Day 51: The second arrow

I've been thinking a lot lately about the Buddhist teaching of the second arrow.  The basic idea is that a pain happens (the first arrow), and then we pile other things onto the pain - stories, regrets, fears - and that is the second arrow.

We had a little less than five days between Tilly's diagnosis and her death.  Her diagnosis came as a total shock.  She was only eleven.  In June, she was hiking all over the eastern Sierra with us.  A little more than three weeks before her death, she had bloodwork done (pursuant to starting a medication for itchy skin), with no hint that cancer was raging through her system.  But the day we got the diagnosis, xrays showed her lungs filled with tumors (and since dogs rarely get primary lung cancer, that suggested that there must have been other tumors elsewhere, probably abdominal). 

She'd spent the night with the vet, waiting for the results and getting stabilized.  Then we brought her home with Tramadol, drugs to help with congestion, and painkilling injections for when things started to really go downhill.  I also cancelled my then-upcoming five-day silent retreat at Spirit Rock.  (It was on compassion; and I was very clear that the most compassionate thing I knew to do for myself, my dog, and my family was to be here at home.)  And, while my formal sitting practice frankly went to hell, I lived those five days as a practice of mindfulness.  (And please note that word "practice".  It means that there were a lot of nonmindful bits in there!)

The definitions of mindfulness that I cite in my classes generally involve at least these elements: moment-to-moment awareness of what is happening (this can be physical, environmental, emotional, psychological, etc), on purpose, without judgement (and, I would add, with compassion).

And that's what I tried to do.

And it was really interesting.

During those five days, there were a lot of first-arrow pains.  There was the night that she went to scratch the rug next to my side of the bed as she always did before going to sleep, and she had to stop and lie down to pant because it was hard to catch her breath.  And the day she couldn't get up into the car by herself anymore.  All the markers of decline, all the signs that she was uncomfortable.  It's hard to watch anyone we love suffering, and that causes suffering.  Those things were really happening, right there in the moment, and the emotions that came with observing them were painful ones.

And then there were the second-arrow pains.  Lying on the front lawn trying to get work done, with Tilly curled up in the sun next to me.  A good moment.  And the second arrow hits - I won't be able to do this any more.  I will miss her terribly.  I can't imagine my life without her.  And then the realization - but she is here.  I am doing this with her now.  If I am present for this moment now, she is not gone.  All the pain was coming from my mind being somewhere other than in the moment that was actually happening.  (Except, notice, that those thoughts were actually happening and causing actual pain - something to bring non-judgemental, compassionate awareness to.) 

Such an interesting thing to notice.  Because here's the thing: preowning all the pain of not having her around didn't in any way lessen what I'm feeling right now.  What it did do, though, was move me away from whatever peace there might be in the moments I had with her then.  Isn't that interesting? 

Noticing the second arrow is useful.  But the definition of mindfulness suggests that we observe that second arrow without judgement (I'm such an idiot!  Why am I doing that?!) or pushing away (I shouldn't feel that, I don't want to feel that!), and with compassion (this is a painful moment).  Doing that made it easier to work with it, without pushing it away or blaming myself for "doing this to myself" - it's normal to think and feel all those things.

But, in that last week, the great gift of noticing was that it made it a bit easier to allow the second arrow to fall a bit more lightly and sting a little less, while being present for the whole experience.  It also meant that I was able to take on board the gift of those good moments - like lying in the sun with my girl - just a little bit more. 

On her last morning, as we waited for the vet to come to the house, all four of us stopped everything we were doing and came together in the living room.  I sat on the floor next to Tilly while she napped in her favorite place on the cool tiles.  Rick and the girls sat in their usual chairs, and we all read or sat quietly, or whatever seemed best.  It was exactly the kind of quiet family moment that we all love.  And for whole minutes at a time, I was able to let the second arrow go and just be in the present moment, which was a really good moment.

Since then, I keep noticing the first and second arrows.  Coming home late at night and grabbing my stuff so I can hurry to the door to stop Tilly from barking and waking up the neighbors - and then realizing that I don't have to?  First arrow.  Putting on my walking shoes and waiting for a nose to get in the way while trying to "help"?  First arrow.  Imagining that I will never again find a dog like Tilly?  Second arrow.  Wanting MY dog back, right now, thankyouverymuch?  Second arrow.  Wanting reality to be something other than what it is?  (Which, by the way, it turns out I want quite often - who knew?)  Second arrow.

It's not that I'm not feeling how much all of this hurts.  It's that watching it all rise and fall and rise and fall gives me a lot of hope that there will be fewer hurting moments in the future, and more equanimity about feeling how much it hurts now.  It's a really interesting experience.  My very own godawful mindfulness retreat. 

Day 50: Friday night at Balboa

Tour of the park with the Conservancy director, food trucks, beer, and blues. Family and friends. Nuff said.

Day 49: The mission of education

I'm in the throes of getting ready to lead a faculty learning community (FLC) about contemplative pedagogy.  I've been using contemplative pedagogical methods for years now, and have been part of an FLC on this subject, but I've never led one by myself, so I'm a bit nervous.  That's not what this is about though (I'm sure I'll feel compelled to write about that at some point).  Nor is it about contemplative pedagogy per se (although I know I need to say what I mean by that at some point).  Instead, as I was re-reading the first assignment for the FLC, I found this quote, and I just needed to share it, because it says something that I believe in completely, but that I think is usually not at all on the minds of those making decisions about education today:

"When I think about the reforms needed if higher education* is to serve our students and our world faithfully and well, I think there should be a litmus test for every project that claims to strengthen the mission of our colleges and universities.  Does this proposal deepen our capacity to educate students in a way that supports the inseparable causes of truth, love, and justice?  If the answer is no, we should take a pass and redouble our efforts to find a proposal that does."  (emphasis mine)
     - Foreword, Contemplative Practices in Higher Education: Powerful Methods to Transform Teaching and Learning (Daniel Barbezat and Mirabai Bush)

Can you imagine a world where that was the litmus test for education?  The mind boggles.

*For my money, this applies to all levels of education - and perhaps should be even more important at the K-12 level.

Day 48: Grace

This past weekend, we made a decision as a family (I'll keep the details vague for now) that turned out not to be a good decision.  A very large part of the reason why it turned out not to be a good decision had to do with the fact that, while I was very clear about the commitment of time and energy that came along with our decision, I hadn't factored in my (new, not-so-improved) stamina levels.  It was one of those situations where a limit that I didn't know I had came and smacked me right in the face. 

It sucked.

I spent quite a bit of time telling myself that I could gut it out.  When the sane voice in my head says, "I can't do this", that voice usually replies, "Of course you can!", which is technically true.  But this time, that small, sane voice in my head agreed that yes, I could, but then asked: what would I have to give up in order to do that?  Because I would.  My energy levels are not inexhaustible.  I mean, they never were, but the limit used to be a lot further out, and it also used to be the case that I could run on reserves for a while and then catch up later.  I don't have the same level of reserves, it turns out.

So we reversed our decision.  And that also sucked.

In all of that, while I did give myself permission and grace to cry uncle rather than gutting it out, I have also done a whole lot of self-denigrating blame.  I haven't given myself much grace.  Other people have stepped in and offered me the grace that I'm struggling with, and in so doing have also offered me a template for what it looks like to think about this through that lens. 

In this sense, I think that this autoimmune diagnosis offers me a chance to (read: insists that I) come to grips with something that I have largely preferred to deny: that life is messy, I make mistakes, I am not in control of everything that happens.

Which also sucks.  But it turns out that living as if those things weren't true comes with its own very particular sort of misery.  The freedom of looking back at this last weekend, and, instead of thinking "man, am I an idiot", getting this tiny glimpse of, "well, life is messy and I didn't see that coming" - it's a very spacious sort of feeling.  (Before my critical voice jumps up and down and insists that I damned well ought to have seen it coming!)  Spacious is good.  Spacious does not suck.

Grace.

Day 47: Lacuna

Read:  I actually had a quick post I meant to get up here yesterday, and then the day totally got away from me, and when I got home after walking in the morning, working all day, and then having a riding lesson, I fell over on the couch and stopped thinking.  I need to work on that.  I'm back to work full-time this semester after three semesters of a 20% medical leave (as in, I was working 80% time)(as in, honestly, I was working nearly full-time, but funding my outrageous amounts of service work by using medical leave to teach one fewer class).  I don't think I've found my balance yet.

Day 46: First day of classes

I taught six hours today.  In the same classroom.  Which wasn't sufficiently air conditioned.

My classes are kicked off.  They are: English Grammar and Syntax; Introduction to Linguistics; Language and Gender.

My older daughter wants to audit my gender class.  I let her come today.  It is interesting to have one's child in one's class.  Not sure yet the balance between good interesting and awkward interesting.

I have survived.  That is all.

Day 45: Pool drain update

So, I finally asked Rick about the pool drains.  (He's a hydrogeologist; it's kind of in his wheelhouse.)  I'd kind of thought the answer had to be pumps, and I'm right. 

Just in case any of you were actually perplexed by the whole thing, or were worried that the pool was going to drain while I wasn't looking.