The list of forgetting

I'd forgotten all about this. And then something told me it was a good time to remember.

To study the Way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. –Dogen

Forget the story you tell yourself about your parents, the story you tell yourself about your childhood, the story you tell of your first love, the story of your first marriage, the story of pain and partings. Forget the birth story, the death story, the whole story, the story you keep repeating, the story you'll never forget. Forget that story, and do not replace it with another.

Forget what might have been and what could still be. The past is gone and the future will arrive on schedule.

Forget the time you ran away, the time you cheated, the time you got caught, the time you found out, the time you broke down, the time you picked yourself up, the time you were left high and dry, the time the milk spilled and the glass broke, the time you'll never forget. Forget time.

Forget your second thoughts, your second guesses, your second glances and second chances. Forget the count. No one knows the count and there is no way to count it.

Forget your worst fears and highest hopes. Forget all fears and hopes. Forget all worst and highest. Forget altogether the habit of make believe when reality is magic already.

Forget your leaps of logic and foregone conclusions. Nothing is ever foregone or concluded. Cover the ground where you stand. It's enough.

Forget what you thought.

Forget what you felt.

Forget what she said, what he said, and especially what she said. Do not mistake the word for the thing.

Now, open your eyes and do what needs to be done. Having forgotten all obstacles and limitations, all distractions and negations, there is nothing you do not know how to do. Surprise yourself.

You are a buddha.

Any questions?

How do you mother yourself?

You should study not only that you become a mother when your child is born, but also that you become a child –Dogen Zenji

One of my first readers, by my timid invitation, was a middle-aged single gay man who had no interest or experience in parenting but a keen eye for content.

"This is about parenting yourself, right?" he concluded after a quick flip through the pages.

I agreed as if I knew. As if that very insight had guided my hand.

But those aren't the kind of insights that illumine the daily life of a mother when the process is so totally involved with the continuous operation of a malfunctioning bundle, so wholly immersed in behavior management of a toddling monster.

We don't see our lives clearly when we live it as though it has an external object and outcome. Judging it as if it is a foregone conclusion or – what if? – a looming failure.

Yet how we mother our children can never be anything other than how we mother ourselves, because it is all one life. So my question is not how you parent the people you undoubtedly love the most, but rather, how do you mother yourself? Because there are not two ways.

Are you kind and forgiving?
Do you give yourself quiet attention?
Permission to play?
Discipline to work?
The confidence to do things by yourself?
Are you honest with yourself?
Do you encourage yourself to go outside?
To take a breath?
To try again?
To take risks?
To be silly?
Are you hurrying toward some imagined milestone?
Do you undermine yourself with constructive criticisms?
Are you undisturbed by your apparent lack of progress?
Are you tender, careful and trusting with yourself?
Do you comfort fears, or magnify them?
Do you nourish yourself?
Laugh at yourself?
Smile in greeting each day?
Do you abandon yourself to preoccupations with the past?
Do you make new friends and forgive the old?
Do you allow that the world is entirely your own and encourage self-mastery?
Do you sleep when tired and eat when hungry?
Take a bath and splash?
Do you let yourself rant and cry for no good reason and then coax yourself back into the familiar cushion of your very own lap?

Do you tell yourself you are a wonderful mother and a beautiful daughter? Then let me be the first, and not the last.

How do you mother yourself?

***

The winner of this giveaway is Melanie J. of Embers Lighthouse

Subscribe to my newsletter • Come to my retreat.

Keep the change

I just spent three days finding peace and presence. One afternoon while I was gone I called my husband to check in. He and Georgia were leaving Long Beach, where they had spent four hours touring the Aquarium and taken a long harbor cruise, a memorable first for both of them. Here's Georgia's on-the-spot report:

She: Mom, guess what?! I just found a dollar bill on the steps in front of me. And then I crossed the street and found a quarter!

Wherever you go, I hope you find $1.25 today, and keep the change. I hope I do too. Because it's not ever where you've been. It's where you are.

The squiggly wigglies

I'm off for a three-day retreat at my practice home starting tonight, because this silent spaciousness is where all stories begin and end.

Before I leave I want to share some recent inspiration.

First, the Shambhala Sun has reposted my piece on the Dharma of Barbie. Even after you think you've tossed her, the old girl never dies. And there's always a new generation of parents for her to haunt. If you scroll down to the end of the story, you'll see the announcement that I'll soon be launching a blog on their site named after the stuff that is always near to my heart. Once I sort the lights from the darks, we'll see what comes out of it. Leave a comment over there and let them know that I'm not just full of suds.

This column in the New Yorker snapped, crackled and popped my eyes open earlier this week. It's a fascinating look that could leave you wondering about how much you're willing to commit to yourself during troubling times.

Speaking of troubles, I was touched by this letter to fellow practitioners. Not just because the need is urgent and the time is now, but because of the sheer delight in seeing that, even to a Rinpoche, practice is just pretense. We must all pretend harder!

Lastly, I was so moved by Cam's reflection on loss. It reminds me that the why that has no answer is the very why we keep going, and that love and loss are never separate.

And just for a parting grin, this snippet of conversation two days ago over a sleeping dog.

Mom, you know what I've figured out?

What's that?

A well-trained dog isn't that much fun.

Why not?

Because you don't get to wrestle it, and have trouble with it. You don't get to be mad at it.

I see.

So a well-trained dog isn't the best kind.

You think?

If we ever get a new puppy can we name it Squiggly or Wiggly?

The perfect I-don't-want-to-be-the-Mother-day gift

When talk turns to Mother's Day, I get a wobbly tummy. I've always been remembered nicely, but I'd really rather be forgotten totally.

And although I'm often ignored around here, I'm hardly ever completely overlooked.

When my husband spends $75 for a bouquet of flowers, I inhale deeply, and then I just about wilt. Because what I really want for Mother's Day is a day when I don't have to be the Mother.

That's why the Momma Zen Mother's Day Gift Guide has just one thing on it: You. Coming here. For an I Don't Have to Be the Mother Day. Surrounded by my very best friends and fellow mothers at the Mother's Summer Plunge one-day retreat on Saturday, June 20.

Everything you'll need to make it happen is right here.

I know, it can be hard to imagine your family getting by without you, but they probably won't give you a single second thought.

Whether you are treating yourself by your presence or treating your family by your absence, it's an all-around treat just the same. So sign up by May 31.

Use this downloadable gift certificate and tell your husband that this year's Mother's Day shopping is just how he likes it. Done.
Mothers Plunge Gift Certificate

The problem with your work ethic

I'm going to share this with you because, well, she said it.

Dad, what do you do when you are at work and you are done with your work?

I keep working.

No, I said when you are done with your work.

I'm never done with my work.

Pooh! That's no fun.

We are all Susan Boyle

I know you've already seen this 5.9 million times, but this time, I want you to give yourself a "Yes" and go back to your own small village with your bad hair held high, blowing kisses to strangers.

Keep singing your song, and I will too. What else is a church volunteer to do?

Subscribe to my newsletter • Come to my retreat.

The eye that never sleeps

The infinite universe stands always before your eyes. Infinitely large and infinitely small. – Verses on the Faith Mind

I've just downloaded the trip pix from her little pink camera, and since these eyes of mine haven't slept, thought better of adding a single qualifying word to what she saw in Amsterdam.

Now entering the motherland

Last week I was reminded of one of the most refreshing aspects of an arduous trip to a foreign country: not speaking the language. What sweet relief! Being utterly, absolutely free of language and its insidious effect on me: reading, talking, eavesdropping, writing, judging, second guessing, comparing, competing and then, and then, and then. Last week I didn't read, blog or bloviate. I didn't charge ahead. I didn't fall behind. I didn't make a list. Here I'm home but for two hours, and the list is already lengthening at my side, the pen squiggling across the lines of my journal even as I fight a reunion with the cherished sleep I missed most dearly.

I'm striving again. We're all striving. If we're not striving, we might wonder, what then?

As I rapid-fire clicked through emails and blogs I returned twice to Kelly, who today stands in the nowhere between a very sick mother and a very sick sister:

The most challenging part of all the illness around me is accepting that I have absolutely no ability to help anyone get better.

That is the truest thing I haven't said lately. Being with someone who is sick or dying can seem like being in a foreign country. Or a foreign airport, in my case, in an unmoving line leading to one Lufthansa ticket agent hammering uselessly into a broken computer while the cushiony minutes to takeoff disappear. The most challenging part is accepting that I have absolutely no ability to help. There's no striving. There's just being. And even though there is no striving in just being, some folks will tell you that there must be a way to steer the being along better. Not just a way to do nothing, but a right way, a good way, to do nothing.

I don't subscribe to that expertise. We are all amateurs at death; in the same way we are all amateurs at life, although we rarely give ourselves permission. For those of us whose part in dire hours is to sit it out and sit beside, our part is to just sit. Sitting with my mother and my father as they died was the most intimate act I've ever known. And while I do not think it more sacred than going nowhere at a ticket counter, it was no less sacred.

You see, when it looks and feels as if we are doing nothing, we're actually doing quite a bit. We are standing still on one of those slow-motion moving walkways stretching from terminal A to terminal E. We are crossing a threshold all the while, crossing a border whose demarcation is all but imperceptible. We are entering the motherland, the pure land, and in that nowhere else, we are coming home.

A tribute to my mother, and to everyone's mother, on the eighth anniversary of her death April 13, 2001.

Subscribe to my newsletter • Come to my retreat.

Remembrance of things past

Or, the 1,000 words I learned in Dutch.

Two lips

Hot chocolate in the morning. Flowers in the window. Cheeks press three times and no strangers remain. Blowing kisses from Amsterdam.

The mother at the end of my block

Just a few months after my daughter's birth, I saw another mother on the corner at the end of my block. – Momma Zen

Amy Tiemann's second edition of Mojo Mom is born today. It is an updated compendium of thoughtful questions and resources about rebuilding a healthy life after you become a mother. I just read it for the first time, although it was the second time. That's what I'm told the second birth is like: not like the first, which you can't remember anyway.

There is a story about me and Amy that I'm not sure she knows. And the story is this: she is the mother I met at the end of my block. We all have this mother. Another mother that you meet in a jolt of recognition in those first desolate months, the other mother to whom you will reveal yourself in the mutual reflection of empathy and acceptance. The mother with an extra ziplock bag of Cheerios in her stroller when yours have run out just as you start the steep homeward climb.

Amy was that mother not for the birth of my baby, although our daughters were born within weeks of one another. Amy is the mother I met on my block for the birth of my book.

A few months before the birth of Momma Zen, I started casting a crazed daze about the neighborhood. I'd started and finished the project in a creative cocoon, oblivious to what was already out there, unaware of what anyone else had written first or best. I highly recommend cocoons for all transformative processes. It is nature's perfect way and thankfully requires no recommendation from me.

I ordered Amy's book, her baby, just to confirm that it was not my own. We can all envision the movie-of-the-week hysteria that would overtake us should someone else leave the hospital with our baby! I read her book to check for family markings: the ear lobes, the nose, the big toe, and came away convinced. She had hers; and I had mine.

In the years since I have confirmed that and more. Amy has her own inimitable approach to this bottomless topic of life as a mother. She has a scientist's mind, a seeker's eye and a mother's heart. She is overwhelmingly generous, kind and reassuring. If I am the priest at your bedside, she is the doctor. Believe me, you want to see the doctor well before the priest arrives.

In her book, Amy asks the questions we may be afraid to ask ourselves. They are practical, not spiritual, but can seem quite impossible and intangible in the early years. Questions about work, time, space, money, childcare, self-care, power and politics. Mojo Mom will leave you energized and activated, not agitated and polarized, as so much mommy talk can.

As life would have it, as it always will, Amy and I have walked these blocks, these years, in each other's continuous company. With mutual respect and humor. As life would have it, as it always will, we will soon be walking the blocks in my very neighborhood when Amy comes to visit me in June. She and I will host a Mother's Summer Reading Salon at Sierra Madre Books on Tuesday, June 23.

Can you believe it? I can't, but I can trust this life exactly as it unfolds, as surely as you can trust yours and everyone in it.

Buy Amy's book for any mother on your block this Mother's Day. The block is both bigger and smaller than you think, and no one walks it alone.

Subscribe to my newsletter • Come to my retreat.

Getting back to one

There is a beginning meditation practice – which is profoundly advanced – called "counting the breath." Once you have positioned yourself to sit on a cushion, a bench or a chair, you settle the mind in the hara, which is the gut, and you start to count your inhalations and your exhalations. The way I do this is to count an inhalation "one" and an exhalation "two" then an inhalation "three" and an exhalation "four." The instructions are to continue in this way until you reach ten. Sounds clear and simple enough. The truth is that when you try to do it, you find that you can't get much beyond four or five before the mind darts across a meadow, over a fence, builds up speed and takes off into the beyond. When that happens, you start back at one, and keep going.

So in this beginning meditation, which becomes even more difficult with the frequency of your practice, you spend a considerable amount of time trying to get to ten. Get to ten, come on, you tell yourself, get to ten! Get somewhere, you dolt!

The thing is, should you ever get to ten, the instructions are to start back at one. The ten and the one have no merit or meaning, you see. But try believing that for yourself.

***
The other day I heard from my sister. She is fortunate enough to live along the beautiful coast near Newport Beach, California. She is doubly fortunate to rent there, because as well-off as she is, she could not afford to buy a home in those environs during the recent run-up in this world's capital of fantasy-made millionaires.

Two months ago she had to vacate her rented condo when the owners suddenly showed up, out of work and with nowhere else to go but back where they started. She moved just across the road to another complex of lavish new patio homes, and she loves the place she's leasing from a self-made titan now sleeping on his brother's couch. Then she noticed that two of the six homes on her cul-de-sac were on the market, and last week another neighbor fled in the cover of night. It is and will yet be more of a ghost town, eerie for its glam appearance as a destination lifestyle with no visible lives. It recalled to me my own shock and shame when my first husband and I naively walked into and then out of a predatory mortgage 25 years ago during one of Houston's colossal real estate boom-and-bust cycles. In the glow of your self-immolation you see that the castle you've built is only made of popsicle sticks.

We were trying to get somewhere. We thought that's what a go-getting couple was supposed to do. Get somewhere. But the world is always getting back to one.

***
Then I was in a waiting room and I saw the new issue of People magazine, where someone or the other is always revealing the new version of themselves: made up, made over, reborn, relaunched, remarried, rehabbed, reformed and 50 pounds lighter!

And there was Kathy Ireland revealing the new her, just the latest go-getter to tell you her diet gets and her money gets and her happiness gets and success gets. She says she had grown overwhelmed, overstressed, overweight and over-everything before she found some new secret way to get a better body. But wait! Didn't she already have a do-over? Wasn't she the SI swimsuit model who remade herself into a billion-dollar design empress? Didn't she already have a rebirth and a makeover? Hasn't she been all the way to ten a time or two? And she's still spinning on that disastrous wheel? Asking us to buy advice from her? I know where she's headed; we all know where she's headed.

Maybe she thinks she's getting somewhere else this time, but the world is always getting back to one.

***
When we sit, we always come back to one. And the more we come back to it, the easier it is to see a way beyond it. There is something beyond one, and we call it one.

Subscribe to my newsletter • Come to my retreat.

Covering the ground

This Saturday I'll be giving the dharma talk at the Hazy Moon Zen Center. Come and join our morning program of sitting. And if you don't know how to sit, then take our beginner's class. We will all be beginners on Saturday.

This weekend Georgia and I leave for Amsterdam where we'll be seeing the sights and making some of our own at a Zen Mama workshop on April 8 co-sponsored by Lof magazine for working mothers. They are giving everyone who comes the Dutch copy of my book and a piece of cake. Come for the cake! I am already so deeply impressed by the hospitality and sincerity of my Dutch hosts. We have a saying in Zen, "covering the ground where you stand." It is the signpost of self-mastery. I feel as though I can do this one lying down, and laugh my head off.

Laugh and the world laughs with you, I'm out to prove.

I'll be popping in from time to time next week, especially to offer my up-to-now untold personal testimonial about Amy Tiemann's fantastic new edition of Mojo Mom, debuting on April 7.

Kom voor de taart!

Photo by Denise Andrade

Subscribe to my newsletter • Come to my retreat.