I have always loved the autumn. The cooler air, the deep, rich colors, the shifts in daylight; and yes—the heavier, warmer foods and attire that are part of the shifting season package. My “Vata Dosha” (the who?—something my yogi friends would get and isn’t too relevant at the moment) is supposed to really not like this time of year. And even though my body has a serious cold intolerance (I mean SERIOUS), I have still always felt some sort of magic in the air, chills notwithstanding.
Somewhere between the cooling temperatures that take place a few weeks post–Labor Day and Thanksgiving sits Halloween—smack dab in the middle-ish of it all. I realize that it’s become a very commercial holiday laced with sweets and costumes, but there had to be a reason that it’s celebrated at the time it is.
I’ve briefly read in the past that it was a Pagan tradition that the church latched onto to help converts to Christianity experience something familiar. I knew about the European tradition of the jack-o’-lantern. And last year, when my husband and I were in South Africa on Halloween Day, I wondered why it wasn’t celebrated much in the Southern Hemisphere.
I grew up going to Catholic school. Halloween for me was exciting, not just for the trick-or-treating, but because the next day was All Saints’ Day and we had no school.
I also know that Mexico celebrates this same time with a Day of the Dead celebration, Día de Muertos.
Saints? The dead? This kind of had something in common, right?
This year I volunteered to teach a yoga class on Halloween evening. While considering how not to avoid saying anything about the day of the year it is in class, I went on an online hunt to find the spiritual meaning behind this tradition. I found it fascinating enough to share what our elders may have been sensing when they established this time of year for this tradition.
I learned that Halloween really isn’t celebrated in the Southern Hemisphere because it’s the seasonal shift from warmth to coolness that makes the veil between our world and others feel thin. Southern Hemisphere traditions mark a similar shift in their own seasonal timing, which makes sense as that time of year mirrors what we are experiencing now.
The idea of a thin veil would make it easier to honor and feel connected to those who have passed—hence Mexico’s Day of the Dead.
But why now?
I couldn’t find much online, even on what I would consider to be “junky” sites. From my own understanding of nature, it actually does make sense that it is now. We just experienced the height of summer, and that strong “yang” energy is starting to dwindle away. The mix of lingering warmth and emerging coolness seems to naturally slow us down and turn us inward.
It’s an interesting time of year from the Ayurvedic perspective, the way I understand it, in that we are entering a cyclical time of letting go, with plant and tree life ending and the preparation of the cold, frozen season ahead. Additionally, at this time the elements feel briefly balanced—earth, water, fire, air, and ether. That balance, paired with the transition from life to dormancy, feels like a natural point of connection to the broader cycles of the universe.
As above, so below—in that the laws of nature are consistent everywhere, in the heavens as on earth. Birth and early life (spring), the high point of life (summer), the elder years and letting go (fall), and the quiet, unseen preparation for new life (winter). There is no true end point—it just continues to cycle and transform.
So without getting any more wonky than I’m starting to sound, I’m going to end it here. If you’ve followed my attempt to explain my crazy point—great! And if not, that’s ok too. Maybe a seed you would like to cultivate has been planted. Or perhaps this is just all a bunch of nonsense that many of us like to dabble in while we have fun celebrating Halloween, watching scary movies, and dressing up as something we normally wouldn’t. It’s all in good fun.
In preparation for my yoga classes this week, I think I’m going to focus on embracing the unknown and the lessons this time of year can offer us—learning to sit with what feels uncertain, honoring cycles of both life and loss, and recognizing that growth often begins in places we can’t yet see clearly.
Enjoy all that nature has to offer!
Peace
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There are some experiences in life that seem almost magical or otherworldly as they happen. Sometimes it is when you meet someone and you get a sense of déjà vu or a flash of unexplained feelings. Or when you hear or read something that just seems to strike some sort of chord within you about its unexplainable truth.
One of the dozen or so times this happened to me is when I had first read that the soul is the connection to the divine (God, nature, or whatever you choose to call all that is). I was so moved by this simple statement. The truth of it was so obvious to me in that moment that it sparked one of those otherworldly flash feelings. The article discussed how the soul doesn’t dish out advice like our loud, animal, thinking brains do. But if you quiet the monkey mind and ask your soul for guidance, the right answer is always there waiting to be heard.
Wow. Yes.
I knew that somewhere but didn’t realize it until then. A few hours later, after mulling it over, I posted something on Facebook about it—a short quote I made up as my own interpretation of this. It had very few “likes.” Guess my Facebook tribe didn’t get it.
Not long after, I heard a podcast about the moral compass. The speaker explained how we experience negative emotions (depression, hopelessness, anxiety, etc.) when we aren’t living according to our moral compass.
Right—that makes sense too. And in my own interpretation, I understood that moral compass connection to be through the soul, which is connected to all that is. When we can’t hear or follow that sound advice and live against it, we feel unhappy.
Then, not long after, I started to better understand the deeper meaning of the yoga I was attracted to. The focused attention of breath and movement quieted the monkey mind. Meditation and quieting the mind became a way to really hear that inner guidance—something that, without question, always knows the right and loving way to be in this world.
I felt so inspired to write this morning because when I opened my email, something caught my eye strongly enough for me to open it. It spoke about the idea that love is not something we earn, but something that exists as our foundation—and that it is from that place that real change happens.
The message brought the idea of the soul and moral compass home for me. It reflected on the idea that we are created in the likeness of the divine (or nature, or whatever we connect to spiritually), and that likeness is love.
The takeaway, as I understood it, is that when we are not living from a place of love, we are out of alignment with who we truly are. And when we are living with love, we are acting in accordance with our deepest truth.
Love… Love it. To me that says it all.
Maybe, just maybe… the allegory of the apple and the suffering that followed was about losing trust in that love. Not listening to the soul. Not having faith in what is.
The soul knows. Perhaps we should listen a bit closer. It’s always there—the quiet, steady voice. Not the loud one demanding attention, but the softer one that doesn’t need to shout to be true.
Maybe listening to it really is a step away from fear and suffering.
Hey… it’s worth a try!
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In the yoga classes I’ve taught this past week, the theme I have been focusing on is “The Harvest.” The chosen reason is the time of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere, especially where we live in New England. The purpose of this theme, however, is not about the crops we need to harvest before the first frost (which was last night), but all “seeds” and “harvests” for the future.
Not sure what it has to do with yoga? If you are still with me, please allow me to explain.
A seed is just a seed all by itself. A lettuce seed alone has nothing but the potential to become lettuce. If I plant lettuce seeds in the ground in the month of April (appropriate for our Connecticut hardiness zone), there is a decent chance it will grow lettuce. But if I plant a cucumber seed in April, it will absolutely not grow into lettuce, and there is a slim chance it will grow at all. Cucumber seeds can only thrive after the last frost. Hence, it would be best to plant them in mid-May for any hope of having a cucumber in August.
So far I have a seed, dirt, and weather that will hypothetically allow me to harvest cucumbers. Seeds, dirt, and weather are not that insanely different from the potential we have as humans to manifest goals or create the type of life we desire. In churches and other spiritual communities and texts, we will often hear the phrase “As above, so below.”
What does that mean? It means the physical world is not all that different from the mental and spiritual worlds. Even though we can’t see those other worlds, the laws of nature are consistent.
Like seeds, our thoughts are just thoughts alone. The properties of a thought will only bring forth that thought. If I’d like to lose 10 pounds, it’s only a thought or wish until I do something with it. Additionally, wishing it will not yield me a promotion or the improvement of a relationship that I’d like to enhance… obviously. With me so far?
Next, that thought is planted or “sown” in my mind. The mind is not so dissimilar to the soil that we plant our seeds in. The thought that I would like to lose 10 lbs in a mind racing with anxiety, wrought with depression, or full of a stressed-out “to do” list will only go into an abyss of other competing and negative thoughts. Similar to how planting a cucumber seed in sand, in the snow, or even in April—the mind’s condition would not be right to help a positive thought manifest into the raw potential it has.
This is where yoga comes in.
Yoga is not solely about moving around in different poses (or asanas). Yoga means to “yoke.” This sacred Sanskrit term is used to signify the connections between spirit, mind, and body. Whether we are moving through poses, meditating, chanting, doing breath work, etc., what we are really doing is creating a connection of our physical body to our mind and spirit—creating a sense of equilibrium between all three, which are really one beautifully operating unit. It’s difficult to have anxiety when the mind, body, and spirit are yoked in meditation or savasana (that last pose in most yoga classes where you actually enjoy laying around doing nothing for a few minutes).
When we are in balance, the mind is clear. When we sow thoughts in a clear mind, it is akin to planting seeds in proper conditions. When the mind is not clear, thoughts will still grow in murky conditions. These conditions often generate unwanted outcomes. For example, anxious thoughts will thrive and create even more anxiety in a busy mind. The mind is constantly creating whether we get involved with what is put in or not—analogous to how weeds will grow without involvement.
Yoga helps clear the mind through pointed focus and awareness. Focusing on breathing while mindfully moving from posture to posture in an average American yoga class (which is what comes to mind for most when they picture yoga) helps us to stay in the present moment and pay less attention to the wandering mind. When we are on the mat and feeling the slight shifts and sensations of our bodies, we are connecting our physical body with our inner selves. While sitting in a posture for a short while, if the body is relaxed and the mind wanders, it becomes very clear what is in there as thoughts arise.
A beautiful characteristic of yoga is that the habits we build on the mat will begin to stay with us off the mat.
A remarkable trait about thoughts is that you can change them.
If we don’t like what is coming up, we don’t have to actually keep thinking them. With a little practice of strengthening the mind, we are able to notice thoughts that aren’t aligned with the life we want and modify them.
Ignoring or changing unwanted thoughts and clearing our minds creates the proper soil and weather conditions to grow an aspired thought into reality. This will give us the boost to perform the last and third step of harvesting what we would like. That last step is the physical work.
If we plant cucumber seeds in mid-May and walk away… maybe we will have some cucumbers, but not likely. Chances increase if we ensure the seeds are properly watered, have the right amount of sun, and weeds are kept at bay—at least initially. As the season progresses and cucumber buddings begin to grow and get stronger, we still need to keep an eye on them, but weeds and unexacting sun and water levels are less likely to halt the progression of physical cucumbers.
We have to do the work. Once new habits are built and ingrained into our neural pathways and routines, less focus needs to be put on sustaining the desired result. Keeping 10 lbs off is easy with good habits because we essentially reap what we sow—physically and mentally. If you don’t have a crop harvest right now, it’s only because you didn’t plant seeds and nurture them in the spring.
The laws of nature as we know them work the same in the mind/spirit world.
Yoga helps us to create the harvest (albeit “life”) we want by cultivating a healthy mind-body-spirit connection. The take home—mind your thoughts, as they can and will create the life and harvest you have.
Today I woke up anxious. Physically, I had a slight tightness in my chest. My heart felt a little heavy, but the worst was my breath. I couldn’t help but sigh every few moments—obviously releasing some kind of tension. I felt slightly lost, not sure where my life is going. Not even an hour later, I was laughing and feeling like wherever my life is going, it doesn’t matter—I’ll get there as I need to.
These are the “Gunas”—fluctuations that are normal in the universe. They are everywhere: in the weather, in our moods. It’s a universal law. What goes up must come down. What swings one way will swing the other.
The Gunas are a term I learned in yoga teacher training and were often discussed. They’re now part of my regular vocabulary and thought process. We don’t stay in one mood forever. Nothing stays in its state forever. We are supposed to feel good and bad. It should be expected that both good and bad things will happen. Fighting it is what leads to suffering. In Buddhism, a key tenet is that attachment causes suffering—even attachment to feeling a certain way (like happy), being attached to an outcome you want, or to objects, feelings, desires, etc. The Hindu tradition (yoga’s roots) describes the same concept, just in a different way.
A guna is an attribute of nature, according to Hindu philosophy. In Hinduism, there are three gunas that have always existed in the world, in both living and non-living things:
Here in our Western world, we are not taught to think this way. We tend to feel that if something goes wrong or we don’t feel well (mentally, physically, or spiritually), then something is wrong with us. Imagine if we were taught that both elation and depression are normal and to be expected? Neither will stay. Both are part of the experience of being alive. The more we attach to any experience (good or bad), the more we will “suffer”—suffering meaning anything from disappointment to despair.
I’m signed up for daily emails from Richard Rohr, a Franciscan priest who has written many books on spirituality. I recently finished Falling Upward, which was amazing. Much of it was about how we need to fall in order to learn and grow—how opposite things are complementary and part of life. I’ll share a quote from a recent meditation:
“If we are going to talk about light, then we must also talk about darkness, because they only have meaning in relation to one another. All things on earth are a mixture of darkness and light, and it is not good to pretend that they are totally separate!”
Understanding the Gunas is one of the many ways I am learning to accept life as it is. When I remember them during low moments, I can almost embrace them as part of the full experience of life. Not always—but more and more often.
They have helped me—and if you’ve read this and are willing to try, perhaps they can help you or someone you love too.
Peace & Namaste
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Today I woke up feeling good. On 7/11/18, 2 months and 2 days ago, I had just one of the worst evenings of my life. The following few days were even more difficult. These last 2 months have been a journey that I realize is life-long and I’m in no rush to finish. I’m enjoying and embracing every step forward and every obstacle that prohibits steps forward, or that even sets me a few back. Obstacles and setbacks are really necessary learning experiences.
Today I’m in gratitude. I might not be in an hour, but for now I am and I’m incredibly grateful.
I could write for hours about how I got here (I promise I won’t). The biggest contributor was my childhood and the mal-adaptive strategies (albeit very normal) I developed early on to deal with life while my brain was forming. One of my newly favorite psychology writers Van Der Kolk calls it Developmental Traumatic Disorder (DTD). This diagnostic explanation is fairly new in the world of psychology. It didn’t quite make it to the DSM-5, which is the latest edition of the manual by which mental health clinicians diagnose and bill for disorders. For now, the closest diagnosis is PTSD, which DTD is a branch of. Particularly for me, for now it’s Delayed Onset, Complex PTSD. It turns out I’m just another statistic, and if someone were watching closely, everything that happened to me could have been predicted.
I’ve been through a gamut of emotions the past few months. Many before 7/11, but even more, and much more intensely since. Crazily, but also not surprisingly, this episode took place just 2 days and exactly 25 years after what was one of the most transformational days of my life at the time when I was 17. I’d written about it before in My Mom. It’s one of my trigger dates, something I don’t think I fully believed in until this summer. I didn’t consciously recognize the significance of how the date triggered me, but my body did. The Body Keeps the Score. It really does.
What I realized most profoundly this summer is that I have PTSD. I really do. Two and a half years ago I had my first panic attack. I was immediately diagnosed with Anxiety and Panic Disorder. Last summer the PTSD diagnosis was added. While I remember telling people about it, somehow I didn’t realize how important it was to my mental recovery to embrace and work on it. In fact, when the true awareness hit me like a ton of bricks just less than a week after 7/11 this year, I was surprised to realize that I’d been sharing and telling people about it prior to then. A few days ago I re-read something I added to my blog page in May, “About Me,” and it was there too! Why wasn’t I working on it?
I wasn’t working on my trauma and PTSD for many reasons. Because it wasn’t urgent and didn’t seem important. Because no one tells you that it’s important. In fact, no one can; it’s something you have to discover on your own when your body is ready. Also because I didn’t have the time or the lifestyle until now. That is why I’m in gratitude this morning. I’m moving in the slow lane and I love it.
From a young age I moved fast. I always had excessive energy. I never understood how anyone could sit at a meeting or in a class and not fidget. I was just always bursting out of my skin. Driving… I had to be in the fast lane. I was constantly assessing for traffic, changing lanes with the flow. Heart always racing. Breath always erratic. I was always, always, always looking for more efficient ways to do things. From driving to folding laundry to cleaning… to redesigning whole work groups and even departments at my job. I was good at it. It was a great outlet for my energy. I was efficient and I helped others to be as well. A good use of my talents. Or so I thought.
Now I’m living in the slow lane. I still have the habit of moving fast, but I catch myself at least 80% or so of the time when I realize that for no good reason my heart is in a lurch or my breath isn’t steady. I stop it and slow down. I manage my breath. I smell the roses. I ground myself in the present and it’s SO much better. I think about that quote about how nothing or everything is a miracle, and see things as beautiful. Even ugly things. I wish we could teach our children this from a young age. Instead we are programmed to “succeed,” to do more and faster, to have it all, to do it all. We are programmed to think we are a failure if we don’t meet this criteria. On paper, by this methodology, I was a huge success.
Take two driven people like my husband and myself, put them together, and what do you have? It’s debatable. 7 years ago I would have thought a match made in heaven. In fact, at our wedding we incorporated the Japanese term of kaizen (continuous improvement) into our vows. Ugh… how I cringe now.
I do believe in continuous improvement, but not in the way it was taught to me (faster, better, do more, etc.). I believe in the slow movement. That less is more. That slowing down and even stillness is where the magic of life lies. Take a look at the pets in our lives. They are content with doing less, watching the world outside the window for hours just as it is. Accepting us for who we are. Not caring about how we are dressed or what fancy letters come after our name. They are, in a sense, more human from a place of connection than we are. I have four pets. I didn’t even have time to pet them before. I would shoo them away when they came to climb on me when I collapsed on the couch after 16 hours of non-stop movement. We had to have our dog in daycare just to get exercise and go out because no one was home long enough to play with him or take him out. Picking him up and dropping him off was another burdened activity on the checklist. Why have pets, kids, a house (2 in our case), a garden, etc., when there was no time to put any love or life into any of it? It’s been a slow realization for me that none of this makes sense. That I was living by a clock and not a compass. It took even longer to do anything meaningful about it. I’m still on that journey and in no rush to any finish line. The unfolding is a beautiful experience that I’m embracing wildly.
I wrote a few paragraphs back that I could write for hours about how I got here. Everyone has their own journey, their own stories, their own level of awareness, and their own (hopefully) point in their life—more often than not in the second half of it—in which they proverbially “wake up.”
My own story started on March 1, 2012. At work I enrolled in a Franklin Covey industry-based class for The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. It was a 2-day seminar that set the path of a new life for me. At the time I was recently remarried and my husband and I were just finishing up the renovations we worked on non-stop for 2 months in our new home. I felt SO alive during those renovations. I loved working on the house. We often stayed up until 1 or 2am in the morning on work nights and didn’t feel the least bit exhausted in the morning.
Once the renovations were finishing up, I started to feel trapped, bored, and useless—something I wasn’t accustomed to feeling. Since my husband and I moved in together with our kids the year before, I felt like I was mentally unraveling. The renovations were a pleasant distraction. I began going to a Bible study at the hospital where I work, which one of my vanpool mates hosted. I hung onto many of the teachings and words, learning new language to explain what I was feeling. The Covey class used similar language but explained it in a different way that opened me up in a special fashion. Three things I really connected with were the concept of a paradigm that we see the world through, that I make my own independent choices constantly, and that to feel in line with who you are, we should be living by a compass and not a clock. Wow. This was mind-blowing and life-changing for me.
Shortly after, I explored the Bible much more. Then I ran into a Bishop Spong book quite by accident (I honestly cannot remember which one). I was never religious, but grew up Catholic and felt like it was a sin to question anything that didn’t make sense. As soon as my mind took me to those questioning places, guilt kicked in and I pushed it away. The John Shelby Spong book provided the freedom to question what made no sense and shift the focus to something that did in a more mystical, metaphysical way where it all made sense. From there I found podcasts on the Centers for Spiritual Living to help time pass while having to drive to Bedford, MA quite often for work—2½ hours each direction. Those podcasts prompted me to read the ghastly large book by Ernest Holmes called The Science of Mind. The world was opening and unfolding in ways I could have never dreamed. From there, for some unknown reason, I started taking yoga classes, which spoke the same type of language. Then I would listen to Alan Watts during my lunch walks and long commutes. All different words, but the same beautiful, timeless messages that make sense.
Years later, in January 2016, I loved yoga and this way of thinking so much that I started yoga teacher training. My regular life with work, the kids, pets, blended family, commute, and constant rush was becoming unsustainable. Why was I adding a full weekend a month commitment to this training? I don’t know, but I just felt compelled.
For some reason I thought in yoga teacher training I would learn more about the poses, teaching, and the actual class. Instead, like the Franklin Covey class years before, it became a personal journey. I quickly decided that it was a necessity to meditate regularly. Once I started quieting my mind and relaxing regularly, I realized that is how a body should feel, and how I lived for the previous 40 years was anything but calm. It started to become unbearable to not feel calm. Combine that with what I now realize is a few PTSD triggers from work at the time, it’s absolutely no surprise that I had my first panic attack exactly when I did, and they escalated from there—completely out of control. My body was releasing 40 years’ worth of emotion that was bubbling just under the surface. The same energy that kept me moving, grooving, and successful was the same energy that was keeping me stressed and mentally unaware that I was damaging myself by not dealing with the trauma that has plagued my mind, body, and spirit.
The past two and a half years since have been transformational. A lot of bad and negative things arose, but more positive learning experiences than anything bad. You have to go through it to move through it. It sounds simple, but it’s much harder than it sounds. It wasn’t until now that I’ve given myself the time and opportunity to heal. But you have to make the time. Your life has to allow it. You have to slow down.
This past summer was rough. I spent hours upon hours writing and allowing myself to remember and experience the anguish of old memories. Many were the same memories that came up during what I now know as PTSD episodes, but I’d felt too ashamed, embarrassed, or dramatic to explore. In writing, crying, thinking, gardening, exercising, waking up in the middle of the night, reading, etc., I started to explore my triggers and where they came from. It made sense. I learned more about how the brain is wired and why I seemed to lose control at times. I logged and shared trigger dates with my family. I allowed myself to feel all that I’ve always pushed away and thought I moved past years ago. It was always there waiting for me to deal with it. I just didn’t slow down enough to hear it.
Today I feel good. Over coffee this morning I saw my husband petting one of the cats who was purring where he shouldn’t be (on a counter). When my husband moved his hand away to finish getting ready for work, our cat Gilmore bipped him on the hand—asking for more petting, which Daren provided. We are in a place where we have time to pet our cats. I am thankful I am in a job where if I woke up in the middle of the night and didn’t sleep for hours, the pressure of getting dressed and driving to the office with a smile is not there because I can telework and I’m part-time. I’m thankful for the mental health breakdown this summer. I spent so much time on the days I wasn’t working living like my pets. I napped in the middle of the day if I needed to. I only ate when I was hungry. If I felt like the sun was calling me, I read and wrote outside. If I felt the urge to move, I went for a walk, run, or bike ride. Listening to my body helped me to attune to what it’s telling me in other ways too. Our bodies are a walking, living, physical communication device. It’s a compass of that path we should be on.
This summer I also listened to The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People CDs that I was provided with from that class back in March of 2012. Listening to the late Stephen Covey’s voice felt like listening to an old friend with sound, sage, timeless advice. I also spent quite a bit of time doing those old exercises again. I created a mission statement, thought about my values and principles, my “rocks,” how I communicate with people, how I think, and how I live. I thought about the life that I want to program. My own talents. Not the talents the world has barked at me—like designing things bigger, better, and faster—but what I wanted to be when I was a kid with no restrictions and what that meant. The imprint I want to leave on the world.
These aren’t overnight answers. If I thought for a New York second that I know them right now, I’d be fooling myself. I’ll be working on them for the rest of my life. I’m trying diligently to listen to the compass. If we quiet ourselves enough, and ask our inner selves for advice, the most profound wisdom is all there, right within us. Our bodies know what we need. They keep the score.
My dog Koji who teaches me all sorts of invaluable lessons without saying a wordBored at home after carpal tunnel surgery of my right hand this past Monday (9/10), I decided to try to open my right brain by painting with my left handMy left handed drawing depicting what is supposed to be a sunset
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I almost don’t know how to start this. Anxiety disorders are the most common mental illness in the U.S., affecting millions of adults every year.
I am one of those people who suffer. When I’m in panic, it’s almost as if a doppelgänger took over my body. So many people do not understand what happens and that the person has no control over how they feel. Stress and cortisol flood the body.
Last night I had a panic attack. I actually had several in the past week, and 4 or 5 just yesterday alone. What made my last two particularly long and painful is that other people were home and weren’t reacting compassionately. They live with me and don’t quite understand what I go through, how painful it is, and how little to no control I have over how I feel or can possibly react. I can empathize and understand that it can be scary to someone else—really I can. I don’t want to be in full-blown panic either, believe me—way more so than the people around me don’t want to see it.
A key driver is understanding. Panic disorder with panic attacks is not something that can be helped in the moment or have a lid put on it. What makes it all so much worse is when those around you judge you and believe mental health issues are something that can simply be controlled. I’m writing this because if my own household doesn’t quite understand what this is about, how can anyone else? I need to do my part in spreading awareness.
I didn’t know much about true anxiety either. Why should I? We throw the word around a lot. Many of us live with low-level anxiety constantly. As a society, we are mostly all anxious. Anxiety and panic disorder are a little different. Nervousness and anxiety can both cause similar symptoms, but normal nervousness—like before a big presentation or applying for a job—is tied to a real situation and passes. Panic disorder is not like that.
I’ve read a lot about anxiety in the past two years since I’ve been diagnosed. Stress is prevalent in our culture. A large part is due to technology and the constant bombardment of information. Also, the ability for others to reach into our lives at any moment—through social media, texting, email—creates a constant sense of urgency. When I was younger and we had a house phone attached to a wall, leaving work meant the day was done. No one was creating new demands through texts and emails late into the evening.
Now, something as simple as a phone notification at 9pm can cause our heart rate to increase and create a false sense of urgency. Whether it’s from a loved one or your boss, the body reacts as if something is wrong. For most people, that feeling fades quickly. For those of us with an anxiety disorder, it doesn’t go away—it escalates.
A panic attack can feel like your body suddenly believes it is in danger, even when nothing is actually happening. Your heart races, your breathing changes, your chest feels tight, and your body prepares to fight or run. Rational thinking goes offline. It is not the time to reason through it or try to explain it away.
With panic disorder, the body goes into full fight-or-flight mode without a real, present threat. It differs for everyone, but for me, I am often triggered by something external that was threatening in the past. Many times I cannot initially identify the trigger. It is almost impossible to do so when the brain is flooded and executive functioning shuts down.
I want to feel normal and not panic more than anything. Riding it out, medicine, and therapy are helpful, but it took years for my body to become this dysregulated. It likely will not go away overnight.
I can tell you what makes it worse for me:
Being with someone during a panic attack who doesn’t understand and becomes annoyed or frustrated. I can’t be helped in that moment. Someone in my face trying to rationalize it feels condescending. Being ignored feels humiliating and similar to abandonment. I’m already overwhelmed—those reactions only intensify it.
Another difficult experience is trying to hide it so as not to scare others. That creates another layer of pressure. I’ve had panic attacks on airplanes, in restaurants, at work, while driving, while getting ready for bed, and even when waking up. When people pretend nothing is happening, it makes me feel like something is wrong with me—like I need to be hidden.
And then there is the shame. The feeling that you need to hide such a significant part of your experience from others. Our society does not always respond kindly to mental health struggles. Before experiencing this myself, I also believed it was something that could be controlled. Last summer I spent a full month in an Intensive Outpatient Program, but I was afraid to tell people why I was on leave. If I felt that way, I’m sure others do too.
May is Mental Health Awareness Month. If you don’t struggle with mental health (and that’s wonderful), it’s very likely you know someone who does—you just may not realize it. Let’s do our part to bring awareness and approach one another with compassion instead of judgment.
We are all human. Let’s treat one another as such.
Over the past few weeks, due to two different workshops I have attended, I’ve been very interested in learning a little more about the moon and its cycles. Coincidentally, and unrelated to the workshops, an organization I volunteer for is having a retreat in the Catskills one weekend to learn more about the moon.
The moon affects our tides and the sea. They are predictable, as predictable as the sun rising and setting. We can look up the sunrise, moon phases, and tide tables for the next hundred years and be sure that is what is going to happen.
For my birthday this year, Daren booked a trip a few months ahead to one of our favorite destinations in the world—York, ME. We are here now. We left yesterday afternoon and drove up in the pouring rain. As we pulled into the Airbnb he rented on the water, the rain stopped and the sun began an attempt to peek through the grey clouds.
Situated at the end of a small street extension, the quaint New England house from the outside was adorable. As we opened the lockbox to get the key, I was already sad we only had three nights here.
We opened the door to the house and were instantly in awe of the view of the ocean from inside. The inside was even more special. We went upstairs to drop off our bags, and the view from the master bedroom was even more amazing. I felt my heart slow down, my blood pressure decrease, and an overall sense of peace. I love coming to Maine. We have vacationed here with the kids and alone for at least six years now. It’s like coming home.
There is something about being near the ocean that calms me and feels like home. The smell of marine life, the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the mystery and vastness… how it can look so different at any time of the day or year. Between the tide changes, sun position, and weather, it never gets old.
We only live about 45 minutes from the Long Island Sound, but it’s the furthest I’ve lived from the water in my life. It’s probably no coincidence that at this time in life I suffer from anxiety. There are definable other factors too—the second half of life, blended family woes, being more spiritual—but I can’t discount the lack of water in my life.
In a workshop I attended last week, I learned that water absorbs our heavy energies and carries it away. I can almost feel this. It might be why I feel like a completely different person when we spend time in the house that we have on the Airbnb market in Branford, CT.
I feel that being near the water and being more directly, physically affected by the tides also helps to put us more in touch with nature. For example, here in Maine and in Branford, certain beaches don’t even exist at high tide. At our home in Branford, during low tide you can actually walk down the steps in our yard to the cove and over to the Sound or across to another house, or during high tide you can use those same steps to kayak away from the house. Fishermen, seaside towns, and many maritime cultures alike live and plan their day by the tides. When you accept that you can only do certain things as nature provides them to you, I feel it can help you accept that we can’t always manipulate life and that it’s important to live with the elements. Overall, we become more adaptable, well-adjusted people who can steer a sailboat (figuratively) using the elements of life rather than trying to fight them.
At our home in Branford, I provide our renters with a sunrise and sunset schedule so they can decide if they would like to watch it. I let them know where the best places are, whether it be in our yard or down the street, to catch either. I also provide a little chart with the tides and phases of the moon. The full moon at the beach 100 steps from our front door is not a sight to be missed on a clear night. The tides in our area will dictate when you can sit on the beach or kayak.
I don’t think many folks know why, but in many comments in the guest book or on the sites where the vacation rental is listed, our guests have commented on how calm they feel and that they felt so connected to nature there.
Living in, around, and with nature helps us feel connected to it. In our modern lives, we almost never feel that connection. Somehow the trees’ leaves just appeared, or it was daytime. Sensing the change and being witness to the artistic beauty the universe provides helps me to feel connected to the universe itself. Being connected gives me clarity about the role of my small, selfish thoughts in the big picture, helps me feel the divine connection I have to everyone and everything, and helps me want to just be a better person.
Below, in order, is the view as I write this blog this morning, the sunrise that woke us up from the master bedroom window, and some lobster traps left for the season at Perkins Cove last night
There’s something about vagueness that catches my attention now in a way it didn’t before.
When an answer or a story feels vague, it’s often easy to brush past it. Sometimes there are harmless reasons—protecting a surprise, avoiding unnecessary drama, or simply not having a clear answer yet.
But other times, vagueness feels different.
Subtle. Slightly off. Like something isn’t quite being said.
I’ve started to notice that feeling more in my own life. Not as a clear thought, but as something quieter—more like a small internal pause. A moment where something doesn’t fully land.
And if I’m being honest, I can think of many times I’ve ignored it.
Times when answers didn’t quite add up, but I didn’t press. Times when something felt off, but I told myself it was nothing. Times when I wanted something to be true badly enough that I didn’t question it.
Looking back, I can usually see that I knew—at least on some level.
Not in a loud, obvious way. But in that quiet way that doesn’t demand attention… unless we’re willing to give it.
It’s not always about distrust or assuming the worst. It’s more about noticing when something doesn’t fully settle, and being willing to stay with that feeling just a little longer.
Maybe ask one more question. Or simply not rush to smooth it over.
I think most of us have felt that small internal signal before.
The real question is whether we listen to it—or explain it away.
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Have you ever considered the possibility that our brains are quite inchoate?
The Merriam-Webster online dictionary defines inchoate as “being only partly in existence or operation.” Dictionary.com describes the word as “just begun and so not fully formed or developed; rudimentary.”
From as early as I can remember, I was taught in school and church that humans are the most developed and intelligent creatures on earth. Through my Catholic elementary school training, I had “learned” that we, as humans, have dominion over the planet and all the creatures on it.
In fourth grade, I learned about the solar system. Like many children in the ’70s and ’80s, I had to create a physical model of the planets. I was fascinated and longed to learn more. The church and my classes preached that we are here in God’s image. There is no other intelligent life—but that always seemed like such a boring story to me.
My Catholic school did teach us about the Big Bang theory. They also taught creation. It didn’t make sense, of course. No one, including my parents, questioned what felt like an obvious conundrum to me. When I asked about it, my teachers or mom would seemingly make things up on the spot—explaining that the Bible’s or science’s exact numbers might be fuzzy, or that one day of creation described in the Bible was actually millions of years.
Sometime around middle school, in a science class, I first heard that humans only use 10% of their brain. It was unclear whether that was all we were capable of or simply all we used. I was a disinterested pre-teen and, though I wondered, I wasn’t curious enough to raise my hand and ask.
One night in high school, after a shift at my ice cream scooping job, I lay under my covers with the telephone cord stretched tightly from my nightstand, talking to the brother of one of my coworkers. He was a little older than me. We had flirted a few times, and he had asked me for my number. I had a private phone line in my room, so I was able to talk with a fair amount of privacy. The phone line was a Christmas gift from my parents one year—and thinking about it now as I write, it was likely a gift for everyone in the household.
We didn’t talk about anything scandalous, but the privacy allowed my mind to wander and random thoughts to surface. Somehow, the conversation led to the question of space and other intelligent life. I remember being totally engaged and just expressing thoughts as they arose. Some of them were:
If dogs can hear things we can’t, what makes us think there aren’t things we can’t hear? Does that apply to our sight too? Are there things right next to us we can’t see? We only know the colors on the visible spectrum—what if there are more we simply can’t perceive?
I thought about this conversation many times over the course of my life and expanded on it into other thoughts and theories. When talking with others, I sometimes found myself in heated intellectual debates about science and what we know. Some argued that we would know if there were other things around us or other intelligent life. Others held strong religious beliefs that we are all there is and are made in God’s likeness—so stop asking questions. And some were more open-minded and curious when I shared these thoughts.
Last night, I was lounging on the sofa with my husband while streaming the latest Star Wars movie. Our dog Koji was on the floor below us. At some point early in the movie (before we fell asleep), Koji got up, seemingly perturbed. He stood in front of the TV in full soldier mode—tail high, the hair along his back raised. He was partially growling and partially squeaking in fear. He paused, cocked his head, and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Eventually, he decided there was no danger and came back to lie near our feet, this time with one ear alert.
I couldn’t help but wonder what Koji thinks of this rectangular box that we sit and watch. It makes noises—sometimes dogs barking or a doorbell ringing. When this happens, he becomes confused, running around barking or growling. He is completely incapable of understanding that we are watching a story. The concept of a movie or even a book is beyond the scope of his brain. We can’t explain it to him—and even if we could, he doesn’t have the sensory ability to perceive it the way we do.
This brings my thoughts back to us.
If we truly evolved from amoeba to monkeys to humans over trillions of years, what makes anyone believe, even for a moment, that humans will not continue to evolve into something even more intelligent than we are now? If we are only using a fraction of our brains, then perhaps our brains are inchoate. Perhaps there are things right next to us that we simply cannot see or understand—just as Koji cannot understand the television.
I personally believe there is so much out there that we just don’t know—and cannot possibly know—because we don’t yet have the sensory organs to perceive it. When I bring this up, people often seem uncomfortable and dismiss it quickly. I’m not sure why. Electricity existed long before we discovered how to harness it. It seems unlikely that we have already discovered everything there is to discover.
It would be even more unlikely to believe that the limitations of our five senses are enough to understand everything the universe contains.
If we evolved from monkeys, we know they are limited.
We are limited too.
Because, in my very humble (and perhaps slightly crazy) opinion, our brains are inchoate.
via Daily Prompt: Inchoate
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We are born with nothing—not even clothes. At the moment of death, we might be donning some attire and perhaps clutching something—a person, animal, or object (or all three). But those physical remnants remain. We come into the world with nothing physical but the body. When we leave, we leave even the body behind. The only thing that goes is that light in our eyes—our spirit.
So why do we become attached to anything? Why do we spend that precious time between life and death hauling around stuff? Worrying about stuff? “Stuff” being our cars, clothes, friends, jobs, or status. The only thing that really matters is the imprint we leave on the planet, created through our spirit. We can’t haul anything but our spirit out of this world, so why isn’t the spirit the main focus of living? Why are we focused on stuff?
I started yoga like many others—for the physical practice. My first experience was with a VHS tape at home in my living room. “This is easy!” I thought. It must be because I’m flexible and was a dancer when I was young. I moved from position to position and sat there waiting to see what I would be told by the TV to do next. I ignored the cues to breathe—“Geez, I know how to breathe”—and to “open up”—“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” I was annoyed at the end when the suggestion was to lie on my back for several minutes. “What a waste of time!”
I went to actual classes a few times, but I didn’t quite understand it. I only did yoga at home because I heard it was good for you. I didn’t particularly enjoy it, and I absolutely skipped the lying-on-your-back part at the end.
Until one day I went to a class at a local chiropractic office that was offering free classes for a week. The classes all had different names. I couldn’t tell them apart and really didn’t care. The time I was able to get home from work and get my husband situated with the kids was far more important. I went to a class Monday and Tuesday—same experience—but this time I had to lie in silence at the end. I really disliked that part.
However, the Wednesday class was life-altering. It was called “Love Your Body Yoga.” Yoga was yoga to me. The postures all even seemed the same. But there was something different about this class. Perhaps the teacher’s voice or encouragement—I don’t know; it was too long ago now to remember. Somehow, though, I was able to do the postures better. I listened to the cues to breathe and expand in certain parts. I moved slowly, mindfully, and with grace.
At the end, I was looking forward to the lying meditation (known as savasana—pronounced “shavasana”). During savasana, the teacher came around with an oil for our foreheads. When she gently put her hands on my temples, I felt such peace I almost wanted to cry. The smell was light and citrusy, almost like incense. The experience was so comforting. When I left class, I kept touching my forehead and smelling the oil. I felt a sense of peace.
My practices at home became a little different after that, although I was never able to get into a good routine and reap the full benefits of yoga. Years later, on a whim, I signed up for a local class at Park & Rec. I knew yoga was good for me, I knew how to do it (or so I thought), and I wanted a steady place where I wouldn’t be lazy and skip it.
The first class was amazing. I drove away with a sense of bliss. That night in bed, when I turned over in the middle of the night, I felt space in my body as well as an overall sense of harmony. I kept going, and the benefits kept getting better and better. It wasn’t very long before I had my first cry on the mat while in pigeon (something I now know is quite common). Soon after that, the mind-body-spirit connection was undeniable.
Where has this been all my life? Do other people know about it? Why isn’t this more well known??? Our spirit is the key to life.
I didn’t know it until long after I started yoga teacher training, but the word yoga means “to yoke”—particularly, to yoke the mind, body, and spirit. I know there are many other ways to link the mind, body, and spirit. Others have found the answers in different ways but have come to the same sense of yoking. Once you sense that connection, it’s difficult to go back to the material way of living because you know, deep down, that it doesn’t matter.
Yoga isn’t a magical cure that works all the time. In fact, many times I move through a whole practice and never feel “settled.” The difference is that I know my mind, body, and spirit are disconnected, and I do not like that sense of separation. I know that trying to fill that space with stuff only leads to more suffering and even greater separation. I know this—and most of the time, I still cannot master it. But the time between remembering where true peace comes from grows a tiny bit each day.
The time between birth and death is our life. In that life, we accumulate things—physical things. We become attached to those things. We become attached to people. We become attached to happiness and think something is wrong when we are sad. We need to eat, sleep, and eliminate in order to function and stay healthy. To do that, we need stuff. So we spend our lives hauling it around—from birth to death. Stuff to eat, stuff to sleep, stuff to look good in the eyes of others. At any moment, we are likely carrying something—whether it’s a wallet, purse, tube of lip balm, or like me, bags and bags of food, drink, or things I might need.
I’m not proposing that we don’t have stuff. We absolutely need things to function and stay alive. The disconnect comes in two forms:
Taking more than we need
Becoming attached to it
There are two ways to approach this:
You can listen to authorities who preach it
You can discover it for yourself
The problem with the first is that many who preach it don’t fully live it. Our parents taught us not to take more than we need, yet we likely watched them consume more than necessary. The same goes for teachers, preachers, friends, and society at large. The message was conflicted, and if you’re anything like me, you didn’t even question the contradiction.
Discovering it for yourself is entirely different. Once you realize that non-attachment and taking only what you need leads to a sense of freedom, it becomes hard to ignore. Before that realization, the voice in your head may create guilt—but true understanding from within is far more powerful.
Old habits are incredibly difficult to break. There isn’t a switch that flips where we suddenly make perfect decisions. In fact, there is often more inner debate, guilt, and remorse than ever before.
Wikipedia describes the “monkey mind” as a Buddhist term meaning restless, unsettled, and constantly moving. The monkey mind is the voice in your head that never stops. It jumps from thought to thought, worry to worry, craving to craving. It is like a toddler that never grows up—focused on “me, me, me.”
The spirit, on the other hand, is quiet and knowing. It understands what is right. It responds with care—for your body and for the world. It doesn’t shout, but if you listen, it will guide you.
The challenge is that the habits in our brain respond faster than that quiet inner voice. The mind is used to listening to the louder chatter. We give in to it, just to quiet it—like we might with a child. That is why yoking the mind, body, and spirit is so important. When they align, there is no conflict. The path becomes clear.
Even if you haven’t experienced that connection yet—or aren’t sure what I’m talking about—
Consider not hauling around so much stuff, whether physical or emotional. Practice non-attachment, knowing nothing lasts forever. Take only what you need.
With time and practice, the space between remembering grows longer… and with that comes a sense of peace.
DailyPost: Haul
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