How to Not Be Pissed Off

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

How would you like to live in a world where no one ever pissed you off?  A world where no one ever irritated you or rubbed you the wrong way or made you crazy?  A world where everyone knew how to drive? 

Well, you can.  

I’m not yanking your chain.  You absolutely can live in that world.  It’s not a dream or an always-just-out-of-reach utopia.  

I’m not talking about changing the behavior of 8.3 billion people. That’s silly.  No one would even consider that course of action.  And yet, we seem to live

every. single. day. of. our. lives.

trapped in that delusional endeavor. We know this because we feel the frustration, the anger, the irritation, the insanity.  The only way we can have these reactions is if we are attached to the behavior of others and believe that it should change.  Frustration is our control issue temporarily forgetting we’re enlightened.  

That one person in your yoga class who interrupts the instructor to prove they already know everything being taught plus so much more.

That woman in front of you at the checkout who digs around endlessly in her old school wallet for exact change when you are in a hurry and stand ready to quickly tap your phone and go.  

That meeting that could have been an email. 

We face countless people and situations on a daily basis that can drive us absolutely bonkers if we let them.  The good news is that we don’t have to let them.  

In fact, we can take that one step further — we can learn to appreciate them as spiritual guides. Every instance that shines a spotlight on our attachments is a gift from the heavens helping us see what work remains to be done.  

This work is not for the faint of heart.  It requires brutal honesty and a sincere intention to live in spiritual alignment rather than just visiting it periodically.  It calls us to look the irritant right in the eye and admit it caught us in our ego.  Perhaps we got complacent or flat-out lazy.  Every time that happens, the ego races to the front of the line like an eager corporal trying to earn another stripe. It is so adept at easing into the leadership position that we don’t even feel the shift to a different marching rhythm. 

The first time I did this, looked squarely at what irked me and acknowledged that the behavior might be theirs but the irksomeness was all mine, it was physically painful.  Not “almost.” Not “literally” as in figuratively.  But “literally” as in literally.  Releasing my grip on “you’re an idiot who needs to change” and focusing instead on my ego-draped reaction was uncomfortable, and I felt that discomfort in my very bones. 

The good news is that with time and practice it really does get a little easier.  I doubt I will ever live frustration-free despite the hopeful absolutism of my initial claim.  But the bottom line is that if we want peace, then we have two options: change the behavior of 8.3 billion people or release the attachments to that behavior that keep us in hell.  

Practice every day.  Notice frustration and then step back into the place of the observer.  Consider the option you have of choosing release rather than attachment. For more consistently present irritants, consider making them the focus of a compassion meditation. Thank them for being your reminder that living without attachment makes miracles happen, miracles like 8.3 billion people changing in an instant.   

A Time I Knew

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 

Digging a hole to plant some 
purslane, I found a penny,
old, worn, thin, dirty. I rinsed 
it in the kitchen sink and
squinted, then took a picture 
I could enlarge.
1982. 
I was 18. Graduated from
high school that May, then
off to college in August.  Feeling
grown, feeling alone, feeling
hopeful. The world ahead bloated 
with possibility.

If I hadn’t planted the purslane,
the penny might have remained 
buried for years or longer,
much longer, until it aged into
a relic from a time no one
would remember.  

Like this time will one day be – the
demons and the dangers and the demagogues
of this era rubbed thin and rusted
and hard to even read.  Buried. 
Spent. Their bloated possibilities
nothing but history, nothing but
the dirt-caked bones of a time 
no one will know.

March Madness Zen

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

I used to be a sports fan.

My father had been a star athlete in high school, and his coulda-woulda-beens came out in the form of teaching me the games as we watched on our black-and-white TV, then the color TV, then cable. Because of him, I could spot a foul before the whistle blew and confidently yell at the screen when the refs so obviously got it wrong.

He taught me basketball, baseball, and football. With those transferrable skills, I picked up on hockey, golf, tennis, and soccer with relative ease.

Then, at some point in my early 30s, I stopped watching all of it. It didn’t happen all at once. I started to become concerned about the potential brain injuries in football. I became increasingly sensitive to the angry atmospheres of basketball arenas and hockey rinks. I began to see championships as exercises in futility followed immediately by the 0-0 record reset. What was the point? So, gradually, I stepped away from sports completely.

I blamed my spiritual journey. A world of win-loss competitiveness didn’t seem compatible with non-duality. And the inability to endure the vitriol of a live game atmosphere seemed to share DNA with the hours I had accumulated spent in meditation. I had evolved, and athletics were clearly happening on the level of base materialism.

Then the world started to fall apart. One Trump term, a worldwide pandemic, a second Trump term, a direct attack on DEI, a gross lack of compassion, an entire generation of social security recipients facing a fear they never imagined, . . . the list is endless, it seems. I can’t hide under a rock and ignore it, but my sanity can’t take a steady drip of horrible news. I can’t meditate 24 hours a day, but I also can’t survive engaging in life in continually demoralizing ways.

And then I turned on a basketball game.

For a couple of hours, I focused solely on the Memphis Grizzlies. The understanding of the game instilled in me by my father returned with gusto. Most importantly, I was 100% PRESENT. I was in the moment. The very brass ring I reached for in meditation was the free gift of sportsball.

So I’ve filled out not one, but four NCAA tournament brackets — two each for the women’s and the men’s tournaments. I’m taking my wife to her first live NBA game in a couple of weeks. I’m a proud supporter of the basketball, baseball, and softball teams at the community college where I work. And I’m already excited about Vandy football this fall.

I am once again a sports fan. Who meditates. A double-header.

The Hoarder’s House

~ Deb ~ 4 Comments

There is a Goddess who lives in my Essence, the landlord of my heart. She offers communion, grace, peace, and mercy, and I want those gifts more than anything. 

More than anything? Yes, more than anything.  I know that I know that I know this is true.

But the goddess sits on a small stool in a corner, present but quiet, infinite but cramped, shoulders hunched over, arms wrapped around her knees,

Is this enlightenment?  The Divine lives within. I know it. I recognize her. There she is.  Her presence is undeniable. I have this awareness.

I visit her often. I sit with her, offer her food, pray to her, sing for her, chant her name, light a candle so she can see, light incense to give her pleasure. But she just sits there, patiently, as if she has all the time in the world. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t seem to be upset. She sometimes even smiles at my offering. But, mostly, she just sits. 

I, however, am impatient.  I get frustrated. I get angry. I abandon my prayers and chants. They start to feel futile. I leave her alone for long stretches of time.   If she is just going to sit there, I’ve got better things to do. 

When I come back, (I always come back) she is there, on the stool.  

I throw up my hands.  “What do you want from me?” 

“I want to dance with you,” she says.

“I’m ready!  Let’s dance, for heaven’s sake!”

“Look.”  She motions around the space of my heart. 

It’s as if her single word turned on the lights. I see boxes piled high, thousands of them, floor to ceiling, stacks and stacks.  How is it I never noticed there is hardly room to walk?  

“What is all this?” I ask. 

Again she says, “Look,” more softly this time.  

The boxes are labeled.  Work. Relationship. Past relationships. Political Ideology. Upcoming Vacation. Expectations. Pride. Hurt feelings. Things I love. Things I hate. Traffic. Money. 

The largest boxes have the most specific labels.  The Sense of Rejection When Not Cast in That Play.  Guilt About the Girl in Tenth Grade When You Sided With Her Bullies. Victimhood about Never Being Paid What You’re Worth.  Family Dynamics since the Pandemic.  And one just called: First marriage. 

I turn to the goddess.  “These are . . .”

She nods.  “Attachments.” 

I sigh out loud and figure I might as well get started, so I roll up my sleeves and open the first box.  When the goddess stands, I’m so startled that I stop and look at her. 

“What are you doing?” She asks. 

“Figuring out what needs to go and what needs to stay.” 

“It all must go.”  

“All of it?  But I might need this Work box, and I want to keep the Upcoming Vacation box, for sure.” 

The Goddess sits back on the stool and rests her elbows on her knees, chin in her hands.  The look on her face says it all.  There will be no dancing today.  

“C’mon,” I plead.  “Surely you can’t expect me to get rid of all of this.  This is my entire life. This is my story.  This is who I am.  Some of these boxes hold great loves, achievements, happy memories, great times to come.” 

“None of that is here.  These boxes hold the ropes that connect you to the memories, hopes, desires, expectations, likes, and dislikes regarding what is on the labels.  And the ropes have to go.”

“What about this one?” I pick up a huge box labeled Spiritual Journey.  “Surely this one gets to stay.” 

The Goddess chuckles.  “That one especially needs to go. Listen carefully. You’re not releasing the journey; you’re releasing your attachment to the journey.  Don’t you see? No exceptions.  Not one attachment can remain.” 

“Not one?” I ask. 

The Goddess stands again and walks to me.  She puts her hands on my face, like a mother to a child, and whispers, “Do you want to dance with me?” 

The power of her touch surges through my being.  In that instant, I know that giving her the space to move freely through my essence is worth more than all of these boxes a million times over.  I know it is my greatest desire to make my heart her home.  And I know that the path to peace is found in complete surrender.  

“I want nothing but to dance with you,”  I say. 

The Goddess smiles.  “Turn around.”  

I turn and look.  Emptiness.  Beautiful emptiness.  I feel light and empty and full, so very full of love and joy and peace.  I lost nothing.  I gained everything.  And for the first time, I know what freedom is.  

I turn back around.  The Goddess is already dancing, her golden white dress shimmering in the uncovered light of my surrendered heart.