: Sitting with Fear July 3, 2020 21:11

 If you prefer to listen to this blog post, please click here.

It's early July, and I'm sitting in a lawn chair babysitting an active fire in our side yard. My fear of fire is strong, so I hate it when Jim burns shit in our yard. It ratchets up my anxiety levels, and today, the pile of wood was very high. We cleared out and cut several dead ash trees and rotted wooden beams that framed our turnaround, so the heap was a formidable one.

The good news is, it's not a windy day. The flames were quite intimidating at first, but they died down quite a bit and fairly quickly. The logs are turning ashy white on the outside and glowing bright orange at the center.

I have to admit, I feel a bit like the burning logs right now. Everything seems to be fairly calm and under control, but beneath the surface, anger, sadness, frustration, and uncertainty are blazing.

Typically, on the Summer Solstice, I am a vendor at an event in downtown Indianapolis, Monumental Yoga. This year, however, because of COVID-19, the physical event was cancelled, and, understandably so. I typically sell quite a few malas at this event, and even though I've had the opportunity to participate in a few virtual events as a vendor this season, the results have been disappointing. I didn't sell a single mala in the month of June, which is very unusual. The good news is, I've had time to catch up on my inventory, and I currently have a full collection in the online shop. However, I'm anxious for these beautiful malas to find new homes.

I've also been dealing with waves of sadness throughout this past month as well. My friend Michelle died on June 16. She'd been battling terminal cancer for the past three years. A few months ago, she was doing quite well, and I was really hopeful that she might have more time. She was a kind, generous spirit, and I will miss her dearly.

The first of July was the tenth anniversary of my friend Larry's death. Larry was an amazing art teacher at the high school where I used to teach English. His partner had shared an online interview that Larry gave with a former art student just a week before he died.  It was wonderful to hear his voice again, but it was also agonizingly sad. Larry was an excellent educator, and he encouraged his students not only to create meaningful art, but to maintain a sense of curiosity and wonder with the world. Listening to this interview ten years after his death was inspiring, but also bittersweet. 

I'm still struggling through weekly Tibetan language lessons. Currently, I'm taking two classes a week on Zoom with two different tutors. I have moments of clarity and understanding, but many more moments of feeling totally lost and frustrated.

Our class on Saturday went over by 45 minutes. I had literally been tethered to my computer for over two hours, and another student asked a question that required a lengthy, complicated answer--and it was material that was totally new to me. At that time, I was too tired to process any more information (Zoom fatigue is no joke, people!).

I tried to remain patient, polite, and engaged, but I'm sure my frustration showed through in my body language and audible sighing.

The Tibetan language is very subtle, and correct pronunciation is extremely important. Unfortunately, I have significant hearing loss in one ear, and after two hours of intently listening, I'd reached my limit. I want to understand; I want to get it right, but it was not happening at that moment. 

As an educator, I understand that confusion is an important aspect of the learning process. Sometimes you have to stir things up in order to see the truth and then make sense of it. It's one thing to understand this on a conceptual level; it's quite another to experience it and process it with dignity and grace in real time, especially when you're tired and cranky.

I've had enough of Zoom, really. Don't get me wrong; I'm extremely grateful to have the option to connect with others virtually online. It has been a crucial link in many ways; however, it's also a poor substitute for face-to-face communication with people, and I really miss that right now.

So, this is where the anger shows up for me. Honestly, I feel a little like Samuel L. Jackson in the last 20 minutes of Snakes on a Plane. (If you're not familiar with this film...or THE quintessential line in this film, click here). 

I have had ENOUGH of COVID-19!

I have had ENOUGH of Donald Trump!

I have had ENOUGH of police brutality!

I have had ENOUGH of systemic racism and racial inequality!

I have had ENOUGH of ridiculous conspiracy theories and manipulative propaganda on social media!

I have had ENOUGH of crybabies complaining about having to wear masks in public!

I have had ENOUGH of people suffering and dying needlessly from this terrifying new virus!

Before I can be grateful and understand the blessings of big things, I have to acknowledge and sit with their shadow sides first.  I can't attach, contract, grab, cling, or wallow in them.

First and foremost, I have to sit with these strong feelings...let them burn brightly, then smolder, stirring the ashes until they cool. This process enables me to allow whatever it is to be, to open and expand in order to see the benefit...and take necessary actions to realize it.

So, I sit with these feelings, letting them burn...and then smolder.

I stir their ashes until they cool. 

I witness them, with gentle attention, and without judgment. 

I see you, Anger.

I see you, Inadequacy.

I see you, Anxiety.

I see you, Grief.

I see you, Frustration.

Right now, blue smoke is rising from the much smaller burn pile. The popping and cracking of blazing wood has subsided. The warm ash flakes are drifting and falling less frequently.

It is in this moment that I notice birdsong. I hear children laughing in a neighbor's yard. I take comfort in knowing that a young fawn is curled up in the brush near our home. Even though I can't see her spotted coat, I know she's there, and that mama doe is somewhere nearby.

Tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and I have reason to celebrate. I will be celebrating my temporary freedom from fear, hopelessness, anger, grief, and frustration. 

These feelings will no doubt return, but for now, they have settled, eased, burned to the ground along with this giant pile of ash.

If you haven't had a chance to visit the updated Middle Moon Malas collection in a while, please click here. Perhaps one of these beautiful designs will find a new home with you. 

Planting Seeds of Change: Pandemic Haiku Part Two June 9, 2020 11:47

(If you prefer to listen to this blog post, click here)

I wasn't sure if I wanted to include additional poems in this month's blog post or not, but when I read through the haiku from this past month, I observed some significant shifts and patterns that were quite different from the previous poems.

 Needless to say, this month has been challenging for many reasons. COVID-19 has not yet released its grip around the world, and, on top of that, here in the U.S., we are grappling with the collective grief, rage, and pain of racism, police brutality, and economic hardship.

It's been a difficult month for many, and while I have been staying put at home, for the most part, I have also been deeply aware and connected to the concerns of others. These concerns have drifted to the surface of awareness through this daily haiku practice.

* Connection with Nature 

For centuries, haiku have connected to and referenced the natural world. While I wrote a few poems in the previous month that alluded to nature, wildlife, and the environment, the haiku this month seemed to slip deeper. They moved beyond mere observation to create a more direct, organic connection to the natural world.

Coyote (5.9.2020)

Our eyes met briefly

as you trotted through the yard.

Wild. Searing. Amber.         

                      Komorebi * (5.11.2020)

                      Shadows of oak leaves

                      dance on white walls. Light and dark

                      play until dinner.

(* Japanese term: play of sunlight through leaves)

Dwarf Rhododendrons (5.19.2020)

Tender white petals

expand, hold time and stillness

close in drops of rain.

               Sunday Afternoon (5.24.2020)

               Even in full sun,

              this room is cloaked in green leaves.

              Oak, Ash, Hickory.

*Uprising of Grief

In the weeks leading up to Memorial Day, I noticed a palpable tension that gradually intensified. It was a subtle shift, slowly rising to the surface. I went through periods of grief--intense sadness for no obvious reason. Then, reasons began to emerge--a former student of mine was murdered; then, George Floyd was murdered, and racism, injustice, corruption, and brutality were justifiably called out into the open. The daily protests continue even now; voices rise up, screaming for change. An ancient wound has been acknowledged at last, and accountability has been demanded.

Space between Stimulus and Response (5.3.2020)

Action, reaction.

Fine line between left and right.

Not this…Not that…Here.

                  As If the Virus Wasn’t Enough (5.5.2020)

                  Toxic stings, hot nails

                  in flesh. Murder hornets rip

                  honeybees to shreds.

Remembering Tori (5.13.2020)

Red hair and freckles,

giggling with best friend in hall.

Restless. Kind. Spunky.

                    Seize (5.20.2020)

                     Her body shakes; claws

                     dig into chair cushion. Raw

                     struggle for control.

Floyd (5.28.2020)

A knee to the neck

for nine minutes. Cries for help

ignored. “I can’t breathe.”

*Call to Practice

The third pattern that has emerged is a distinct call to practice. I've stayed up late several times this month to watch H.H. Dalai Lama give live stream teachings and transmissions from India. A friend and Dharma teacher is currently living in Israel right now. She's been hosting weekly meditations and talks on Zoom. I've awakened at 4:00 a.m. on several occasions to join them. Saga Dawa, one of the most significant Buddhist holidays, is currently happening this month. It celebrates the birth, death, and parinirvana of Shakyamuni Buddha. 

I've spent more time on my cushion in quiet contemplation, or in meditative movement practice as a way of processing this undeniable collective grief and anger.  I came across a Thich Nhat Hanh quotation recently that resonated: "Meditation is not evasion. It is a serene encounter with reality." 

These poems have been attempts to acknowledge and come to terms with this difficult reality as well.

Metta (5.7.2020)

Golden light spirals

from the center of the spine.

May you be happy.

                Shamatha (5.12.2020)

                Paint each vertebra

                with an exhale. Spinal curves

                and breath undulate.

Precious Garland: Day One (5.15.2020)

Gold robes, orchids, silk.

He speaks of love, compassion

between sips of tea.

                Tonglen (5.21.2020)

                Inhale: Pain. Exhale:

                Joy. Inhale: Black Smoke. Exhale:

                Gold Light. Receive…Give…

May all of you reading or listening to these words be happy and well. May you be free of suffering, and may you find joy.

I have added several new designs to the Middle Moon Malas online shop, so if you haven't visited in a while, feel free to browse the collection at middlemoonmalas.com.

Take care, everyone!

Teresa

Pandemic Haiku: Finding Hope and Healing in Seventeen Syllables May 1, 2020 14:09

(If you prefer to listen to this blog post, click here)

 We're all coping with this strange new normal as best as we can. I've certainly done a fair amount of yard work (for me, that means picking up fallen limbs and branches and throwing them onto the burn pile), stress cleaning, organizing, and experimenting with new recipes as a way of managing my own concerns and worries.

However, I've also found another effective coping mechanism for dealing with the uncertainties of lockdown lifestyle: writing daily haiku.

5...7...5: Three lines, seventeen syllables! It's the perfect form for staying present and honing in on a specific event or moment.

Since the middle of March, I've spent a few minutes every evening focusing on a specific image, memory, or happening from the day and attempted to capture the essence of that moment.

It started as a lark, really--a way to lighten the mood, and decompress from the onslaught of depressing news coverage, but after 40+ days of documenting my experiences in bite-sized poetry, I've discovered a few surprises. 

  Surprise #1 These poems have become important reminders that spiritual practices are not limited to the cushion. Actually, they are extensions of meditation, contemplation, and study. In a way, they are nuggets of attention, intention, and practical wisdom.

Full Pink Moon (4.7.2020)

Blushing in the dark,

she shimmers, while peeper frogs

cheer from deep ravines.

                  Imagine Leaving an Imprint (4.16.2020)

                  in warm sand, uncooked

                  pastry dough. Skull. Ribs. Pelvis.

                  Moving metaphors.

Vajrasattva Recitations at the Laundromat (4.30.2020)

Linens tumble dry.

Quarters, green numbers mark time.

Fluff. Fold. Purify.



Surprise #2  Much like an archaeologist digging for ancient artifacts in the sand, these poems are clues to what matters...what really matters right now (family, humor, nourishment, safety, nature).

Vegetable Soup (4.3.2020)

 Slow-cooked leeks, carrots,

 potatoes fill the house with

 the scent of normal.

                 Sock Monkey Bandana (4.10.2020)

                  Wore it as a mask

                  on a Target run. You thought

                  it was underwear.

Terrier Vs. Dandelions (4.27.2020)

 She runs through tall grass

 snatching heads of suns and moons

 between sharp, fierce teeth.

Surprise #3 Finally, these poems are evidence of connection and interconnection. They are reminders of the importance of compassion for others, gratitude, and thoughtful reflection.

Bright Spot (3.18.2020)

She waited in line

at Fresh Thyme, cradling yellow

tulips like a child.

                   Online Zoom Class (3.19.2020)

                   Somatic dancers

        rise, flow, soar, sway, transcend space

                    from small square boxes.

Miumiu and Paulo: “Fly Me to the Moon” (3.26.2020)

Two guitars, one voice.

China and Nashville share a

masterclass in grace.

               Idiopathic (4.14.2020)

               Storms and wind brought them:

                body twitching, head thumping

                hard against wood floor.

The Early Bird Gets the Clorox Wipes (4.17.2020)

Noon brings empty shelves:

vinegar, lemons, vodka—

Sleeping in has perks.

 To date, I have written 40+ pandemic haiku. I don't know how long this sadhana practice will continue, but as with every meaningful practice, motivation and intention are much more important than rushing to completion. Taking a break from frenetic busyness has many blessings and benefits. This haiku project, for me, has helped to recognize and appreciate them.

To view the mala collection, click here to access the Middle Moon Malas online shop.

Finding Meaning and Beauty in Isolation April 1, 2020 16:22

I’m not looking at the clock much these days. My life is not revolving around clock-time, anyway. I am following a schedule, of sorts, but it’s more intuitive—and highly dependent upon the present moment.

 I’m not waking up to an alarm clock. Actually, we’ve found that we don’t really need one. Zora usually wakes us up at 4:45 A.M. with her cat opera. Her feline sense of time is amazingly early and consistent.

Staying home has encouraged me to let go of compulsive list-making and bustling around to complete tasks A to Z. My day does revolve around a few requirements, such as meal preparations, household chores, and movement, meditation, and japa practices, but they don't have to occur at a specific time.

So, I’m not tethered to a clock—and I feel a bit unmoored because of it. I’m not accustomed to being guided by my own needs, priorities, and intuitive leanings. For example, I didn’t wake up this morning planning to deep clean the living room (If I did, I would typically think of a million other things to do instead), it just happened organically. And, I enjoyed it. I took my time dusting, sweeping, mopping. It didn’t feel like a have to—or a burden.

This “new normal” of not looking at the clock and fretting about “all the things” was not a spontaneous realization. It was a process—and not a very comfortable one. For three weeks I have been struggling with anxiety. Usually, it manifests as a hard knot of pressure around my heart that comes and goes throughout the day, or the nervous energy to do, do, do—compulsively checking emails, Facebook, the news, of all things, for reassurance—and, of course, not finding much there.

However, I noticed a shift occur sometime last week. I woke up and noticed thick, heavy fog outside my bedroom window. The old me (the one from three weeks ago) wouldn’t have considered walking outside in it, especially without having showered first.

The new me recognized immediately that this phenomenon was fleeting, so I threw on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and shoes. I grabbed my phone and Maya (our Yorkie), and we took a slow walk down our long driveway (800 ft) in the fog.

Everything looks different in the fog. It obscures familiar reference points, depth perception, and even sounds are more difficult to pinpoint and locate.

Walking in the fog became a practice of being present with what is. Because I couldn’t see the familiar, habitual landmarks, my attention was captured by the shapes of branches, pavement cracks, small puddles, droplets of water clinging to pine needles, a rabbit darting under bare branches of a mulberry bush, Maya’s small body shivering against my jacket, cool air against my cheeks.

The fog kept us rooted in the present. When I turned to look back at the house, it had disappeared. When I looked toward the end of the driveway, it was invisible.

Typically, when I walk down the driveway, I’m on a mission to get the mail. This time, I walked slowly, mindfully. I took time to take pictures—to be curious—to observe small details with an open heart and mind. This, too, was a practice.

Maya and I made it to the edge of the driveway to an empty, shrouded street. We had no destination, really, or objective. We were on a little journey, an awareness field trip.

We turned to walk back home, the fog slowly lifting with the sun. Each step along the way was like a recitation—a mantra of movement. This practice of slowing down—of doing less—no planning—no striving—nothing to attain, achieve, or realize—is just the beginning.

I still have moments of recurring anxiety. That tight knot returns around my heart, and I feel the pull of clock-time, that compulsive need to do, strive, and effort.  I think about this walk in the fog with Maya—of simply being, immersing in sensations, the present moment, and appreciating the beauty and stillness of uncertainty.

Thank you for reading--feel free to check out the Middle Moon Malas online collection of hand-knotted mala designs. This period of social distancing and isolation is ideal for personal practice. Not only will you benefit, you'll also be supporting a local online business with your purchase.  

 To listen to this blog post, click here

Climbing Mt. Kailash...One Tibetan Letter at a Time February 10, 2020 18:53

 "To learn is an act of deep work."  Cal Newport (associate professor of Computer Science, Georgetown University)

Some of the best opportunities that have occurred in my life were not the result of calculated planning, but out of being open, curious, and willing to explore the unknown.

Five years ago, I fell into designing malas and then building a small business (Middle Moon Malas) through this creative interest and a love of japa practice.

Two years ago, I discovered The Feldenkrais Method as well as other alternative movement modalities, and my physical, emotional, and spiritual health flourished as a result.

Two weeks ago, I landed, unexpectedly, in a small class that my dharma teacher is leading between his weekly dharma talks and prayer sessions on Sundays. I'm one of a handful of students studying Tibetan.

Learning a new language in my mid-fifties is much more challenging (and enriching) than when I was studying French in junior high school. The Tibetan alphabet is totally different from English, and several of the sounds are very similar, with subtle, nuanced distinctions. Therefore, the learning requires more time, deliberate care, practice, and patience.

It turns out, there are several benefits to learning a language later in life. It can improve problem-solving, critical thinking, listening, decision-making, and concentration skills. Learning a new language can also stave off dementia, mental aging, and cognitive decline. It also fosters deeper connections and appreciation of other cultures.

I found out about this class a few weeks in, so I'm a little behind and scrambling to catch up. I gave myself a week to learn the Tibetan alphabet--30 consonants, 4 vowels. That doesn't seem too demanding, right?

Uhhhhh.....

Turns out, I needed the full week. I spent about an hour each day learning and reciting the sounds of each new letter, tracing unfamiliar curves, arcs, and loops onto graph paper. I flipped through flash cards again and again, and I watched several YouTube tutorials in order to recognize, memorize, speak, and write these beautiful new letters that are like keys to a mysterious puzzle.

I barely deciphered the Tibetan alphabet in time for the following week's class. We're moving on to numbers and combining letters into words, which is an even deeper mystery for me.

I feel like I'm climbing Mt. Kailash, one Tibetan letter at a time. Thankfully, I'm not alone on this journey. I have a knowledgeable leader, a team of peers, and additional resources to guide me along the way. Most importantly, I'm enjoying the process. It's definitely challenging, but I'm benefiting from it a great deal.

I'm learning much more than a new language. I'm learning the value of maintaining Beginner's Mind. I'm learning the importance of being gentle and patient with myself (and others) as I navigate this new adventure. I'm learning the importance of moving slowly, deliberately, and without force. I'm learning that this new endeavor is intricately connected to my movement, meditation, and japa practices. Most importantly, though, I'm rediscovering that...

"Learning should be a pleasant, marvelous experience." Moshé Feldenkrais

 To listen to this post, click here

Jr. High Orchestra Saved My Life...and Inspired Me to Practice December 4, 2019 17:42

I happened to catch a film that I had seen bits and pieces of years ago. Hilary and Jackie focused on the relationship between Jacqueline Du Pré, who was an extremely talented and famous cellist, and her sister Hilary, who played the flute for a time.

Both were sisters, both were involved with music, and both supported each other in times of need.

Jackie was a prodigy and became a professional musician at a very young age. Unfortunately, her music career lasted only a short ten years before she was diagnosed with MS. She battled this devastating illness for 14 years before she died at the age of 42.

It was painful and heart-wrenching to watch her transform from a musical genius to a helpless invalid on film--but just as tender and heart-warming to see her sister nurture and support her.

Recently, I had an opportunity to present meditation and wellness practices to groups of educators at a local high school as part of their township's Professional Development Day. I was assigned to lead sessions in a 9th grade orchestra classroom. The acoustics were great, and the tiered levels of seats in a horseshoe pattern were ideal for these sessions.

While I was setting up for the first meeting, I noticed a chair and a framed photo mounted on the far wall of the room. When I walked over to check it out, I discovered that it was a tribute to a student who had passed away the previous year. Her name was Alex. She was smiling in the photo, caught in a slanting ray of sunlight. The chair had been hers in class, and her classmates had written warm, tender messages on the seat and backrest in silver Sharpie. This tribute was beautiful, moving...and devastating.

This was the third consecutive year that I had been invited to present stress-reducing breathing techniques, meditation, and movement strategies to overworked, exhausted educators. This was also the third year that I'd presented in this 9th grade orchestra room, which I appreciated. This room is calming, open, warm, and safe--it's also far away from the other sessions that take place at the nearby high school. 

Being in this room reminded me of orchestra class at Stonybrook Jr. High. These were definitely not the Wonder Years for me growing up--far from it. At that time I was living in a tumultuous home environment. I was teased and bullied virtually every day at the bus stop, on the bus, and in the halls at school. The only place where I felt safe at this time in my life was in orchestra class. No one made fun of me there. I liked the teacher, and I liked playing the violin. Playing music with other students made me feel like I mattered...that I had something to contribute...that I was valued and appreciated. I belonged. Orchestra for me was an oasis from daily battles and struggles. I was safe there and part of a community.

Being able to offer simple, practical techniques to help teachers nurture and take care of themselves in this setting has been a pleasure for me. I look forward to these annual sessions, and I appreciate being invited back. It made me feel good to know that these sessions fill up, and fill up quickly.  This year, we started with a breath practice similar to nadi shodhana, progressed to a somatic relaxation practice for the eyes. We did a little sounding--chanting the vowels--to stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system, a Feldenkrais-inspired shoulder exercise, followed by a body scan and a loving-kindness meditation. 

Thankfully, I no longer live in a tumultuous home environment. I am no longer harassed and bullied on the daily at school now. I have found safety in my own personal meditation, japa, and movement practices, and I look forward to visiting this orchestra classroom every year. It's a safe place where teachers gather--it's an oasis from the demands of teaching, even for just a day. It's a place of connection and interconnection, shared joys, hard work, and sometimes sorrow. It's a place of support...where people uplift and hold space for each other...it's a place to practice...and a place to grow.

Interested in growing in your own meditation practice? Check out the one-of-a-kind, hand-knotted malas in the Middle Moon Malas online collection (middlemoonmalas.com). 

Healing Is an inside Job...and a Community Project October 28, 2019 18:42

 We're all healing from something, which means we're all on a healing journey of one sort or another. 

I recently taught a Malas and Mantra Workshop at a yoga studio in Fishers, IN. I enjoy sharing what I've learned about the history, benefits, and techniques that can be used in a daily japa practice. A friend who I hadn't seen in several months happened to attend this workshop. She is currently on a Category 5 healing journey of her own--unfortunately, her cancer has returned with a vengeance, and she was interested in incorporating a daily mantra practice into her healing regimen.

Her parents happen to live near the yoga studio, so after the workshop ended, she invited me to their home so we could catch up and chat. I drove along the tree-lined, gravel driveway to a lovely, two-story home. I was greeted by her father, who had been working in the garage, and the sound of wind chimes drifting from the porch.

Michelle greeted me at the door and led me to the basement, where her parents  had remodeled the space into a fully functioning kitchen, specifically for her healing. The kitchen table was loaded with fresh fruit and veggies, and she had an impressive two-step PURE juicer that would grind, then press produce into nutrient-rich juice. 

She had conquered cancer before, and the first time around, she endured the standard Western medicine protocols: chemo and radiation. Unfortunately, years later, the cancer returned, and this time around, she listened to her intuition. She's following the Gerson Therapy protocol, which includes a holistic, nutritional approach to healing, and it encourages the body to heal itself. 

While we chatted, she made a batch of fresh carrot and green apple juice. She poured it into two prom goblets, and we toasted to each other's health, healing, and friendship. 

One of the things that impressed me the most was that Michelle was surrounded by loving people who supported her healing choices. She has the support of a team of physicians, dieticians, herbalists, energy workers, healers, friends, and family who respect her decisions, and who don't sabotage her healing by planting seeds of fear and doubt. Michelle is confident and at peace with her healing regimen, and the best news of all is, she is responding well to this protocol. Recent test results indicate dramatic improvement, she's gaining strength, and her complexion is healthy and radiant. She's listening to her intuition, and her intuition is leading her to healing.

While I have not had to contend with a cancer diagnosis, let alone two, I have had to contend with some serious obstacles.  Long before I learned about the benefits of mantra and practiced japa on the daily, I grew up in a home with a severely mentally ill mother and an emotionally unavailable step-father. Growing up in this environment was certainly not easy.  Even after practicing japa for several years, I'm not immune to suffering. However, the practice has helped me navigate my way through life's challenges.

Mantra recitations have helped give me the courage to leave a toxic, narcissistic employer; it helped me find steadiness during periods of financial uncertainty; it helped me remain calm in the face of fear, hopelessness, and anxiety; it  helped me stand strong when I needed to set boundaries and assert myself; and it continues to help me offer kindness, compassion, and forgiveness to those who may be unkind, cruel or harsh in the midst of their own suffering.

Japa is not a panacea, by any means, but it is a powerful tool for healing. The seeds of our healing and potential for growth are ultimately internal, and it's up to each of us to cultivate them, whether it's honoring our intuition, making wise nutritional choices, or choosing to meditate every day. Healing can't fully bloom, however, without the loving support of others. Community, too, is essential to our healing and growth as well.

Interested in starting your own japa practice to help you navigate and manage life's challenges? The Middle Moon Malas collection offers several beautiful designs. Or, contact us for a custom mala design.

T

Rest, Relax, and Abide: Finding Confidence and Courage on Retreat September 20, 2019 16:50

I'm not big on traveling. I like to travel occasionally, but I really have to be motivated, especially if it's a solo adventure. Crowded airports are stressful for me, and I'm not the greatest with directions, so I get turned around and lost very easily. 

Recently, I had an opportunity to attend a retreat and hear Her Eminence Jetsun Khandro Rinpoche teach at her Lotus Garden Retreat Center in Stanley, VA. I listen to her teachings and interviews online, and I have read her book, This Precious Life, so when I heard about this retreat, I was really motivated to go and hear her teach in person. The first step in dealing with any plan, obstacle, or challenge, is generating and maintaining the right motivation. Check!

Since the closest airport to Lotus Garden was two hours away, I decided the best option was to drive. I've taken shorter trips by myself before, but this was a ten-hour trip spanning four states. Needless to say, this was a big leap for me, and one well beyond my comfort zone.

After printing out directions, checking with my insurance to make sure I had roadside assistance, packing up the car, setting the GPS on my phone, I was ready to go. I even had a conversation with my teacher, Geshe Kunga, to let him know I was leaving. He was kind enough to give me an amulet to keep with me on my trip, instructed me to chant the Green Tara mantra, and said he would offer prayers of protection as well. Preparation and much-needed Support! Check and Check!

I chanted mantra the entire time I was on the road headed to Mindrolling Lotus Garden Retreat Center. Alternating between the 100-syllable Vajrasattva and the Green Tara mantra, I recited, in part, to help me stay focused, but more importantly, to manage my anxieties and fears of getting lost (which is ridiculously easy for me), breaking down, or getting run off the road by a runaway semi.

Chanting mantra helped me stay grounded, rooted in the present moment, and it added a welcome element of familiarity to a long journey full of change and unfamiliar landscapes. In short, mantra practice brought me safely to Lotus Garden.

It also served me throughout the retreat as well--from daily morning and evening prayers in the shrine room with the other retreatants to personal practice time in between teachings. I thoroughly enjoyed chanting quietly as I walked around the large lotus pond and along threadline paths that had gorgeous views of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

As the week progressed, I could sense my own confidence level increasing, as well as my ability to simply rest and be in the moment. One of my favorite meditation sessions was outdoors. Each retreatant (150 in all) was given a small tent to pitch along the grounds. Once our tents were ready, we were given a sack dinner, a chair, and instructions to meditate for three hours. The instructions were as follows: to simply relax, abide, and allow for the duration of the session.

Our session began in the late afternoon and ended in early evening. I pushed the chair out of my tent and lay on the ground in constructive rest pose. A somatic meditation approach was exactly what I needed to remain grounded and aware of everything shifting around me: 

patterns of light and shadow on the mountains

clouds drifting, gathering, and dispersing

a large spider busily spinning a web at the apex of of my tent

bird song shifting to chirping crickets

daylight easing into darkness

intermittent sneezes, coughs, the rustling of sandwich wrappers

and eventually, the sound of tent zippers, shoes on stiff grass and gravel as we made our way back to our rooms by flashlight

Over the course of the week, I noticed that my confidence and courage had increased dramatically, and my tendency to worry had diminished. Rinpoche's teachings surpassed my expectations. She was incredibly detailed, clear, and insightful. I enjoyed connecting with other practitioners as well. Even though the Mindrolling lineage was new to me, we had more commonalities than differences. I also enjoyed being able to take the time to improve my own practice in a fresh, unfamiliar environment.

I enjoyed my stay, and by the end of the week, I was eager to make my way home. Cell phone service was very spotty in this isolated area, so I had to rely on my printed instructions to lead me back to the highway. Ordinarily, this would be a cause for major concern, but I had the motivation, confidence, curiosity, and courage to find my way without worry or unnecessary anxiety (and I didn't get lost).

I also enjoyed the trip home, more confident in my independence and in my ability to navigate change: to rest--to relax--and to abide in this journey, and in all future adventures to come.