Lower your standards for happiness and there's more to be happy about

Our kids are very fortunate to be able to attend a camp in mountains called “Hickory Nut Gap Farm Camp”.  It’s like stepping back in time to 1910 or so, when the farmhouse there was built.  The kids spend their days riding horses; cuddling kittens, baby chicks, and old farmdogs; getting covered in clay during pottery time; eating their lunch in trees; and putting on plays.

And eating fat juicy blackberries right off the bush.

Today when I was picking them up at the end of the day, I paused a moment to pluck a blackberry for myself and pop it into my mouth.  Looking up at the clouds easing past the hills, feeling the sun on my skin, hearing the shouts of kids playing in the field, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of true happiness.

This was not a big moment, an exciting moment, a peak experience moment, a highly-anticipated moment.  I was not at Disney World, or at the ballgame, or getting an award for something.  I just popped a blackberry into my mouth.  Nothing special at all.

I love lowering the bar on what makes me happy, because then more things do.

Feel the fear and do it anyway

Courage is the ability to feel afraid and do it anyway.  But Courage helps us transcend more than just fear.  It helps us acknowledge excuses and limiting beliefs of all kinds – laziness, tiredness, doubt, self-pity, blame, confusion – and keep moving anyway.

Courage is not about denying our limiting beliefs or emotions.  It’s not about repressing our fears or pretending they don’t exist.  Quite the opposite.  The best way to handle fear is to acknowledge it.  Look it squarely in the face, extend your hand, and say, “Hello, my old friend Fear.  I see you’re there, and I’ll take care of you.”  Fear is like a crying child: it doesn’t help to pretend it’s not there.  You must go to her, comfort her, let her know you’re there and everything will be ok.

It’s the same with any of the thoughts or feelings that keep us stuck.  When you feel self-doubt (“Oh, who am I to do this?  I’m not good enough…”), just go to it like it was a crying child.  Say, “Self-doubt, I see you.  I know you’re there, and I know you’re in pain.  It will be ok: I’m here with you now.”

Then, do it anyway.  That’s the power of Courage.

Imagine the Courage streaming into you like sunlight into the tiny leaves of the first crocus of spring.  Feel the Courage warming the crocus within you, encouraging it to brave the cold, the snow, the perils of blooming.  The crocus knows it’s facing an uncertain and potentially hazardous period when it first pokes its head up through the earth.  But it feels the sunlight of Courage, and sprouts anyway.

You can do it, too.  You can sprout anyway.  You can look at your doubts, fears, confusion – smile at them like old friends – and do what you’re being called to do, anyway.

Choose to Be Courageous!

The gift of happiness . . . will you see it when it's offered?

All I wanted was a little peace and quiet.  A moment alone.   I longed for the kind of happiness that a little self-imposed solitude might bring.  And I had it all set up just as I had envisioned it:  A cup of tea in my hands. A novel (enthusiastically recommended by a friend) sitting temptingly on the coffee table just beside me.  The pillows on the couch supporting my back just so.  And music cued up on the stereo.  Something soft and dreamy with a sweet vocal accompaniment that sung of hope and light.

I settled myself in.  Just right.  It was just as I had imagined a happy moment might be.  I was totally prepared to be happy.  It was just one deep exhale away.

And then.  BANG!  The front door slammed open, sprang back from its own force and slammed shut twice as loudly.  “MOM!” four small voices exclaimed at once. Immediately my brows knit together and my shoulders flew up towards my ears. “Mom, look what we found!” Our children came tearing into the living room – a laughing, foot stamping, mud trampling crew, eyes ablaze with some new discovery.

I held up my hand at arm’s length, palm out, like a vigilant crossing guard. I frowned. The happy moment I had long envisioned was crumbling like so many dried mud clods. “Your shoes,” I admonished them, “Look at your shoes.” They looked down at their feet, shrugged, kicked off their shoes, and quickly moved toward me once again, smiling hopefully.  I shook my head and rubbed the two lines that were forming between my brows.  I strained to hear the lovely music playing on the stereo, but could barely detect it over the sound of my temples throbbing.  “Please put your shoes by the door before you take another step. Do you know how long it took me to clean this room up?”  They looked at one another, picked up their shoes and lumbered back toward the door.  But instead of placing their shoes down and tiptoeing back to me (as proper respect would demand), they sadly put their shoes back on and began to walk back out the door.

Now I was at the edge of fury.  Not only had my peace and happiness been utterly destroyed by this interruption, now they were going to walk out without even telling me what they had come in to tell me in the first place.  Could this get worse? “What?!” I asked, “What is it that is so important that you can’t even take the time to put your shoes by the door?  And is it that much to ask for a moment of peace?”

“Never mind,” said the youngest as he gingerly shut the door beside him.

I took a deep breath, trying to restore my calm.  But the moment had passed.  My nerves were frayed and the moment of calm, peaceful happiness I had envisioned had passed.  Oh, well – I thought dejectedly – I might as well get some reading in.  And as I reached for the novel on the coffee table, I saw it. The first flower of spring.  A daffodil.  A bright yellow flower, as hopeful as a child’s smile, sitting on the coffee table next to some fresh muddy fingerprints.

Happiness had come careening into my life like a wild and fresh spring rainstorm and I had shooed it away because of some stale, airless notion of happiness that I thought would shelter me from that very life-giving force.

How often does this happen to us?  Our idea of happiness blinds us to the real happiness that is holding out a flower to us?

We must take great care in our lives, that in pursuing the elusive butterfly of happiness, we do not trample the garden of happiness that is right under our feet.

Your Teacher is Always With You

Somewhere around the 5th grade, I became aware of bullies.  Or, rather, they became aware of me as a delightfully easy target for their aggressive self-expression.

My parents stepped in to help me out by signing me up for kung fu lessons.  Somehow my mom found a Babson College student named Mark Yee who was working his way through business school by teaching scrawny adolescents how to fight.  He started coming to our house weekly for lessons.

We started with the usual techniques for punching and kicking.  But he must have seen, at that early age, that I was more interested in the mystical side of the practice.  He taught me how to meditate, and guided me through some experiences which were, in retrospect, quite advanced.  We left our bodies and glided around the room like ghosts.  We closed our eyes and practiced defending against punches using just our 6th sense.  We felt the subtle movements of the qi energy ebbing and flowing in response to our motions.

At the time, I had no idea that he was training me in intermediate Jedi powers.  I just thought this was normal.  When a bully comes up to you demanding your lunch money, you wave your hands, Obi Wan Kenobi-style, and say, “This is not the lunch money you want,” and they back off slowly.  I never got quite to that point, but we did work on moving with zero effort, diving through colors, and smiling while fighting.  All this in my parents’ driveway, back yard, and living room.

I have no way of finding Mark Yee.  He has slipped away – dissolved into the sea of humanity like so much salt in the broth.  This man played a pivotal role in my adolescent spiritual development, and I have no way of getting in touch with him.  How many Mark Yee’s are there in the phone book?  Even the Internet can’t help reunite us.

I have no way of finding Mark Yee, yet he is not lost.  He might be anywhere on the planet – it has been 30 years since we last bowed good bye to each other – and yet he is as close to me as breathing.

Because I carry Mark Yee around with me.  I have no choice.  He’s a part of me now.  Were it not for Mark, I would not be the person I am right now.  If he didn’t exist, then I wouldn’t exist in the way I do now.  We are not entirely separate, because without Mark being Mark, James would not be James.

My left pinky is part of me, because I would not be the same if not for my left pinky.  In the same way, Mark is part of me, because I would not be the same if not for him and his teachings.

Who have been your most important teachers?  Maybe they are people you knew personally, like Mark Yee, or maybe they are the enlightened masters of the wisdom literature.

Take a moment and feel how they are with you right now.  You carry them with you everywhere you go.  They can always teach you, inspire you, and support you.

Your teacher is part of you.  Your teacher is always with you.

Blessings!

What makes your hands warm?

I love having warm hands.

The other day I was running around the block in the cold, and by the end of my very short jog, my hands had become nice and warm.  They had started out almost painfully icy, but after a few minutes of running, were red and toasty.

I also notice that when I meditate or relax deeply, my hands start off cold and get warm.  I think that’s about the relaxation response kicking in and allowing the blood to flow out to the skin, as opposed to keeping it in tight to the core muscles needed for fight or flight.  Whatever it is, it feels great.

And then there’s holding hands.  It only takes a few minutes of holding hands to warm right up.

Holding a cup of hot tea on a cold day.  Feeling the radiant heat of a crackling fire.  Patting a dog or cat.  All warm hands, all very nice, very healthy & healing.

So, I have this theory – do more things that make my hands warm.  Conversely, when my hands are cold, I can tell it’s time to relax, or take care of myself, or re-connect.  What makes your hands warm?

Just one more thing...

It’s sort of ironic, really, that in trying to get things done so I can freely move on to the next thing without worries — I end up moving into the next thing distracted and frenzied because I am running behind because I was trying to get things done so I wouldn’t be distracted and frenzied.

Odd how the desire to be “caught up” (as in getting-everything-crossed-off-the-to-do-list) in time leaves me feeling “caught up” (as in entangled) emotionally.

It leaves me with the question – what would happen if things were left undone?

What would happen if I paid more attention to my To Be List than my To Do List?

If you’re the same, you know the feeling of trying to cram in that one last to-do.  It can really ruin a vacation.  Or a date, or dinner with the family, or pretty much anything you wanted to enjoy.

Right now, think back to a time when you got wound up trying to check things off.  What was the To-Be that you were really wanting?  To be free?  To be relaxed?  To be peaceful?  Whatever it is, put it on your To Be list.  Think up a way to remind yourself next time you start getting wound up, “Remember, what I really want is to be peaceful.  This is not helping!  Instead, I choose to…”

May we all practice returning to our To Be List, and may it bring us what we really want, which lies beneath all our to-do’s!

This farmer woke up in the morning and wandered out to his field. He looked up to the sky and noticed how beautiful and clear the sky was.  He smiled to see that it was filled with light and how beautiful it looked as the clouds gently drifted in it.

The farmer looked down at his feet and saw the soil that he tilled.  The soil reminded him of the hard work that lay before him that day.  He kicked a rock and gazed back up at the beautiful sky.  How I wish the whole world were made up of just the light and beauty of the sky, he thought.  As he thought this the ground under his feet began to shift and opened up to reveal nothing but sky.  For a moment the view was breathtaking.  But his amazement soon turned to panic as he began to fall endlessly through the wide open sky he had wished for.

He realized quickly the mistake he had made.  Oh, how I wish the whole world were as solid as the soil that I till! he thought.  And as he said this, his feet landed firmly upon the ground.  He heaved a huge sigh of relief, but then the sky began to fill in with soil, and soon he found himself in a world that was constructed entirely of earth.  He was in a cave where no light could enter.

The farmer sat for a moment in the darkness and made one final wish.  He wished that he could be back at the moment where he began — with the rich earth under his feet and the open sky overhead.

And then the roof of the cave opened to reveal the sky.  And bathing in the light of that sky was the rich and fertile soil that he spent his days tending.

We should appreciate the ground that feeds the body as well as the light that feeds the spirit.

And as he stood in that place where he had begun this odd journey, he smiled to himself and thought: I am grateful to the earth for being the earth.  I am grateful to the sky for being the sky.

He realized that the ground could not be watered without the sky.  And no one could stand and appreciate the sky’s beauty were it not for the earth that sustains our bodies.  The sky and earth are interconnected within us.

Our inner lives are like the farmer in my dream.  We are children of both earth and sky.  We are body and spirit.  One does not exist without the other.  And we must appreciate each for the gifts it offers us.  If we wish for a life that is dominated by spirit, we will lose our grounding.  If we wish for a life that is mere physical survival, we will soon find ourselves living in a world bereft of light.

It is in the balance of these two aspects of our being that we find the richness and beauty of life.  We needn’t lose our grounding in of our daily lives to enjoy the light of our spiritual lives.  We needn’t lose sight of the broad vistas of spiritual beauty when we are engaged with the day to day work of being human.

Each of us is a farmer tilling the rich soil of our daily lives and we can at any moment stand in gratitude for all that grounds us and for all that brings light into our lives:

I am grateful to the earth for being the earth.

I am grateful to the sky for being the sky.

One day, when the boys were about 4 and 6, I peeked into their room to see my younger son working away happily, improvising a whimsical structure. Reaching into the bucket, he grabbed one tiny plastic brick after another, enjoying his creation as it grew and changed from a car to a robot to a space-age vehicle.  He turned his creation this way and that, smiled contentedly, and then continued to build.

The basic building blocks of happiness are always with you.

Our older son, noticing his brother’s happiness, eyed his younger sibling with envy and tried to make his own creation look just like his little brother’s.  Carefully observing the elements of his little brother’s structure, he began to rake his fingers desperately through the bucket, trying to find just the Legos that were in the magically morphing creation that was bringing his brother so much joy.

After several minutes of fruitless searching for precisely the same combination of Legos, he sat back on his heels and glared at this brother and the structure he was working on.  He was quite certain at that moment, observing his little brother’s happiness, that his brother must be in possession of some kind of magical Lego combination that was resulting in his joy. He begged his little brother for the Legos he was holding, but our younger son told him to look for his own.  That was the final straw. Our older boy burst into tears.

I stepped into the room and asked him what was wrong and why he had stopped building.  He pointed an accusing finger at our younger son and said, “He has the Lego I need.”

I was dumbstruck.  Here he was sitting next to thousands of Legos. He could have taken any one of those tiny bricks and begun his own creation.  But he wouldn’t.  He was quite certain that his brother had the Magical Lego of Happiness.

It seems silly to us as adults that a child would stubbornly insist that he was one Lego shy of happiness.  How ridiculous to lament the absence of one Lego when there were so many more available to him right at that moment. But we do precisely the same thing.  We look at other people we believe to be happy, and we believe that the things that they have are the key to their happiness.  If we could just have what they have, we too could be happy:

The magical shoes of happiness. The magical house of happiness. The magical job of happiness.  The magical romance of happiness. We are always one possession or one promotion or one relationship shy of happiness.  And like our son, we sit back on our heels and refuse to create our own happiness.  We are waiting for someone to hand us our happiness, when in fact we have the building blocks of happiness with us all along.

If our older son had stopped looking at what his little brother had, he would have realized that in that bucket of Legos were millions of possibilities to create something new and wonderful that could bring him great joy and pleasure.  But in fixating on what his brother had, he could not see the possibility to create something for himself.

If we only took a moment to look at the big bucket of building blocks in front of us — if we could find a way to appreciate the building blocks of happiness that we already have: our family, our friends, our health.  The blue sky, a warm wind, fresh flowers.  If we could see and appreciate how much we already have, we could begin to build our own happiness.

And that is where the real magic begins.

- Zen Master, Thich Nhat Hanh

It was a typical night after dinner. The meal was finished and conversations about the day began to trail off. Time to clean up.

Our four children cleared their plates. Then they rinsed and stacked their dishes in

Washing dishes can teach us to enjoy the moment.

the dishwasher.  As they made their way up to bed, I finished rinsing the last of the dishes, pots, and pans, distractedly thinking about my plans for the following day.

When the last dish was rinsed and stacked, I put the dishwashing detergent in the little detergent compartment, snapped its lid shut, closed the door to the dishwasher and listened for click that indicates the door is locked and the dishes are ready to run.

Then I pressed the start button.

Nothing.

I figured that I had probably not shut the door to the washer tightly enough.  So I opened the door and shut it again. Hard.

Pressed the button again.  Not a sound.

Then I did what any reasonable person would do.  I pressed the button repeatedly. Opened the door. Slammed it shut. And then mashed the button again as hard as I could.

Nada.

Taking a deep breath, I knew what I must do.  Something I hadn’t done in quite a while.  I filled the sink with soapy water and began to unload the dishes from the dishwasher and back into the sink.  Tomorrow, I thought as I angrily scrubbed each dish and glass, I will call someone to repair this blasted thing.

Well, it turned out that my work schedule was not so accommodating.  There just wasn’t a window of opportunity to pick up the phone that day.  So the day passed without a call to a repair technician and that evening I found myself back at the sink with soapy water and a sponge. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I will definitely call someone to repair this blasted thing.

The next day came and went. And the day after that. And the day after that.

And then something remarkable happened.  I began to enjoy washing the dishes. I liked the sound of the water running. I enjoyed the warmth of the water, the feel of the bubbles, the smoothness of the dishes under my hands.

You see, when the dishwasher was working, I was just rinsing the dishes so I could get the dishes into the machine.  So I could press the start button.  So I could get on with the next activity. Every part of the process was just a stepping stone to the next.  I was doing the dishes just to get the dishes over and done with.

But when the dishwasher broke, I learned to wash the dishes just to wash the dishes. I found that dish washing time is an opportunity to slow down and enjoy the moment. It’s a time to slow down my movements and enjoy sights, sounds, and sensations. I also found that it’s a good time for the family to be together. To work together. To enjoy one another’s company for a few more precious moments before the day comes to a close.

The dishwasher is still broken. I have no plans to call anyone to repair it. Someday I might just call the repair technician. Maybe.

But for now, it’s me, some lovely warm water, some delightful bubbles, and a pile of smooth, shiny dishes.  The dirty dishes have become my friends. My companions. And the dishes and  have a date to enjoy every night.

"Forget your troubles, c'mon, get happy!" Good advice?

Remember the Judy Garland song that goes,  “Forget your troubles, c’mon get happy”?

It’s a great tune if you want to get up and dance.  But as advice goes, it’s pretty lousy.

First of all, it’s scarce on details.  Forget your troubles? How does one even begin  to do such a thing? Our troubles are staring us right in the face. It’s like forgetting the elephant in the room.  Lost your job? Forget about it.  Sick children?  What do you care? Get happy!

And also, is forgetting your troubles really such a wise thing to do? Is it compassionate towards oneself or others to simply deny painful realities in order to feel good?  I can hardly imagine that walking up to someone who is facing foreclosure on their house and breaking into a tap dance would actually make them feel anything but bewildered and misunderstood.

So it’s no wonder that happiness sometimes happiness gets a bad rap.  It seems like a denial of some of the most painful realities of life.  We think that happiness is possible only in the absence of trouble.  Well if this were the case, then happiness is an impossibility and happy people are delusional dreamers at best.

But I want to propose that happiness does not require us to forget, deny, or glaze over our troubles with superficial sweetness.  Pain is a part of life.  All the same it is possible to be deeply happy, even in the midst of our troubles.

How is that so?

Four years ago, I had the profound experience of being with my father when he passed away.  My brother and his wife were with me at the time.  My father had been in a coma for two days.  His organs were failing, and one by one, his systems were shutting down.  All the same, we held his hands and stroked his forehead.  We spoke to him.  We told him how much we loved him.  How much we would miss him.  As we watched the heart monitor becoming more erratic, our tearful eyes met. We knew that we had just minutes left with him.  The attending nurses stopped in from time to time and put a hand gently on our shoulders and offered us kind reassurance that even though the passage was imminent, it would be peaceful and comfortable. And when the monitor finally showed a flat line, my brother and my sister-in-law and I held each other and wept.

Was this painful? Deeply. Was it joyful? Not at all.

Was I happy? Yes. I was happy.

I was happy to have the opportunity to be with my father in his final moments.  I was happy to be with my brother and my sister-in-law, who are both such loving individuals. I was happy to have people who were close to me who could support me through this painful separation from someone I loved so much.  I was happy that we were surrounded by such competent and compassionate professionals who could guide us through this difficult and mysterious process. I was happy for the ability to weep and to be consoled in the wake of my father’s passing.

Yes, I cried.  I cried until my eyes were swollen and I could barely catch my breath. But I also smiled.  In the midst of this trouble, there was so much to be grateful for.  There were so many gifts of the heart to give and to receive.  And to be alive and aware of the gifts we are given, even in the worst kind of troubles, that is reason to celebrate.  That is reason to be happy.

So, don’t forget your troubles.

But, c’mon . . . get happy.