Two days ago, out of the blue, someone who I really respect (but had never met) called to say he thought my work was awesome, that I was a “rock star,” and basically he just really appreciated my work.

Amazing. Ridiculously cool. So affirming.

My response?

He must be psycho. That didn’t just happen.

Then I burst into tears and took a nap.

Self-doubt is vicious. It amplifies when I get closer to what I long for—in this case, simply to be seen, and not just for anything, but for that which I hold most dear: my creative work. Why?!

Well, I have no idea. But when I slowed down (more easily accomplished after crying and napping), I saw that rather than being in the realm of the impossible, my self-doubt was actually a sign that I had entered the realm of the possible. In this moment, things are unfolding. No more thought. Time to just swim. Although it’s scary in one sense, in another, it is actually something cool.

So from now on, as my self-doubt ramps up, I’m going to reclassify it from “perhaps I suck” to “perhaps I’m experiencing a moment of fruition.” You try it, too. Please report back and know that I’ll be thinking of you and hoping that you can meet your longing head-on, hold your self-doubt as a sign of self-cherishing, and, most especially, when you see others in the grip of that particular fear, that your heart will open without any thought at all.

Looked at this way, you could actually enter into your own longing and find it to be a place of joy rather than one of grasping, a source of vitality rather than, well, a reason to nap.

I’ve spent a lot of time in my life trying to force myself to do things. Really good things. Things that are important to me. Things like meditating, journaling, going to the gym, and so on. I set schedules over and over. (I will rise at 5. Meditate, 530-630. Journal 630-730. Breakfast 8-9, and so on.) I fail way more than I succeed, which makes me really, really upset. I get angrier and angrier at myself, curse my lack of discipline, shame myself for watching Battlestar Galactica (again) instead of writing, delve into my psychology hoping to unearth the seeds of this self-sabotage. It spirals out of control until I either give in to lying on the couch or somehow manage to squeeze in a day of discipline according to schedule, whereupon I exhale a half-sigh of relief and immediately begin bullying myself to repeat this tomorrow. IT SUCKS.

Yesterday, I finally realized that this method would never, ever work. I was shocked. But it never, ever has. I’ve been after myself on this score for, what, like ten years? Had it ever worked once in that time, I asked myself. No! I said immediately.

Now what?

I knew I had to give up trying to be disciplined in any conventional sense. It doesn’t work. And since the definition of suffering is trying the same thing over and over, expecting a different result, I had to put myself out of my misery.

Right away, fear swept through me. If I’m not vigilant about making myself do stuff, I won’ do anything. And my commitment to meditate is critical on every level. Every writing book on earth says you must work at the same time every day, or words will never come. “Inspiration is for amateurs,” says painter Chuck Close. “The rest of us just show up and get to work…” I want to be like Chuck! There has to be another path to spiritual and creative discipline…what could it be?

The answer I came up with? Pleasure. Pleasure! The last thing I usually think of when planning my day. Once I get all my work out of the way, maybe I can do something fun or satisfying or just cuz. I never do stuff just to have fun. Never. I am so not built like that. However…among the most pleasurable things in my life are the things I’m committed to doing: spiritual practice and writing. I love those things! I remembered that they make me happy. Maybe I could just jump into them for their own sake, for the joy of doing them rather than the obligation and it’s possible the whole thing will roll out just fine. Once I remembered that my motivation is routed in genuine curiosity and that my tasks are in complete alignment with who I am and want to be, my office suddenly seemed like a playground rather than a labor camp.

So I didn’t schedule myself at all. Instead, I asked myself, what do I feel like doing? What would be fun for me? Write? OK. What is fun about writing? Oh, it’s so cool when it just starts to flow and plus I really enjoy thinking about things like dharma and love and creativity simply for the sake of doing so. So start there. When you’re done, ask yourself what would be fun to do next.

And I did. And you know what? I did all the things I yell at myself to do. My day looked pretty much exactly like my days do when I succeed in being “disciplined.” Only this time, it seemed effortless. I had such a light heart.

So, yes, discipline is critical, just like all the teachers say. And there is definitely stuff that needs doing that is just never going to be fun like paying bills and cleaning the cat box. But I suggest that instead of being disciplined about hating on yourself to get things done, try being disciplined about remaining close to what brings you joy. It takes a lot of courage, actually. See what happens. Let me know!

How do you know if you’re Buddhist?

I knew I was a Buddhist the moment I read a book by Chogyam Trungpa called The Heart of the Buddha. This is how I already think, only I didn’t know it, I said to myself. I must be a Buddhist. From that moment, the fates conspired to place me firmly on the path. I began to practice in the Shambhala Buddhist lineage, found an amazing meditation instructor, and immediately saw my life begin to change, even out, take shape. Rarely has anything in my life been so clear-cut.

After about six months of practice, I asked my meditation teacher what steps one takes to formally become a Buddhist. He told me that it’s called “taking refuge” in these three things: The Buddha (the enlightened one, but also in the fact of enlightened mind in everyone, including yourself); the dharma (the teachings—which range from the sutras, tantras, and their commentaries to any and everything that teaches you), and the sangha (or community—of fellow practitioners certainly, but also, as I understood him, in the community of fellow humans seeking happiness on planet earth. Or wherever.) His explanation was really good and encouraged me further. I wanted to do those things. Also, when he said the phrase, “take refuge,” I started to cry. I longed for refuge in this crazy world and none of the traditional options seemed viable, things like career, relationships, money, knowledge, do-gooding, and what have you.

I want to do it, I told him, but how do I know that I’m ready? I didn’t want to take this step in a half-assed way. (I mean, I’m the person who, when thinking about getting married, wrote a whole book called The Hard Questions: 100 Essential Questions to Ask Before You Say “I Do.” Romance shromance. I’m anti-making lifelong commitments on the fly.) My meditation instructor said, “you know you’re ready when becoming a Buddhist is simply a recognition of something that has already happened.” Genius. (And not a bad benchmark when it comes to marriage and marriage-like commitments, I might add.) I knew that it had, and so I took refuge on March 10, 1995. It was definitely one of the most moving days of my life.

Now, in addition to practicing it, I write about being a student of Buddhism. Sometimes people muse to me about their connection to it. (It’s not like I’m an expert in telling Buddhists from non-Buddhists or go around saying things like, yeah, you probably are, but you—no way. Ha! For one thing, I have no idea. For another, you could make a very real argument that there is no such thing as “a Buddhist” anyway.)

Many, many people are deeply touched by the dharma and have a profound ability to naturally understand it. You know who you are. It takes up residence in your mind and moments of recognition ding repeatedly, whether on the spot or two years later. You simply notice that your mindstream and the dharma flow together easily, surprisingly, terrifyingly, joyfully, and so on. What a person does from that point forward is utterly individual. Some people, like myself, benefit enormously from a traditional, proscribed path. I’m already spacey and self centered enough. A path grounds me within and without and I’m grateful for it. Others, though, may be too rules-based and the strictures of a traditional path could provide perfect hiding places for ego. Maybe they should throw off all rules and figure it out on their own. Ultimately, we all do a combination of these two—learning from masters and figuring it out on our own, making a personal connection with the dharma over and over, hopefully until the end of our lives.

Into this very creative space of figuring it out for yourself can creep all sorts of distractions, otherwise known as spiritual materialism: Looking, not at reality, but at ways to blur reality by using spiritual tactics. The phrase was coined by Chogyam Trungpa. (To learn more, check Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism.) It’s so easy to think you’re a Buddhist and that it means something conventionally comprehensible and/or offers you something to cling to as a way of escaping the sorrows of samsara. Which would be awesome, but oh well, it’s not.

How to know if you’re a spiritual seeker or materialist?  Some thoughts:

First, think that you are probably definitely both and that taking a fresh look at this question every day (or more) is a very helpful thing to do.

Second, and this is the failsafe, if you can, find a genuine master and study as hard as you can with him or her. I definitely believe in this way; the guru is the root of blessings. Personally, I have found this to be true.

Third, have complete confidence that you can figure it all out. You can. You are the only one who can. On some level, the most realistic level, you already have. You possess Buddhanature right now. Therefore, you can have confidence.

For each of us, the way will be utterly unique—if not the path itself, then the way it is arrived at. There are no guarantees and we have to keep figuring it out until and beyond the day we die. But if along your path, the only thing deepening more rapidly than your capacity for love is your confusion, if what you are learning convinces you more and more that you actually don’t know anything, and if your sense of humor is completely intact, then you’re probably on the right track. Perhaps you are “a Buddhist.” Maybe not. In any and all cases, I hope our paths will cross.

Perfect advice from 16-year old reincarnation of Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche.

“…If your mind is going all day, I must tell you frankly that is not something you should be worried or upset (about), because that really happens all the time.”

“The more often you listen to your discriminating awareness, the more easily you will be able to change your negative moods yourself, see through them, and even laugh at them for the absurd dramas and ridiculous illusions that they are.

Gradually you will find yourself able to free yourself more and more quickly from the dark emotions that have ruled your life, and this ability to do so is the greatest miracle of all.

The Tibetan mystic, Tertön Sogyal, said that he was not really impressed by someone who could turn the floor into the ceiling or fire into water. A real miracle, he said, was if someone could liberate just one negative emotion.”

Since The Wisdom of a Broken Heart came out, I’ve had the honor of speaking with many people who are meeting this incredibly difficult life passage with courage and tenderness. We talk about the endless waves of grief, fear, and rage and how one could possibly weather them. We talk about the valuable, hard-won heart opening that can arise. And invariably, we touch on the possibility of loving again. Many believe they will never be able to do so and, if the possibility arose, would never, ever be able to trust it. When you know love can be lost at any time, how on earth could you try it again?! I’ve heard this question time and again. And time and again, I’ve sat down at my desk to see if I have anything useful to say because I really, really want to help. I’ve probably made a dozen false starts, trying to come at the question from all sorts of angles. Frankly, I did not come up with one thing worth saying.

Today I told myself I was going to sit in front of the computer until I could figure out what to say—because I know that it is possible to open to love again, even if your heart has been broken under the most egregious circumstances (which usually involve some kind of betrayal). It happens everyday. It happened to me. I’ve studied Buddhist teachings on compassion and wisdom and have every confidence they can teach you how. So why haven’t I been able to put something together?

Here’s why. All this time, I have been trying to figure out some kind of advice for how to leave your broken heart behind in order to enter a new relationship with confidence.

For better or worse, those two things—a broken heart and having confidence in love—are actually interdependent.

When most of say we’re looking for love, we really mean we’re looking for safety. When your heart has been broken, you realize that love can never be made safe and, in fact, efforts to make it so are related more to self-protection than opening yourself to the unpredictable, impossible-to-mandate waves of passion, confusion, joy, and disappointment that accompany love. To love, you have to be receptive, vulnerable. In fact, it is through vulnerability alone that we come by true love. So in one sense, when your heart is broken, you are ahead of the game. It makes you permanently vulnerable and thus is actually teaching you how to love. You learn how deep your longing for love is, and how much you have to give. You realize that love is by far the most important thing in your life. Your heart is not just broken, it is broken open and so you feel everything—your own joys and sorrows, but also other’s, unquestioningly. These attributes make you uniquely, outrageously suited to love—if you can learn to stabilize your heart in this state of openness. The traditional practice of loving kindness teaches you exactly how to do this. Please try it and see how it works for you. It is the balm that soothes all wounds.

Plus, there is one thing that makes it absolutely certain that you will be able to open to love again. That thing is love itself. When it comes to you, from you, through you, it is unmistakable. It chooses you, you don’t choose it and, like it or not, you open, unquestioningly. Of course, there is no telling how it will all turn out (there never, ever is), but when love is present, it quells outer, inner, and secret obstacles and you are reminded that your heart is absolutely indestructible. Over and over, it can refill with love on the spot. It never forgets how to do this. Love is the rising tide that lifts all boats, those of despair and those of shame, of rage, of terror, and of longing—to cast them once again upon the waves, heading who knows where, you and your beloved along for the ride. This is how it works. I have no idea why..

So definitely do your work: Explore the nature of your wounds. Develop methods of extreme self-care. Extend the hand of kindness to yourself as you work though these overwhelming emotions. Please do this for yourself. And as you do, don’t worry about how you’re ever going to open to love again. Love itself will do the work for you.

In the meantime, here’s what you can do to help: Relax. Relaxing here means stepping off the self-improvement treadmill and, instead of trying to change yourself, allowing your feelings to be just as they are without attaching a narrative to them. Make room for them and what you now consider as obstacles will reveal themselves simply as facets of wisdom. The practice of meditation is exactly this act.

I created a special version of The Practice of Tranquility (the practice suggested in my book), for those times when you feel that your heartbreak will never end and you are intolerably fragile..

And here is a good rule of thumb. When in doubt, sorrow, or despair: do less. Over and over, accept yourself on the spot. From this gesture of gentleness, great space opens and your deepest wisdom arises to guide you. This is guaranteed.

Writers’ retreat participants talk about the retreat experience:

Have I mentioned how much I love to teach writers’ retreats?! It is like my favorite thing to do. For the following reasons.

1. I get to help people say the stuff they’d like to say.
2. I get to teach meditation.
3. I hear and see writing take shape.
4. I get to write, too.

You may be thinking: OK, awesome, great, sounds cool. For you. What about me? Perhaps I have no talent. I might be intimidated by all the “real” writers. I have never been to a meditation retreat center and it might be creepy. I could be the worst writer there, or in the world.

What do you say to me?

Writers’ Retreat FAQ
How long is the retreat?
They are usually about 7 days long. You could come for the whole thing, or just the weekend. You could come for the weekend, change your mind, and stay for the whole thing!

I’m not “a writer.” Can I still come?
Ahem. Yes. The retreat is for anyone who wants to write, anyone. Attendees have included:

• People who have never written anything–ever
• People who like to journal and want to spend the whole retreat journaling
• People who like to journal but might like to try another kind of writing
• People who have no experience writing, but have a story they’d like to get down on paper for a variety of reasons
• Writers who want to begin a new project
• Writers who crave the time and space to let their writing unfold
• Writers on deadlines
• Published writers
• Unpublished writers
• Poets
• Songwriters
• Screenplay writers
• Essayists
• Business writers
• Memoirists
• Novelists
• Self-help writers
• And word lovers of every ilk

All are welcome. The retreat environment can support any kind of writing, as far as I can tell.

Do I have to share my work?!?!? Cause if I do, I’m not coming.
No, of course not. However, we gather in the evenings to hear 2 or 3 people read an excerpt of something they’re working on so that we can give them feedback. I bet a million bucks that once you see how it goes, you’ll totally want to share something. But you never, ever have to.

Here are the rules of engagement:

The writer can read anything he or she wants–something written that day, 10 years ago, 2 weeks ago. It can be a finished piece, a work in progress, or a mish-mash of sentences that may be something, maybe not. The piece can be up to 2000 words long.

After the writer reads his or her work, he or she is silent during the ensuing discussion. We don’t call the person by name, but refer to him or her as “the writer.” We pretend the person isn’t in the room, giving them a chance to be a fly on the wall for the conversation.

When the conversation is done, the writer is invited to request clarification or respond however he or she would like.

We are not reading as literary critics, but as readers. We don’t comment on structure, grammar, spelling, or form–unless the writer specifically requests. Instead, we answer such questions as:

What does it feel like to hear this work?
How would we describe this writer’s voice?
Where do we imagine the piece might go from here? (If applicable.)
Where did the piece really touch us, and where did we become confused?

And the like. In other words, we are letting the writer in on what it feels like to be a reader of this work, as mentioned. Most people dread this part of the retreat, but end up thinking it was the best part. I’m not saying you would feel that way, just reporting the facts.

How much meditation is involved? What if I’ve never meditated before?
We meditate for short periods throughout the day. I give thorough instruction and attendees have ranged from long-time meditation practitioners to those who have never, ever tried it.

What is the daily schedule?
Something like this:
9-10 Meditation and journaling
10-1230 Personal writing time
1230-230 Lunch, break
230-3 Meditation
3-500 Personal writing time
500-530 Tea break
530-6 Discussion
6-730 Dinner, break
730-9 Hear each other’s work

Every day is exactly the same schedule. This allows you to sink into the pace and really relax into your work.

I notice you teach at Buddhist retreat centers. Will I have to do Buddhist things (like chant, sit in full lotus, be recruited into the dharma or subjected to any creepy cultish vibes)?
I am a Buddhist and I teach at the places where I have gone most to practice and study. But no one has to do, say, think, or be anything religious in any way, shape, or form. Our meditation practice is a basic breath-awareness practice and involves no idolatry of any kind.

Is it OK if I sign up but sort of make up my own schedule while I’m there? I may want to write at different times, go on some hikes, or catch up on my sleep.
In this case, you should sign up for a personal retreat. I don’t want to sound bossy or mean, but this program is scheduled very particularly to relax the mind, enhance creativity, and help you meet your own voice. It is important to hold to the schedule so that each and all of us can find our groove. If people pop in and out at will, the vibe goes flat.

Is there time to do other stuff while I’m there?
Yes, during the afternoon there is a 2-hour break and that can be a good time to hike, nap, read, dilly dally about.

When and where are you teaching these fantastic retreats?
I’m so glad you asked. I’m only teaching a few more in 2010:
Oct 15 – 22
BARNET, VT
AUTHENTIC INSPIRATION: A RETREAT FOR WRITERS
$675
Karme Choling Shambhala Meditation Center

Oct 29 – 31
RED FEATHER LAKES, CO
AUTHENTIC INSPIRATION: A WEEKEND RETREAT FOR WRITERS
$325 -$605, depending on lodging
Shambhala Mountain Center

Oct 29 – Nov 4
RED FEATHER LAKES, CO
AUTHENTIC INSPIRATION: A 6-DAY RETREAT FOR WRITERS
$710 -$1505, depending on lodging
Shambhala Mountain Center

You didn’t answer the most important question.
Uh-oh. Definitely email me and I’ll answer it.

Seriously, check out the awesome participants in the video (from the most recent writers’ retreat at Shambhala Mountain Center in the Colorado Rockies).

I recently spoke with Ronna Detrick of RENEGADEconversations. Ronna hosts a members-only, online forum for women called A CONVERSATIONAL SPACE. Included in that space are monthly MP3s of Ronna’s conversation with women from all over the world. And this month it’s me. The MP3 of our conversation is usually exclusve to her site-members only, but by clicking here you can listen in. Enjoy!

Among the many difficulties that come with a breakup, the worst may be when the person who broke up with you will not discuss it and may even cut off contact altogether. I have one friend who was talking about marriage one day, and the next, literally, could not get her to take his calls. Eventually, he got a letter saying it was over and she refused to talk to him ever again. What the?! Or one person thinks everything is fine when, out of the blue, her partner comes home, says it’s over, she’s moving out, and does not want to talk about it. I get emails from people who have been broken up with by email, text, and, in Sex and the City style, by post-it. This is not an urban legend. It really happens.

When the break up is communicated in one of these ways, you can be sure the person breaking up is not interested in much more conversation. No one knows why.

When someone leaves you like this, you are simply—and understandably—in shock. It just feels impossibly stressful and anxiety producing. You think you are now stuck with a gaping wound that will never close because the only way to close it is to hash it out in relationship.  And that’s not an option.

You’ll have to figure out a way to create closure on your own.

I can suggest a particular journaling exercise that may help. I offer it during Wisdom of a Broken Heart workshops and it is also presented in the book. It sounds deceptively simple, but for many has been a healing experience. See if it works for you. If you try it out, I would of course love to hear about your experience.

The exercise is to tell the story of your relationship in 3 parts. The first part covers the period from when you met until your relationship took its form. The second part is about the duration of the relationship, up until the time it started to fray. The third part starts when you began to breakup and ends in the present moment.

I’ll suggest a sentence to begin with and a sentence to end with for each part. Whatever you write in between those two sentences is up to you.

You will be writing this story in the 3^rd person. So instead of writing “I met him on a Monday,” you’d write, “She met him  on a Monday.” Instead of saying “he first noticed her at the gym,” you’d say “they first noticed each other at the gym” or “Bill first noticed Emma at the gym.” You get the idea. You view yourself and everyone else in your story as characters and, as with characters, you can describe them in any way you like, attribute to them the qualities you think are relevant, and put dialog in their mouths as befits your story.

You can write it any way that you like—as a short story, poem, or, if you’re feeling wildly creative, a screenplay. If you hate to write, you can write it in bullet points.

I suggest doing this exercise in three different periods lasting ninety minutes to two hours each. Whether over the weekend or on three successive nights, let there be time in between writing sessions, at least a few hours. Take your time and let it unfold. You never have to share this work with anyone, so look deep and be honest. Start at the appointed time and—very important—stop at the appointed time. Contain your writing periods cleanly.

Before beginning each writing session, sit quietly for a few moments. Maybe light a candle, place some fresh flowers on your writing table, pour yourself a glass of wine, or make yourself a delicious cup of tea or coffee. Make it special. After you’ve settled your mind down a bit, make the aspiration that this writing session help create healing for all involved, especially yourself. At the end, sit quietly for a few moments and, again, offer your words up to be used for healing, somehow, in some way, starting now.

If you have any questions about the instructions for this exercise, please ask in comments and I’ll respond.

The first sentence of the first writing period is: “They met like this.” The last sentence is: “That’s when s/he knew they were in a relationship.” As mentioned, feel free to tweak those sentences to suit your story. It’s rare that a story is that black and white, but do your best to cover the period between the time you first encountered this person and the time your relationship took a particular form, whether it lasted one night or 32 years.

The first sentence of the second writing period is: “S/he knew s/he was in love (or hooked or connected) when_____. “ The last sentence is: “That’s when s/he knew something was going wrong.” Again, just fill in between these two sentences as best you can.

The first sentence of the third writing period is: “It dawned on her/him that this was really ending when_____.” End with this sentence: “That’s when s/he knew that the relationship in its current form was over.”

When you are done writing, walk away from the exercise. Do something else–read, sob, walk, cook, sleep. Let it lie there for awhile. Then, if you’re moved to, journal (and/or post below) about what you saw, learned, felt, as you did this exercise, if anything. In my programs, I suggest finishing by doing Loving Kindness practice (instruction here)  for yourself and the one who broke your heart.

It’s my sincere hope that by doing these exercises, you’ll take on the task of creating closure on your own and emerge on other side, whole and at peace.  This is a very brave and difficult undertaking and I wish you all the strength and softness you’ll need. xoxoS

Recently appeared in Huffington Post…

By now, many of us have heard of the extraordinary, scientifically proven health benefits of meditation. It relieves stress (by lowering cortisol), improves focus and memory (by raising the level of gamma waves), prevents relapse into depression by 50 percent (according to studies by Jon Kabat-Zinn, M.D. and Zindel Segal, Ph.D.), boosts immunity (in one study, meditators demonstrated higher levels of antibodies than non-meditators in reaction to a vaccination), and actually makes you demonstrably happier (by reducing activation in the amygdala and increasing it in the prefrontal cortex).

My friend Jonathan Foust says if it were a drug, meditation would be heralded as the miracle of the century.

So, you might think to yourself, those are fantastic reasons to meditate. Well, actually–no.

Ahem, you might then ask, If I’m not supposed to meditate to feel better, why on earth would I do it?

I was hoping you’d ask that. I definitely have an answer for you. In fact, I have three. But do NOT take my word for it. Test it all out for yourself. This is very important. (And let me know what happens!)

1. Meditation makes you like yourself more and you stop acting so crazy/terrified/confused.*

When you practice meditation (defined as taking as the object of your attention something other than thought–like a sound, image, or, as I teach in a practice called The Practice of Tranquility, the breath), you don’t stop thinking. Thinking just goes on and on.

Instead, you take a different attitude to your thoughts, which is simply to allow them to be as they are. As you do so, you get to know yourself in a whole new way. You see how your mind works and what affects you. You see that the smell of toast makes you indescribably happy, you think way too much about your hairstyle, and that every time the phone rings, you get adrenaline in your stomach. You didn’t know these things about yourself and, when you stop judging yourself (as meditation teaches), you begin to see yourself as someone rather wonderful–sensitive, vulnerable, strong, quirky and incredibly well-intentioned. You have become your own best friend, one who happens to like you a lot and no matter what.

Thoughts are always trying to seduce you in one way or another–to get mad about something, crave something, avoid something, to become busier, less busy, and so on. In an untrained state, we always go along for the ride. But when you train your mind through the practice of meditation, you see that no matter how many thoughts arise that tell you to become furious or desirous or sleepy or frenzied, they all, eventually, always pass. No one thought is any more real than the others, although that’s hard to believe in the midst of an argument or loss. However, it’s true. There has never in recorded history been a thought that has not arisen, existed, and, ultimately, dissolved. Not one. So the next time you get completely freaked out about something, as a meditator you know that all you have to do is wait (sometimes a long time), and eventually that thought will pass. It’s not real. You don’t actually have to do anything about it, unless you want to–in which case, you could do so consciously.

This skill can come in really handy when you think you hate someone or that they might hate you, when you try to talk yourself into the belief that if only you had _______ (a million dollars, a diploma from MIT, JLo’s bootie) life would perfect, or when you fall prey to insane self-doubt. In every case, you see that your craziness is actually see-through and if you wait, it will definitely pass. With each moment you wait, you soften.

2. Meditation makes you like your fellow humans more. So much more, in fact, that it could lead to world peace. And I’m not exaggerating.

The practice of meditation has one particularly odd side effect. I did not anticipate this one and, as far as I can tell from my fellow practitioners and meditation students, no one else did either.

As it chips away at your concepts, stories and truths, meditation opens your heart. Why are these two things related? Because when you give up your story about yourself and about life, you are left with things as they are. Since you can’t take refuge in stories, you have no protection. You are basically raw. When you’re open, vulnerable and inquisitive, guess what happens? You feel everything. Your fellow humans cease to be puppets in your wee drama and instead become actual individuals with joys and sorrows, both of which you can feel. You see that everyone, everyone is as vulnerable as you are and is pretending that they are not. So your heart goes out to them, even the ones you think are jerks. You can no longer treat anyone as less than yourself. And what does our world need more than this? Um, nothing?

3. Meditation helps you see the magic of this world.

When you have a sense of gentleness toward yourself and the ability to love genuinely, something quite extraordinary happens. You relax. Whether things go well or poorly on any particular day you can deal with it because you know how to remain soft and open. This soft openness is no different than waking up to the present moment.

In the present moment, the natural wisdom, beauty, and bliss of your own mind and this world are apparent. Piercingly so. Almost unbearably so.** Profound wisdom in the form of awareness cuts through your concepts again and again. The simple act of meditation, of placing awareness on breath and, when it strays, bringing it back is exactly, precisely, utterly this act of wisdom. I’m getting a little carried away here, but I hope I’m making sense.

Have you ever wondered where that awareness comes from that says “hey you’re thinking–you’re supposed to be paying attention to your breath”? You’re wandering around in a sea of hope, fear, boredom, excitement, and so on when, out of nowhere, awareness cuts in to remind you of what you are supposed to be doing. Where does that come from?

Well, unfortunately I do not know, but I do know that this is the same place that creative inspiration comes from. So don’t be afraid of softness, openness, and the groundlessness that can accompany the giving up of concept. Instead, you could learn to fall again and again into the space of not knowing which turns out to be where love, compassion and omniscience reside. In the words of Tibetan meditation master Chogyam Trungpa, “The bad news is you’re falling through the air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is there’s no ground.”

And while you’re at it, please enjoy the lowering of cortisol and the increase of activity in the left prefrontal cortex and so on.

*My book, How Not to Be Afraid of Your Own Life is, even thought it may not sound like it, a book about meditation and goes into a bunch of detail on these topics.

**Someone once told me how Chogyam Trungpa answered a student who asked what bliss felt like. According to my friend, Trungpa Rinpoche paused a moment, looked at the student and said, “Well, to you it would probably feel like pain.” Hmmm.

He always said the most interesting things…