Category: Writing

FACING THE DANGER

We all feel it. Some of us live with it all the time. That live-wire sense of urgency seems to compel us to do … something. Anything. The intensity with which it hits seems to urge action.

Anxiety is, if nothing else, uncomfortable.

We sometimes gird for the danger locked in straight jackets of tension. At other times we freeze in place while piles of unanswered demands keep growing into mountains around us. And other times we just want to run, looking out the window dreaming or doom scrolling for a dopamine rush as we try in vain to keep our mind on a task.  Strangely, as urgent as it is, we  can’t focus 0ur attention.

But the way out of this, is the way in. Recognize it is a fit of anxiety, accept that as a normal process gone a bit off kilter, and look into our experience instead of pushing past the experience. We miss the point and forgo an opportunity when we choose a blind exit strategy.

Wait. It’s okay. You’ve seen this before. This is only the nervous system’s clickbait. Don’t fall for it. Hold your seat and feel in to the experience. You can master this. Or at the very least learn to work with it. But working with something requires we learn more about it. So let’s pause, breathe and take a look into this.

Anxiety is a future-oriented state of apprehension—an emotional response to perceived threats, uncertainty, or the possibility of negative outcomes. It differs from fear, which is tied to an immediate and identifiable danger. Fear has an object we can see, feel, taste, or touch. Anxiety, by contrast, is fear directed toward the unseen and speculative: the imagined scenarios, the “what ifs,” the landscapes of uncertainty our minds project ahead of us.

From an evolutionary perspective, anxiety developed as a survival mechanism. It heightens our vigilance so we can scan for potential threats, and it prepares the body to act quickly—whether through fight, flight, or freeze. In moderate doses, this system is useful, even beneficial, sharpening our focus and improving performance when we face challenges.

However, when anxiety becomes chronic or unmanaged, it begins to reshape both the brain and the body. The amygdala can grow more reactive, making emotional responses quicker and stronger. The hippocampus may shrink, which affects memory and emotional regulation. The prefrontal cortex—responsible for reasoning, planning, and calming the mind—can become impaired, making it harder to talk ourselves down from fear. At the same time, the autonomic nervous system may dysregulate, leading to persistent muscle tension, digestive issues, and disturbed sleep.

Psychologically, anxiety often reflects a pattern of overestimating threats while underestimating our ability to cope. It thrives on intolerance of uncertainty and a constant search for control. Catastrophic thinking and rumination loops can reinforce each other, trapping us in cycles of worry that feel increasingly difficult to escape.

Working with anxiety begins in the body and daily life. Regular exercise helps regulate cortisol and raises endorphin levels, improving mood and resilience. Good sleep hygiene is essential, as poor sleep dramatically amplifies amygdala reactivity and emotional sensitivity. Balanced nutrition stabilizes blood sugar, which directly influences anxiety levels. Simple breathing practices—especially slow diaphragmatic breathing—activate the parasympathetic nervous system and can reduce acute anxiety in real time.

Training the mind adds another layer of support. Mindfulness meditation quiets amygdala activity and strengthens the prefrontal cortex’s ability to regulate emotion. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy helps reframe catastrophic thoughts and builds a more balanced internal dialogue. Exposure therapy gradually teaches the nervous system that feared situations can be tolerated, reducing avoidance patterns over time. Somatic practices such as yoga, body scans, and grounding exercises help soothe physiological hyperarousal and reconnect the mind with the body.

Medication can be an important option when anxiety is persistent or overwhelming. SSRIs are often used for chronic or generalized anxiety because they help regulate mood over the long term. Benzodiazepines may provide short-term relief during episodes of intense anxiety, though they carry risks of tolerance and dependence. Beta-blockers can help manage the physical symptoms of performance-related anxiety, such as trembling or rapid heartbeat.

From a spiritual or contemplative standpoint, anxiety is often viewed as a misalignment with impermanence and uncertainty—an attempt to make solid what is fundamentally fluid. In Buddhist and related traditions, the practice is not to eliminate anxiety but to observe it as a transient mental event rather than a fixed identity. By approaching anxious states with compassion, acceptance, and curiosity, we loosen their grip and begin to transform our relationship with them. Anxiety becomes an experience to understand rather than an enemy to fight.

Anxiety is a natural response encoded in ancient survival circuits. It becomes problematic when it entrenches itself in chronic patterns shaped by neurological, cognitive, and behavioral loops. Yet by understanding how anxiety works—biologically, psychologically, and philosophically—we gain the tools to meet it more skillfully. This i9s to say we learn to work with it.  When we learn to work with something our relationship becomes less contentious.

In the long term, with lifestyle care, cognitive reframing, somatic grounding, and contemplative insight, anxiety becomes less of a barrier and more of a guide.

In the moment of discomfort, remember don’t act. Be cognizant of your breathing. Long slow out breaths.  Calm the system so the mind can become clear. Breathing into the panic is more effective than we might think. Big problems seem to want big remedies. But keeping it simple may be the best way into understanding.

• it’s anxiety
• it’s okay. It’s here to help. It’s just become inflamed.
• how can I make a relationship with this?
• how can I ease the pressure?
• breathe.
• It’s not about me. It’s an ancient reaction to modern life

Gratitude Without Demand

 

Good morning.

I’m writing this on a spectacular morning at the dawn of winter. The sky is blue, a few white clouds drifting by, and the weather is gentle for the week before Thanksgiving. It reminded me that Trungpa Rinpoche used to begin many of his talks, no matter the hour, with Good morning. Even at 11pm, with people possibly  waiting for hours, he’d beg with “Good Morning”. The point was simple: meditation offers a fresh start. A neurological reboot. It doesn’t solve our problems, but it does give our system a moment to soften, refresh, and reset—like refreshing your computer.

Every time we return to the breath in meditation, we are rebooting. Coming back from the intriguing of our thinking, saying good morning to yourself, especially with a small smile, has a real neurological effect. We tend to believe difficult times require huge remedies. When life becomes extreme, we assume our response must be equally extreme. Psychologically, socially, culturally, this is a trap. In daily life that strategy is exhausting. Defensive systems take enormous energy to build and maintain, and they always generate blowback. Aggression breeds aggression. Many of us inherited defensive habits from family dynamics, even generations of them. We are born into lineages of fear and resentment.

It’s up to us if we choose to continue this. A sane antidote is is to interrupt the stream of aggression, by interrupting our thoughts.  Interrupt not uproot. We may benefit from knowing the history of our trauma but intermittently interrupting the flow of suffering may be more profound than we know. It’s certainly easier. All it takes is remembering. And the willingness to train to remember. Which is what meditation is. Just learning to remember to come back.

Good morning.

Said with a real, gentle smile, it can open the smallest gap in the wall-to-wall urgency of life. Rebooting means we can lay down, even briefly, the baggage of defensiveness, doubt, weariness, confusion, complaint.

Writing this on the eve of Thanksgiving and the dawning of winter, I’m reminded of both gratitude and harvest. We reap the goodness we’ve sown and offer it to family and friends. That offering draws us toward the long night ahead, lighting it with appreciation. Gratitude has a genuine neurological impact. In darkness, a single light matters. Instead of dwelling on cold, scarcity, or whatever “toxicity” is in our cupboard, we can choose to feel grateful simply for another day—another chance to live.

This doesn’t make everything easy or abundant. It simply gives us a moment of respite. Good morning, with a smile. In meditation, every return to the breath is a quiet declaration: I’m grateful for this moment. I’m here. With each return, we loosen the grip of our thinking and open ourselves to fresh possibility.

Simple acts of kindness—especially those with no expectation—recharge us. A smile doesn’t need to be worn all day; that would look odd and take too much effort. But an inner smile, a small encouragement toward ourselves, goes a long way. Good morning. A new moment. A simple acceptance of where we are.

Today, at the dawn of winter and just days from Thanksgiving, I am grateful for all of you. I am grateful for anyone who reads this, for anyone who’s benefited from any work I’ve done, because it means the teachings have moved somewhere. I’m grateful for my practice and training, for the ability to return—again and again—to this moment, offering myself kindness with no expectation that it changes a single thing and no demand that we reap what we want to sow.

When we notice, we see how amazing nature growing around us is – how miraculous, how alive. When we smile with gratitude we are joining the world of the living. That’s all we need to do. It’s simple. Trees don’t ask for applause. Birds building nests don’t need approval. Blades of grass pushing through concrete don’t need anything other than soil and sunlight.

Good morning.

With all the demands we place on our life, moving out of our house, getting our teenagers to love us, finding meaningful work, finding a lover who meets our endless list of demands, maybe we can just look with softer eyes and smile in gratitude for the moments that lie between all of these things. We can be grateful for things, of course. But we can just smile just because we’re alive and part of the life around us.

We seek happiness, always. And we have so many ideas of what that means. However, ideas become expectations and expectations become demands. All of this sets ourselves up for disappointment when we fail to get what we think we want, or further expectation when we succeed. This is all so very complicated. Perhaps this is why Chogyam Trungpa made a distinction between happiness and cheering up. Simply said, happiness requires effort and often carries baggage. Happiness also demands freedom for struggle or pain. But cheering up is simple. Smiling in the face of pain, smiling despite our struggle, smiling just for a moment to lighten the load.

That simple neuro-hack won’t change everything.  It may change nothing at all other than that moment.  But life is only moments. So, we are adding sunlight in small increments. That may offer enough release to open our life altogether. Good morning.

And thank you.

When We Give Ourselves

Giving of ourselves doesn’t mean getting rid of ourselves for another’s sake. What can we offer if we have nothing to give? Perhaps it’s about loosening our grip so we can offer everything. And by offering everything, we lose nothing — we gain everything. It’s like opening our hands, our arms, our heart to another. It means releasing our defensive, me-first nature and connecting as equals, discovering strength together.

Clinging to ourselves or others is a symptom of panic and fear. We often believe that letting go — of our defenses, or even of someone we love — will leave us empty. But when we release our grip, our panic, our hoarding of self, we uncover what we truly are. We think nothing will remain — but we’re wrong. Everything remains.

Caring for others doesn’t diminish us; it empowers us. We access and strengthen our natural confidence by giving to others. From Buddha’s perspective, this isn’t self-abandonment but the softening of our defenses so we can truly see another — what they need, and how we might help. Yet this requires strength. Compassion is not submission; it’s a dynamic, equal relationship.

Countless songs, stories, and films tell us another person is “everything” to us: You are the sun and the moon. You are all I need. Beautiful, yes — but also red flags. If you are nothing without me, what can you offer me? How can love be mutual if it isn’t equal?

When under pressure — attacked, afraid, or exhausted — our instinct is to inflate ourselves in defense. But that self-inflation closes us off. We may feel we have nothing to give, yet what we can always offer is connection — even in asking for help. When we hold each other in hardship, we discover mutual strength. When we’re pushed to the wall, we can let the wall hold us and still reach out to hold another.

There are countless stories of people once in conflict who, through shared adversity, forged deep bonds. One photograph shows a fawn and a kitten cuddling — found by firefighters after a blaze. The image is both heartbreaking and heartwarming. Perhaps that’s the synthesis: heart-opening.

Our hearts break just enough to crack our defenses, allowing connection. That being — holding us in turmoil — touches our heart as we touch theirs. This goes beyond gender, religion, culture, or attraction. It’s the raw human pulse beneath all that.

You could say our world is at a crisis point — and all we truly have to rely on is each other: our hearts, hopes, dreams, and shared aspiration to live with kindness and respect.

If we want a world of kindness, we can’t wait for others to model it. Nor can we carry it alone. Compassion is a mutual agreement among beings.

Buddhist compassion asks us to look beyond labels and see the truth at the heart of being. What makes us human, animal, alive — part of this planet — isn’t hatred, fear, or violence, even for survival. Our survival depends on union and communication.

Benjamin Franklin said, “If we don’t hang together, surely we will hang separately.”

At the root of compassion, in the heart of the Mahayana tradition, lies the knowing that our heart is vast, capable, and strong. Our limits are not imposed by others or society — they are imposed by our belief in those limits.

When we trust the vastness of our heart, extending it to others becomes natural. And necessary. We have the freedom, power, and strength to do so — not for reward or debt, but for shared survival.

This isn’t a power play. It’s an act of mutual care that may be accepted or misunderstood. Still, we return to letting go — not discarding anything, but keeping the heart of kindness intact. Letting go of the outcome. Letting go of ourselves — not to diminish, but to open, open to the sadness and the joy, the beauty and the dross, the fear and our bravery in the face of it all.

We don’t need to put others down to lift ourselves up, nor shrink to help anyone rise. The weak claw their way over others; fomenting hate to get ahead.  True strength comes from openness — from seeing ourselves in one another.

And our bravery in the face of it all.

When the Universe Falls on Your Shoulders

That feeling of overwhelm — when everything seems to reach critical mass — is unsettling. Yet it can also be an invitation: a chance to practice mindfulness within crisis, not apart from it.

Often, what we call a “crisis” is simply too many things happening at once for us to navigate. This makes it hard to see what’s what. The pressure compounds because in the mess there are always few tasks that must get done — or else they might turn into a crisis. Letters unopened, emails unread, a bed unmade, laundry spilling over the hamper like it’s coming to get me. Most of this happens in a dimly lit room — and somehow this feels heavier on a beautiful day. It’s as if I’ve come to resent the sunlight.

Maybe that’s a New York thing.

I once heard a story about the Ramones’ first trip to California — they bought umbrellas. People laughed and said, “It doesn’t rain that much here,” and they said, “No — they’re for the sun. We can’t go back with tans; that would ruin us.” Everyone seems slimmer, happier, more functional — while I’m here staring at a pile of papers, an inbox full of needs, and laundry whispering my name. My throat tightens; my shoulders rise. It feels like I’m living in The Upside Down — to borrow from Stranger Things.

This “upside down”  might a self-imposed form of defense, as though chaos is our invisibility cloak. But the more we hide, the more life keeps calling from outside the door, and the higher the piles get, the more overwhelmed we feel.  Avoidance doesn’t stop the demands of living. It just enables more pressure.

So, how does anyone seeking balance, keep their sanity when life feels like it’s closing down on us from all sides?

Before any tasks are attempted it’s important to eliminate what we don’t need. Self-recrimination, distraction, longing looks out the window.  Let’s turn toward the chaos, so we can navigate a way through it.

 

R A I N

One helpful approach is the RAIN method:

R — Recognize that life has become unmanageable.

A — Accept that this may stem from a lack of mindfulness or attention.

It’s been said that the only real mistake we make is failing to pay attention — because if we’re truly present, we have the capacity to meet whatever arises.

The less attention we give, the more pressure builds, and the less capable we feel.

I — Investigate what’s happening. Sometimes that simply means doing one small thing to get started. Maybe its triage, just creating a list of things we need to address in descending order.

I once had a coach who told me, “Today, just organize your paper clips. Nothing else.”

That’s from Kaizen — a Japanese method of steady improvement. It’s based on the idea that we aren’t failures; we just haven’t yet learned to succeed. We don’t accomplish what we wish to because we’ve never learned how to look.

And finally, N — Non-identification through Nurturing. Don’t take the overwhelm personally. It’s not a verdict on your self-worth. It’s not a punishment. It’s just a state that we can see best by stepping back and taking a clinical view.

What can I do now?

In an advanced coaching seminar, my assigned mentor asked, “What are your goals?” I said, “I just want to be competent.” He frowned and pushed for a grander ambition. But honestly, that was it. I had come to see that chasing something “grand and wonderful” often creates more pressure — more weight — and keeps me from seeing the ordinary, manageable things right in front of me.

It is said that people tend to overestimate what they can do in the short term and underestimate what they can do in the long term. The antidote to both is simple: take the pressure away. Pressure is not conducive to mindfulness. Mindfulness is essential for competence and simple competence is what builds the confidence to learn more.

Learning more about our unmanageability does not require unpacking the labyrinthine motives of  self-sabotage. We can just acknowledge a manageable problem and begin to take the simple steps toward it – instead of pulling away from it.

TRIAGE

So, we’re talking about a kind of triage for our lives — a way to sort what’s essential from what’s noise. Much of what overwhelms us is self-recrimination: “I should be walking more… I should be meditating longer… I should be better by now.” We seem to love piling on and then feeling incapable because we can’t see our way clear. “Unless I can do it all perfectly, it’s not worth doing at all.” We’re trying to comb through the chaos and still having conversations with our parents in our head. Just stop. Be a scientist. Let all the unnecessary voices go. Maybe we can figure it all out. But what can be done now?

We can love ourselves now. We can encourage ourselves to regain mindfulness.

The first priority must be our own well-being — physical, mental, spiritual. Without that, mindfulness itself becomes hard to reach. So start small: ten minutes of meditation, then look at the work you wish to accomplish and break it down.

What can I do today? How can I prioritize the tasks?  Then break it down. If you’re like me it’s too much, so break it down. Do less so you can learn to do it better.

One task at a time. One breath at a time. Learn how to accomplish less right now, so you can accomplish more over time. Breath  And let all the unnecessary judgment fall away. Self-punishment doesn’t motivate; it corrodes. We don’t need to prove our worth by suffering harder.

Feel your body. Tension doesn’t help. It never helps.

Breathe. You’re a human. Treat yourself with respect. Pull away and go back. Find your flow and since you’re so expert at avoidance, avoid all tomorrow’s tasks, so you can learn to work with what is here now.

Then the Upside Down begins to turn right-side up again.

 

Learning to Work with Emotions

The idea of the “inner child” may sound simplistic, but it gestures toward something true about being human: our emotional life is often far less sophisticated than our thinking mind wants to understands. The intellect would rather manage, dismiss, or reinterpret emotion than feel it directly. But like any child, our emotional world doesn’t grow through suppression—it responds to being seen, accepted, and guided with care.

When people hear the word emotion, you can practically watch them contract. Some get sad, some start overthinking, some feel perplexed, as if feeling were a foreign language. I have a brilliant tech-minded friend who looks at emotions the way I would look at a confusing line of code—she identifies so strongly with her mind that her feelings get overridden. But when we ignore or exile what’s happening inside, our “inner child” doesn’t disappear; it acts out in subtle or hidden ways. We go on pretending we’re sunning on some Malibu beach while a storm is quietly raging in the background.

Although sunshine seems appealing, humans cannot live by beach alone. And those that do, find ways to challenge the beach, such as surfing, deep sea exploration or operating a cabana. But the most successful surfers have real love, acceptance and understanding of the waves. This deep connection is not intellectual, it a felt sense. One doesn’t think their way through riding a wave. That would be a sure way to crash. As the song goes’ “ya gotta feel it.” Maybe when our emotional state crashes it’s because we are thinking rather than feeling our feelings.

Working with emotions doesn’t require a degree. Emotions don’t need to be traced back to their original parents before we’re allowed to meet them. Therapy can be valuable for history and context, but meditation begins in the immediacy of now: What am I feeling? Can I acknowledge it? Can I allow it? The practice is less about solving and more about connecting.

One skillful way of doing this is the RAIN process: Recognize, Accept, Investigate, Nurture, which naturally leads to non-identification. Recognition is like taking a snapshot—you see the child as they are in this moment without insisting they be otherwise. Acceptance is the simple bravery of letting the experience exist without making it bigger or smaller than it is. In loving-kindness practice, this is like the first soft smile before compassion opens.

After being seen and accepted we can investigate. Meditators do this by looking into their present experience. Not with analysis, but with curiosity, with feel, just as an improvisational jazz player feels their way through music. Trungpa Rinpoche spoke of “feeling the feeling” fully, letting it be absorbed and digested until it becomes nourishment rather than poison. If we attempt to push our feelings away, or cling to them with tight identification, emotions are prone to the poisonous.  The nurturing in RAIN isn’t coddling—it’s intimacy. When we let the energy of a feeling move through without argument, we can allow it t nurture and enrich us. And we don’t need to keep identifying once it passes. There was anger and now it’s gone. Suzuki, Roshi said his anger was like a comet scorching across an otherwise open sky.

Emotions rarely respond to logic. Reasoning with fear is like telling a frightened child there are no monsters, or instructing a dog to let go of a stick because it has no nutritional value. The wise parent doesn’t exile the child for being afraid—they hold, guide, and stay present. At different moments the child may need a hug, a boundary, or a quiet “back to bed now.” But always, the foundation is relationship, not rejection. The parent understands the point of the family are it children. But the children don’t need to burden of making decisions for the family. The wise parent knows that the child, despite its protestations, needs to be guided.

Tara Brach calls our emotional inner terrain “the muddy middle”—the space between the narrative-making mind and the body where feelings actually live. We identify with thought, but emotion often starts and storms in the body. The mind scrambles to define and control what it hasn’t yet acknowledged. Artists understood this long before psychologists named it. Freud and Jung began to map the inner world, but it was people like Artaud, Picasso, and Francis Bacon who refused to squeeze feeling into rational shapes. They gave form to what can’t be neatly explained.

Feeling is not a problem to be fixed or a possession to defend. Emotions arise, move, and dissolve when they are not clung to or condemned. When we acknowledge, accept, investigate, and nurture them, identification loosens on its own. Then we’re no longer saying my anger, my fear—we’re simply noticing, there is fear, there is anger, there is grief. This quiet shift is the beginning of freedom.

Feeling our feelings is not indulgence—it’s our birthright, and perhaps the central labor of being human. When we stop treating our inner life as an interruption and start relating to it with courage and kindness, our emotions mature. And so do we.

 

• The image in the post is of a Tibetan Buddhist deity called Dorje Trollo who is the embodiment of compassion in the form of liberated passion and anger. Once released of constraint, emotions can become a liberated a force for deeper understanding of the art f being human. 

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