Month: March 2025

The Way In is the Way Out

Remember those finger traps? The woven tube that tightens when we pull? The harder we struggle, the more stuck we become. The only way out is to stop resisting and accept where we are.

Tibetan yogis compare the wisdom path to a snake moving through a tube—it cannot turn around. Zookeepers use restraining tubes to calm snakes, and unlike us, the snake doesn’t waste energy resisting. It may not be happy, but it surrenders to the reality of the moment.

A Wisdom Path is a journey toward clarity. Over time, we see ourselves and the world more clearly. Lakthong—“clear seeing”—is the ability to move beyond ego and perceive reality as it is. But obscurations—blockages in the body, shadows in the mind, blind spots in life—distort our view. These obstacles, frustrating as they are, require patience, care, and awareness. The only way forward is to relax, release the struggle, and begin to understand our imprisonment.

Once we enter the spiritual path, like the snake in its tube, we cannot turn back. We cannot unsee what we’ve seen. Fear, doubt, and worry attempt to enclose us in protective bubbles. We rationalize our imprisonment, repeating ideas that justify suffering: The world is dangerous. These people are that way. I am this way. This self-definition comforts but confines us. The idea of “me” is a refuge, but it comes with limitations. Connecting with clarity beyond “me” is unsettling because we can’t control it. Yet this is how we grow. Even trying a new flavor of ice cream expands the brain’s experience. The brain thrives on novelty—reiterating the familiar only reinforces limitation.

Turning outward is both threatening and necessary. We must be brave enough to err, to be embarrassed, to have our sense of self challenged—because this is how we learn. The brain loves experiential learning more than accumulating knowledge. Moving beyond negativity bias, we open to new experiences that build fresh neural pathways. But growth isn’t always outward; it is also inward. When we feel stuck or trapped in patterns, we can investigate the present moment. Awareness loosens the grip of constriction. Moving toward wisdom means shedding what keeps us from clear-seeing. It’s like peeling an onion—there is no ultimate center, only the process of discovery.

When fear or doubt overwhelm us, we can love ourselves—not through distraction, but by turning inward and asking: What is happening? Conceptual knowledge often blocks deeper learning. True understanding happens in the depths of experience. Growth isn’t always triumphant—our first steps into a new paradigm are often fragile. As Sakya Pandita noted, the shaft of an arrow runs true into the future—brave and steady—while the arrowhead panics: Oh no, oh no!

When we stop struggling and instead relax into our constraints, we begin to see them. We feel the fear holding us in place. This transforms obstacles from obstructions into transparent aspects of experience. What if our struggles lost their oppressive weight and became part of our wisdom? I lock myself in my room and refuse to move. But when I turn inward and map the experience, I loosen its hold. Negative actions create negative consequences, reinforcing themselves. The same is true of positive actions. We become obligated to these loops, whether good or bad.

In the highest view of Tibetan Buddhism, samsara and nirvana—heaven and hell—are inseparable. Even good karma, if it perpetuates itself, can obscure reality. The point is to see our actions with clarity. It is said that when we fully see our activity, there is no karmic consequence. This radical statement suggests the power of awareness. Even when our actions harm ourselves or others, seeing them fully is the first step toward liberation.

We move through the tube of fear not by ignoring it or lashing out, but by looking inward. The way out is in. Instead of struggling and becoming more entangled, we observe ourselves. Gently and persistently, we realize our obscurations are the path. There is nowhere to go but here. There is nothing to see but our own experience. Instead of chasing an imagined destination, we can rest in who we are and learn from what is here, now. Letting go doesn’t mean pushing away; it means releasing our grip. Struggle is holding. Accept what is happening and relax into the tube.

Padmasambhava, known as Pema Jungné—“Lotus Born”—was said to have been born fully awakened atop a lotus. The lotus grows from the muck, yet blooms into open awareness. The story illustrates that awakening is not something we become, but something we uncover. The path is long, requiring full acceptance of our imprisonment, yet awakening is instantaneous because it has always been there—like a lotus opening to the sun. We will never become enlightened someday; we can only become enlightened now.

It takes humility to accept ourselves and patience to stay present. Whether sitting atop the lotus or in the muck, turning toward our experience leads us out—not because we are going anywhere, but because life itself is change. Meditation is surrendering to now. The universe is in movement; by being here, we surrender to that. During a talk, Chögyam Trungpa said something chilling: “It’s happening right now.” The room fell silent.

Maybe that was the point.

 

 

 

I lay in bed this morning, unable to get motivated, pondering the deep existential question why bother? And when I get like this the only answer to why bother is … eh, fuck it.

In meditation training, we learn that every experience is worthy of investigation. Yet this sense of “why bother” is one I reject outright. Its insidious banality suggests “keep moving,  there’s nothing to see here.”  So I lay there, scratching about the corners of my brain, scrolling through the internet, seeking distraction, or maybe even a little self-reinforcing negativity. One positive about our world these days is there’s no lack of material to support a depressive state. Despite my worst intentions, I stumbled upon a You Tube short of Jim Carrey’s. I assumed it would be a laugh. Instead, I caught him talking about depression. He quoted his teacher Jeff Foster’s notion that “depressed” could translate to “deep rest”. Carrey said depression was the body’s way of telling the brain “Fuck you, I don’t want to be this avatar you’ve created anymore.” My ideas about myself are so much to live up to.

Then I began to see my morning malaise as a strike, of sorts. A part of me had grown tired of being ignored and unseen.  My social self—what Martha Beck calls the “pretend self”—is built around teaching, coaching, being available to others. I love this work, I feel at home in it. And yet, this is only a part of myself. It’s clear there are parts I’m not comfortable seeing or sharing. When this happens, maybe the mask I’ve created has become too heavy for the rest of me to wear.

Sometimes depression is angry and volatile. This angry depression is sexy enough to keep me interested. But these wet blanket moments when the world is dull and uninspiring are truly maddening- or would be if I cared enough to get mad. Perhaps this dull depression is designed to keep me from looking beneath the surface, from uncovering what may be really happening. Maybe before I could decide what’s really happening beneath, before I analyze anything further, I could apply Ockham’s Razor and reduce it down to what is actually happening right here. Right now, I’m stuck.

Stuck.

In my meditation training they would call this resistance. And they would say that resistance is the path. When I first heard this, it seemed to absolve me of my natural reluctance, it made me feel like it was OK and part of the process. However, many years later, I’m becoming impatient with these delays in the progress of my life and it feels galling. But that’s not looking from where I am, it’s looking from the point of view of the avatar, my imaginary-supposed-wanna-being. Being stuck in my resistance is what is happening now, all that is happening now. I’ve experienced this often in my life, so maybe it’s time I decided to look at it. Instead of thinking “dammit, not you again” I might invite the experience in, let it have a seat and get to know it. When we meet our resistance, we are touching the path itself.

Resistance is where the rubber meets the road or, as the Tibetans say, “when rock hits bone.”  This initially may shock us into numbness. All we feel is that erie Lackawanna, like a 2 year old’s mantra of “NO NO NO!”  But maybe I can just look at this. Maybe it’s not a grand existential crisis, not a dramatic psychological wound, maybe it’s—just I don’t want to.  Instead of assuming I should be different, I could explore what it actually feels like to be here not wanting to be here. Resistance is not an obstacle to the path; resistance is the path. It’s the moment we are forced to sit down, to feel the discomfort fully, and to learn from it. The more uncomfortable it is, the more there is to see. Instead of searching for complex explanations, maybe the truth is simple: my body and mind are saying, Pause. Feel this. I sometimes look out my window at people working, doing jobs I have no interest in, and yet I feel guilty. They’re working hard, supporting their families, and I’m lying here chewing on my own thoughts. But maybe this is my work—to investigate my own experience, to make sense of it, to translate it. Maybe these periods of shutdown are moments of resynchronization.

I think a lot of depression hides behind this deep exhaustion that makes even the smallest movement seem impossible. I thrive on offering myself to others, in being present for them, but there’s a disconnect when it comes to directing that same care toward myself. It’s not that I’m incapable of engagement—I’m deeply engaged when it comes to others. But when I turn inward, that engagement becomes resistance, inertia, even paralysis. It makes sense that this might be an invitation, a signal to pause and investigate: Where am I not living truthfully? When I’m with others, my next steps are clear—I listen, I hold space, I respond. But alone, lying in bed in the morning, wondering why I should bother, I feel lost. Depression, I suspect, creates a loop where each time it returns, it feels like it has always been there. And since I spend so much time in this inert state, maybe it’s time to stop resisting it, to really experience it instead. Not to judge it, not to push it away, but to let it unfold and see what’s there. We often want change without fully acknowledging what is. But how can we move forward if we don’t first accept where we are?

Depression, when experienced as deep rest, may be a forced resynchronization, a way to reset the system. The Japanese philosophy of Kaizen suggests that when we’re stuck, it’s not because we’re failing but because we haven’t yet learned how to succeed. It teaches that small, incremental steps can help us move forward. If my room is a mess, my desk is piled high, and my taxes loom over me, tackling it all at once feels impossible. But if I decide that today, I will write this, meditate for a few minutes, and make a good cup of tea, those are small, doable actions. I don’t need to force myself into massive leaps—I need to align with what is possible right now. It’s strange how we expect ourselves to emerge from depression with force, to suddenly regain clarity and momentum. But what if the way forward is softer, more patient? What if, instead of pushing myself to break through, I let myself dissolve into the experience fully? Depression doesn’t mean I am broken. It means something inside me is asking to be heard, asking to rest, asking to be real. And maybe the more I resist that, the more it holds on.

Maybe the real work isn’t about changing myself to fit a mold. Maybe it’s about becoming synchronized with who I actually am. Not who I think I should be, not who I wish I were, but this person, in this moment, as I am right now. And maybe that’s all we need right now. Then we can ask the big questions. Where am I not living truthfully?  Are there things I want to feel, but can’t?  Am I frightened?

Maybe today I can forget where I’m going and discover who I am beneath the heavy mask. The method here is holding space and asking questions, just as I would do for clients or friends. Discovering implies learning something new. We are not obligated to do anything with the information, except listen. Sometimes our inner voices want the wrong things. Sometimes they may be yelling from the rooftops. But, all they really want is their voice.

Sometimes they just need to be heard.

 

First Thought, Best Thought

Commiting to Yes (And…)

First Thought, Best Thought was the title of a book of poetry by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche and a phrase he used to describe engaging fresh mind in any creative endeavor. Last week, we discussed the idea of a fresh start—how returning to the breath brings us into the present, allowing our next step to be free of past attachments. In this sense, first thought is the moment the mind comes to a creative inflection point, that is stepping forward with confidence and clarity.

However, first thought is not the first thought we notice. By the time we become aware of our thinking, we are generally enmeshed in a point of view shaped by past experience. This natural function of the mind contextualizes the present based on what we’ve learned, which, while useful, can lend itself to reiteration, blocking true creative exploration.

There are two aspects of mind we can consider: the fresh, free-flowing mind and the compounded mind that analyzes and categorizes based on prior knowledge. The compounded mind refines what it already knows, strengthening established neural pathways. This can feel satisfying and safe. Think serotonin. Fresh mind, on the other hand, forges new synaptic connections—an activity that excites the brain in an entirely different way. Think dopamine. Both aspects are integral to our mind when they harmonize in a workable balance. These fall out of balance when we lock ourselves into a secure redoubt, or jettison ourselves into unprotected space. These are known as 1st and 3rd circles, respectively. The middle way is known as the 2nd circle. This is the space of optimum creativity.

Square One and the Power of Space

In Trungpa Rinpoche’s Dharma Art course, the very first class begins with students sitting in a circle. There is a blank white sheet spread on the floor. This experience, which he called Square One, was designed to immerse students in the energy of clear, open space. The entire premise of Dharma Art—creating authentic expression within one’s environment—relied on the understanding that Square One was completely empty.

Emptiness is often misunderstood. To the materialist, ego-driven mind, emptiness feels like voidness, a loss of reference points. When we are not preoccupied with acquiring, ignoring, or resisting external things, the ego panics, interpreting the lack of engagement as nonexistence. Yet, space—like the vastness surrounding our planet—is filled with energy and potential. In tantric traditions, space is considered the feminine principle, the womb of all creation.

Sitting around the white sheet, the mind naturally throws up objections. It searches for past experiences to contextualize the moment, and when it fails, it fabricates fantasies based on conditioning. Anything to avoid accepting the pure potential of space. This can feel agonizing, especially when we believe we are supposed to create something. But did the universe know what it was creating when it began?

The Sacred Moment of Not Knowing

When faced with uncertainty, the ego scrambles to define, control, or solve what is before it. This is a noble instinct, but it is not the act of creation. Many spiritual traditions hold the moment of not knowing as sacred. The I Ching describes this as the moment just before the sacrifice, when the practitioner silently opens to the divine. This pause—this waiting—creates space for inspiration.

But what is inspiration? What is channeling? What does it mean to create without the conscious mind dictating the process? When we reach our highest potential and then simply open in silence, we are not controlling what comes next; we are making space for it to emerge. The next impulse may arise internally or from the environment. In theatrical improvisation, it might be prompted by a partner’s line. If we already know the line—as in scripted theater—we strive to make our response feel spontaneous. But in true improvisation, we do not know the prompt beforehand, so our response emerges authentically, as if it were a pure first thought.

Improvisation, Acceptance, and Flow

Naturally, even improvisation has guidelines to sustain the creative flow. The most well-known rule is Yes, and…—the principle of accepting whatever is presented and responding intuitively.

Our habitual responses to the world tend to fall into three categories: acceptance, resistance, or avoidance. Improvisation shifts this toward acceptance. The second rule, No Denial, ensures that energy continues moving forward. For instance, if my scene partner says, Good morning, Doctor, I should not reply, I’m not a doctor! That would break the flow. Instead, I might say, Good morning, Mrs. Smith. Your dog is doing very well and can be picked up today. This maintains the reality we are creating while still allowing space for personal agency.

Trungpa Rinpoche’s Dharma Art was a laboratory for discovering pure impulse and response in the creative process. It was not meant for performance. To cultivate a coherent flow, Trungpa employed three guiding principles: Heaven, Earth, and Human. A response could offer a larger perspective (Heaven), set the ground for what is happening now (Earth), or engage another person emotionally (Human).

Just as the universe created itself, humanity may have evolved to perceive, feel, and interact with that unfolding creation. When we gaze at the night sky, we see a seemingly static and reliable expanse. Yet, in reality, it is dynamic and ever-changing. The stars we see may no longer exist as they appear; their light has taken years, even millennia, to reach us. The sky is a snapshot of creation in motion. When we quiet the mind—acknowledging our thoughts but resting in the space between them—we create the silence needed for inspiration to arise.

Creativity as a Way of Being

Of course, not every first thought is brilliant. That’s why the Dharma Art approach values process over performance. What matters is accessing the pure moment of space and noticing what naturally arises—before conditioning encumbers it. This process mirrors the way we engage with structured and unstructured elements in life.

A society functions through rules and norms, yet within that structure, we can live creatively. We don’t need to force ourselves to conform to rigid formulas, but we also don’t have to reject structure altogether. Instead, we can relate to societal frameworks in a way that allows for meaningful interaction while maintaining creative freedom.

In art, we see this dynamic play out in genre conventions. A procedural or romance novel follows a predictable structure (Earth), whereas an experimental novel unfolds in real time (Heaven). The most compelling works balance these elements, engaging readers with familiarity while surprising them with discovery. Similarly, we can author our own lives—grounded in reality yet open to the unknown.

This brings us back to the blank space. Try this experiment: Pause. Let your mind rest. Instead of steering your thoughts toward a desired outcome—especially one shaped by preconceived notions of what meditation or creativity should be—allow yourself to simply be. Notice the first authentic impulse that arises.

If you commit to Yes, and…, you can take the next step toward creating your piece, your day, or your life.

Good Morning, Everyone

We can say this regardless of the time of day because returning to the present is always a fresh start. Each fresh start is a new beginning. Every time we return to nowness, it’s like the first day of spring.

This fresh start can occur in an instant or unfold as a broader reset in our lives. It is a vital component of establishing sanity, balance, and serenity on our path. Meditation master Chögyam Trungpa referred to the grand scope of the present—replete with its possibilities, practicalities, and even our past—as nowness. It is more expansive than “the now” or the pinpoint present moment. It is the openness of life unfolding around us, encompassing who we are, where we’re going, and where we’ve come from.

Returning to nowness can be a reboot for the spirit when we become bogged down by worry and doubt. It synchronizes us so we can move forward authentically—acknowledging our fears and confusion but not being blocked by them. Authentic movement is not a frantic push to escape fear but a calm, steady trajectory toward liberation. In this way, fear itself becomes a stepping stone toward fearlessness. Fearless means less fear—we acknowledge our fears, but we do not let them dictate our path.

Dr. Dean Ornish, a cardiologist and senior yoga practitioner, conducted groundbreaking studies in the 1970s that awakened people to the importance of whole foods and a healthy diet. However, he also emphasized that heart disease wasn’t just a result of poor nutrition—it was also due to our inability to release accumulated tension. Modern life conditions us to focus excessively on the negative, a habit rooted in self-protection but one that prevents us from looking up and moving forward. Negative experiences live within us, creating somatic tension and psychological stagnation. It is vital that we learn to release this tension before it drains our life force. Whether through yoga, meditation, walking, or simply gazing out the window, clearing these systemic clogs allows our natural being to reinvigorate and restore.

The brain craves fresh information to forge new synaptic connections that keep it engaged and alive. When we continuously refine the same thought processes without new input, the mind stagnates, pulling back its capabilities as if to say, Oh, we’re doing this again. Habitual patterns, in this way, can become obstacles to spiritual realization. Rather than flowing freely, we find ourselves trapped in energetic cul-de-sacs. But just as morning light signals a new day and spring brings renewal, we, too, can embrace a fresh start—one that replenishes and rejuvenates our system. This reflection is about feeling our doubt yet finding the courage to let it go and step into a fresh morning.

Periods of rest, sleep, and even hibernation are necessary for recovery. However, when the time comes to lift our gaze, we might choose to embrace the next moment, no matter how challenging, uncertain, or frustrating. Each moment is beautiful because it is the next step on our path. Our mind wants that challenge—it thrives on discovery and the unknown.

On a fundamental level, we can distinguish two aspects of the mind: the expansive mind, which seeks growth and renewal, and the protective mind, which prioritizes safety and retreat. The protective mind is natural and necessary. However, when overemphasized, it limits our experience of reality’s vastness and beauty. Even if we are physically constrained—by illness, circumstance, or resources—our mind retains the capacity for profound movement, openness, and understanding. It is a matter of perspective. While survival is crucial, we must allow ourselves to stop worrying about it sometimes. In meditation, we train ourselves to acknowledge our fears yet look beyond them to the full scope of life.

So, where do we look when we’re done licking our wounds or bracing ourselves for the unknown? We look at everything that is already here. These very things provide sustenance to the spirit and allow the mind to refresh. We do not need to force ourselves into new situations to keep the mind fresh. Instead, we simply return to the present as it is, allowing each moment to be a new beginning. When we meet life with openness in this way, we are free to move forward with authenticity. Authenticity means that when we are aligned with ourselves, we can step into nowness with confidence and awareness.

Opening to the world with confidence builds further confidence. When we step forward naturally, we reassure the fearful parts of ourselves that they are seen and cared for. But they do not need to control the journey. These parts will raise objections now and then, and when those fears are valid, we might pause and examine them. However, more often than not, fear arises from insecurity rather than reality. It is like a frightened child—or, in my case, my Aunt Carmen—sitting in the back seat of our car, terrified of how fast my father was driving. We don’t need to disparage or suppress this fear; we can acknowledge it, even smile at it, as Chögyam Trungpa would say. And then, we keep moving forward—with evenness and surety.

I once trained with a coach who had been a fighter pilot in Afghanistan. His missions were reconnaissance flights, flying low through the mountains—danger below from anti-aircraft weaponry, danger above from shifting air currents. Precision was everything. When asked if he was ever afraid, he said, Of course, I was frightened. It would be absurd not to be. But, he explained, he did not allow fear to speak louder than the mission. Instead, he treated fear like a co-pilot—right there beside him, keeping him sharp and present, but never clouding his judgment or holding him back.

It is important to acknowledge our fear-based mind. But it is essential not to allow fear to dictate our course or obscure our purpose. Notice the voice with love and come back to nowness. With mindfulness training, every time we feel fear, we can return. And every time we return, we reset the system, allowing us to step forward with loving confidence in ourselves, our journey, and our world.