When beginning a session with clients in my psychotherapy practice, I like to ring a hammered, brass Tibetan bowl I was gifted.  I’m not quite sure why I’m moved to do this.  Perhaps it symbolically marks the beginning of something sacred, a revealing of the heart and soul.

As I slowly press and circle the suede-covered stick around  the edge of the bowl, there’s initially only silence.  From the ethers, a faint sound arises.  The bowl has begun to sing.  With each swirl of the striking stick, sound builds and swells into a rich, reverberant tone, then peaks and fades away, like the haunting doppler sound of a train.

There is a lifetime in each ring of this bowl.

Sound emerging from silence, building in energy and form, fading back into stillness.  A birth, a death; a coming, a going.  Like the vibrancy and color of spring and summer inevitably fading into fall and the deep silence of winter.  We experience births and deaths every day; like breathing, it is the natural rhythm of life.

We celebrate with great joy and fanfare the various “births”—-a new baby, home, or promotion.  Thousands of dollars and months of planning are spent on celebrating holidays, marriages or batmitzvahs.

But where is the honoring of death, the necessary life endings and return to stillness?  The fading of a rose or a relationship, the sad or scary life transitions, the loss and letting go that mark the end of an identity or an era?

We are an extroverted culture addicted to action and progress.  We’re given months to plan for and celebrate a new job or home addition and only moments to grieve what’s been lost: a majestic tree cut down, a friend who moved away, a cancer diagnosis, the closing of a favorite local business.

When loss strikes close to home and the heart is aching, be kind.  Be gentle.  Honor the loss, even if it seems pitifully small.  Allow the sorrow, anger, tears.  Ring a bell.  Light a candle.  Call a friend.  Take a warm bath with soft lighting and music.  Write, sing, or dance your pain.  Notice the shock of “here one moment, gone the next” and the fear of silence or emptiness.

Perhaps you will notice moments of peace that come and go between grief waves, and a resting place within the emptiness of loss.  Perhaps you will discover that death, and life, are dance partners, folding into the sacred heart of the other, continuously blossoming and unraveling, inviting us into deeper connection with our soul.

In the last week, I’ve been moved by the many forms of grief expressed by my therapy clients:

–loss of a beloved animal companion

–sadness over ongoing wars in the world

–grief over being abused or abandoned as a child

–missing a friend, spouse, grandparent who has passed on

–sorrow and helplessness over climate change

During these heartrending, challenging times, our cup of grief may be overflowing; the heart is grieving what matters deeply to the soul. While it’s tempting to “be strong” or “move on”, pushing these feelings away dishonors ourselves as well as the beloved being we have lost. After all, we grieve because we care. Because this majestic tree, this dog, this sister mattered to us so much. “Grief is praise, it is the natural way the heart honors what it misses.” (Martin Prechtel).

Grieving has gravitas; it is weighty business. It brings us to our knees as we bravely face the power of our love and loss: rocking, wailing, sinking down to mother earth and offering her the nourishment of our tears.

As in birth, the grief process is holy ground. It is wet, messy, painful, yet sacred as a mysterious, intelligent force of life pours through our broken heart. We become frightened of the pain, wonder if we will survive, not realizing that “grief work offers us a trail leading back to the vitality that is our birthright.” (Francis Weller)

To follow our healing trail, we allow and breathe with the painful grief contractions as they arise. We write, cry, share, and dance our sorrow. Slowly but surely, the waters of loss carve us into deeper, wiser human beings, and glimmers of joy and gratitude begin to shine forth.

When my mother was dying, and my father and I were caring for her, it was Dad, surprisingly, who taught me how to “go with the flow” of tears.

I was in the kitchen, contentedly peeling carrots and chopping onions for soup, and he was vacuuming the stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the second floor. Suddenly I heard the canyon-splitting sound of sobbing, dropped the carrot peeler, and ran to see if Dad was OK.

There he was, sitting on a stair, head in his hands, bawling like his heart was cleaved in two. As sorrow shook this mighty man from head to toe, I felt deeply moved to see my Dad so open, so willing to feel his pain. He didn’t shove it away with apologies or embarrassment. It was raw and real, and he didn’t give a hoot who heard him. He was losing his soulmate, the woman he had been with for 60 years. His grief was great, an ache so deep his tears rang out like a love sonnet to his beloved.

After the storm of tears passed, the vacuum roared back to life, and Dad was back on his feet, sucking dog hair and dust off the carpeted stairs.

Like deja vu this scene repeated throughout the day. I’d hear distant sobbing, pause what I was doing, close my eyes, and hold space with empathy and compassion as he wept his way through the rooms of memory and a life shared.

Like the surfer who’s learned to flow with rather than fight the power of water, my father allowed the cleansing waves of sadness to come and go. After a wave passed through, he’d be up and tending to the endless caregiving tasks at hand.

He was bereft, and also “fine”—he could function, while simultaneously in the throes of inconsolable sorrow. He was vulnerable, and also resilient and strong.

Unbeknownst to me, my father would unexpectedly succumb to life-threatening illness nine years later. As I was tending to his end-of-life needs, waves of grief rolled in at the most inopportune times, catching me off guard.

When my first instinct was to dismiss or hide my feelings, there it was in living color—the image of Dad on those stairs nine years prior, vacuum blaring, head in his hands, bawling, honoring his tears and his love for my mother. Going with the flow.

So day after day, following his example, I took a deep breath, gathered courage, and with both hands, extended my heart to grief. Invited her to come in, to wash over me and like holy water, slowly baptize and transform me into a being of more maturity, depth and compassion for my loved ones and this astonishing, shimmering world.

Despite the negativity we see in the media, the goodness in people far outweighs the anger and division. Uplifting acts of love and kindness are offered by ordinary people, everywhere, every day. Here are just a few stories that have recently crossed my path:

• Someone leaving a note on a car, letting the driver know their tire was dangerously low.
• Paying for the movie ticket of the person behind them.
• Paying the tolls of drivers behind them.
• Leaving a note for a loved one, expressing appreciation for something they said or did.
• Leaving flower bouquet gifts on benches or the windshields of random strangers.
• Neighbors walking the dog of a friend who was ill or snow blowing the heavy slush at the end of their driveway.
• Paying for the groceries of the person standing behind them in line—just because.
• Leaving a hefty tip for the cook at a diner.
• Patients bringing gifts to a doctor to say thank you.
• Secretly paying off a lay-away item for a complete stranger.
• Simply saying hello to someone on the street who looks like a bit of kindness will do them well.

The possibilities are endless! Follow your heart and your inspiration—you can make a difference. Energy follows thought: we can literally shape the world around us through a shift in our thinking and intention. We may not be able to stop the war in the Middle East, but in this moment, right here, right now, within this unique situation, we can co-create the positive world we would prefer.

A few weeks ago, I learned this lesson several times over within a five-minute period.

It was just a day—nothing special. Or so I thought. It was a food shopping day (which I enjoy) and my basket was full to overflowing. The cashier rang me up and I headed out, juggling several bags as I opened the glass door with my back. As I completed my pas de deux with the door, I nearly stepped on her—a young homeless woman, sitting outside crosslegged on cardboard and shivering on the frozen ground.

“Hey how are you today!” she exclaimed when our eyes met.

“I’m great—and how are you? Are you hungry? They’ve got really good split pea with ham soup in there today.”

“Oh no thanks I just ate but look at this!” and joyously thrust her hands up toward me. They were encased in thick, cotton-white knit mittens. “A woman just came along and handed these to me, she got them right there, in the same store you just came out of. Brand new mittens! I can feel my fingers again! Here, look—they’re even lined inside.”

She took a mitten off, curled it back, and showed me the life-saving lining—the one that thanks to the kindness of a stranger, will now protect her from frost bite on ten-degree days.

“Awesome! I’m so glad your hands are warm! Where are you sleeping tonight?” I asked, glimpsing the sadness and fatigue beneath her warm, embracing personality.

“Oh that’s another cool thing—this guy who lives a couple blocks down, who owns some local buildings, said he’d let me sleep for free in an old empty warehouse he’s got right around the corner.”

“Oh wow that’s amazing!”

“Yeah I’ve been there a couple weeks now—I’ve got a lamp, a mattress, some blankets, a small heater and a few stray cats I feed that keep me company.” She grins and says “I mean they’re completely feral so it’s not like they keep me warm in bed or anything! I’m going to try to pay the landlord maybe $100 a month for letting me stay there—whaddya think?”

“Sounds good–that’s kind of you. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Marianne.”

“Hey, my name’s Mari-lyn!”

Amused over the similarity of our names, she quipped “Mari-anne, and Mari-lyn—I guess our meeting was meant to be!”

Suddenly a young man burst on the scene, yelled her name, shouted “It’s you, how are you, what do you need, I love you,” and swept her into a big hug. His mother (?) waited patiently close by as her son, wearing baggy sweatpants and a long pink Superman sweatshirt down below his knees, reunited with his friend.

When mother and son walked away, he wheeled around and yelled “I love you!” to Marianne.

Love, mittens, a safe, warm place to sleep…she was right. Our meeting was meant to be. As we parted ways I shook my head in wonder, grateful for meeting Mari-anne, and for a brief window of time, sharing a warm spot with her at the hearth of human kindness.

“Stillness is also inner peace, and that stillness and peace is the essence of your Being. It is inner stillness that will save and transform the world.”   Eckhart Tolle

Have you noticed how many people have been reeling from overwhelming challenges during 2023?  It’s remarkable, the degree of unprecedented change and upheaval people have been going through, including life transitions, unexpected loss of a beloved person or animal companion, a big move, illness, major work changes, and the impact of extreme weather events.

We might feel like we’re standing at the edge of the sea, just getting our footing, when WHAM—another wave topples us over.  How do we regain our footing, our sense of being securely anchored within the storm of life challenges?

How can we down-shift from a frazzled and freaked out human “doing”, to a calmer human “Being”?

I often invite clients to start small—to begin by simply slowing down, stopping, or sitting for a few minutes. Just noticing the light, the objects, the sounds in the room.

When we slow down, it’s easier to become mindful and notice symptoms of stress: heart racing, irritability, anxiety, rushing, fear, over-eating…these common symptoms let us know that something is out of balance and calling for our loving attention.

Placing one hand over the heart and one over the belly can also be a wonderful way to slow the heart rate, calm the vagus nerve, and soothe the over-activated nervous system.  It helps ground us in the present moment.

When we take a moment to step out of the relentless river of life and notice our thoughts, feelings, and body sensations, we wake up to the peacefulness of “right here, right now”.

Even if our emotions are running high, we can shift to watching them, rather than drowning in them.  We see it’s our negative thinking that is stressing us out, even more than the challenge itself. From this place—on the couch, in the car, or in the heat of a disagreement—we’re slowed down, empowered, at choice.

We can ask “OK what’s going on here?  What do I need right now in this situation?”  A gentle, authentic power within now grounds us in stillness and strength.

Example: It’s 7:30 am, the kids should be on the bus for school, but one has a fever, the other is still dawdling in the bathroom, and the cat just ran out the door.  Your mind goes crazy—“the kids are late for school, I’ll look like a bad parent, OMG does Aaron have COVID, will we all get COVID, I should have gotten them up earlier, where the @#$%*# did the cat go she’ll get hit by a car, I can’t handle this…!!!”  Triggered!  Nervous system completely dysregulated, thoughts spiraling into disaster scenarios.

Perfect time to get mindful, get still, right here, right now.  Anchor the feet to the floor. Breathe slowly, in to a count of five, out to a count of five.  Hand to heart and belly.  Invite  the kids to do this with you.  Or, you can slowly tap your upper arms in the butterfly hug, including the kids.  This will calm the fight/flight response and slow your thinking down.  Mirror neurons can work magic: as you calm and settle, your kids will calm and settle, too.

Now, your prefrontal cortex—the thinking brain—is on line.  First priority is safety.  Kids OK?  Yes.  Look out the door for the cat.  Oh, there’s Checkers, under the forsythia bush. Bring her in.  Next step is also clear—call the school.  One step at a time, from a calmer, more grounded place, you do the next thing that needs to be done.  There is more ease. You’ve found the calm center within the storm.

Have you ever noticed the deep stillness of a lush, fragrant forest?  Or the peacefulness of a twilight snowfall?  That same stillness can be found within; at our core it is the essence of who we are.  Over time, when we practice a form of meditation, mindfulness, or self-calming, our nervous system transforms.  We’re calmer and less triggered.  Courage and self-compassion arise.  Relationships improve.  Insights and glimmers of soul purpose peek though.  And an ineffable sense of Grace, of Presence, begins to shine from the very core of our being, welcoming us home.

As you sit here reading these words, you are breathing … stop for a moment and notice this breath.

You could control the breath, and make it behave as you like … or you can simply let yourself breathe.

There is peace in just letting your body breathe, without having to do anything about it.

Now imagine letting your hands breathe. Just let them be, without having to control them. Just let them breathe.

Now look around you, and notice what else is in the room with you. See each object, and let it breathe.

If there are any people in the room with you, in your building, or in nearby buildings or houses … see them in your mind and let them breathe.

When you let them breathe, you just let them be, exactly as they are. You don’t need to change them, don’t need to control them, don’t need to improve them. You just let them breathe, in peace, and you accept that. You might even smile at this breathing.

As you go through your day, let everything breathe. Let yourself breathe.

There is no need to do anything. You don’t expect anything from anything or anybody. Just let them come as they come, let them go as they go.

Just appreciate everything and everybody as they are, miracles of existence, breathing in the soft air of the world, and smile at this joyful manifestation of love.

_{Leo Babauta}