21 days after the death of his mother, Jin and his father navigate loss, grief, and their new lives without her.

This film will continue to be available to the Tricycle audience, thanks to director Mun Chee Yong. Learn more about her here.

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Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

The post 21 Days 二十一天 appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

“I’m a single dad who does most of the childcare. I also work full-time and write my ex-wife a large monthly check,” said Rob, a single dad and employment lawyer. Rob is the primary caregiver, but other parents and teachers still call his ex-wife when arranging playdates or scheduling conferences. It grates on Rob that people assume that being male offers a ticket out of work-family conflict since that very assumption exacerbates Rob’s working-parent pain. For instance, he said, “There is no ‘Daddy and me’ that meets during the weekdays, and mothers usually don’t want a guy hanging around when they are breastfeeding. This creates severe loneliness.” 

Women are often the primary care-takers, diaper changers, and dentist-appointment makers while also inhabiting breadwinning roles, but work-family conflict can’t be exclusively attributed to gender. Even the long list of external factors—such as racism, financial problems, marginalization, job and food insecurity, the lack of mandated paid family leave in the United States, inflexible workplaces, inadequate access to flexible, affordable childcare—does not explain the entirety of the work-family conflict problem. When hard-fought solutions are finally implemented, working parents often continue to struggle mightily. As one physician and mom of three explained it in my therapy office, the searing guilt of long work days and exhausted parenting eat away at her. Another patient, a lawyer, described the sadness of not being able to attend his daughter’s baseball game and still make the necessary billable hours. 

Even lucky individuals—the working parents with financial resources, flexible schedules, and supportive partnerships—habitually feel internal conflict. After all, as early twentieth-century psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud noted, “love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness [emphasis mine].” Being driven to master skills and make public contributions while also participating in deeply loving relationships are innately human drives. Since acting in line with one drive necessarily means you have stepped away from the other, there is no way around the experience of role tension. In other words, work-family conflict turns out to be a feature, not a bug, of being human. 

Instead of trying to resist role conflict, recognizing its inevitability can help set you on a more productive path.

As psychologist and author of The Ape that Understood the Universe Steve Stewart-Williams, explained, natural selection built us to be chronically conflicted for good reason: “A diverse array of desires and drives ensures that we’re ready to take whichever path presents itself to us. Also, having multiple, incompatible desires is like having a miniature parliament in our heads: One faction argues for one thing, another argues for another, and the clash of perspectives often leads to better decisions.” While Stewart-Williams admitted that “adaptive” doesn’t necessarily mean it’s ‘fun,’” seeking to eliminate role conflict and viewing a lack thereof as the ultimate sign of progress creates an unwinnable situation. As it is said in the Tao te Ching, “Hard and easy complete each other.” 

Instead of trying to resist role conflict, recognizing its inevitability can help set you on a more productive path. As Swiss psychologist Carl Jung noted, “What you resist not only persists, but will grow in size.” And as modern research shows, trying to eliminate uncomfortable human experiences tends to yield the paradoxical effect of amplifying them. Trying to suppress distressing thoughts and feelings only to find them getting amplified is so predictable that psychologists have even given it a name: “the suppression effect.” And they have identified that a more effective strategy for managing uncomfortable, internal experiences involves allowing, rather than ridding, those experiences, and doing so in a particular way—with self-compassion. 

Research from self-compassion researcher Kristin Neff and her colleagues defines self-compassion as a set of practices that includes making contact with internal distressing experiences, and doing so with the sort of kindness we often naturally offer to those we care about. The practices of self-compassion also invite us to recognize the universality of human pain and suffering, recognizing that there is nothing at all wrong with us for having whatever experience we are having. Perhaps surprisingly, research shows that practicing self-compassion during moments of suffering helps us to achieve more effectiveness in the roles we care about most, as well as greater happiness in our life’s journey.

Buddhist monk and author Thich Nhat Hanh offered a notion of “no mud, no lotus” in his beautiful book of the same name to explain how our suffering can even, at times, serve us quite well. The idea here is that mud provides the beautiful lotus with needed nourishment. As sticky, dirty, and disgusting as mud feels, its existence is the reason floral goodness flourishes. Beauty and muck often go hand in hand. This notion applies to the role conflict in working parenthood, too. For instance, when you have to leave work before finishing a project because daycare is about to close, this time pressure can make you more efficient at work. And the feeling of having mastery at work after a morning of cereal thrown at the wall, or having children who could care less that you got overlooked for a promotion at work, can help you manage your stress more effectively. Appreciating both the unavoidability and the embedded benefits of the inside problem of working parenthood helps us cease our unwinnable battle and conserve energy to fight the battles in what can be changed, including more humane social policy, workplace flexibility, and marital equality.

The outside problems of working parenthood cause unnecessary suffering and are problems that we need to identify and work against by continuing to push workplaces, our partners, and society to make advances in expectations and practices. But the inside problem of working parenthood can’t be solved the same way. Distinguishing between the outside and inside problem of working parenthood can help us manage both more effectively.

The post The Inside Problem of Work-Family Conflict appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Plans to see relatives can inspire every feeling from exhilaration to dread (often depending on the day). Whether it’s a big reunion or the day-to-day of raising kids, family time can easily trigger old habits, angers, and delusions, but it can also be an incubator for developing strong, unconditional metta. In other words, it’s the perfect testing ground for practice. However, there’s no need to go into it unprepared.

It can be grounding to consider how you’d like to show up and the ways you might handle common problems, from miscommunication to stress, before you’re tossed into the fire of family gatherings. These five teachings offer ways to do just that.

1. Balance Compassion with Equanimity 

“When it comes to our family, equanimity is inextricably linked with compassion. We can have equanimity without compassion, like when we feel burned out and cynically dismiss our kids’ concerns as mere manipulation. We can also have compassion without equanimity, responding to their immediate wants over their long-term needs because of our own intolerance of their discomfort. As I heard someone recently put it, compassion with equanimity means, ‘I want you to be happy, but I don’t need you to be happy in order to be OK.’”

–Christopher Willard, “How Parents and Children Can Learn Balance and Equanimity from the Eight Worldly Winds”

2. Question Family Roles

“What​ ​roles​ ​do​ ​you​ ​take​ ​on​ ​in​ ​your​ ​own​ ​family? What​ ​roles​ ​are​ ​expected​ ​from​ ​you?​ ​The​ ​Buddha​ ​really​ ​encourages​ ​us​ ​to​ ​see​ ​the​ ​suffering​ ​element in​ ​adopting​ ​roles ​because​ ​they​ ​become​ ​rigid.​ ​Most​ ​of​ ​the​ ​time ​we​ ​act​ ​out​ ​of​ ​habit​ ​when​ ​we’re​ ​in these​ ​roles​ ​or​ ​see​ ​our​ ​loved​ ​ones​ ​in​ ​them.​ ​We​ ​constantly​ ​look​ ​for​ ​confirmation​ ​that​ our preconceptions ​are right. This​ ​is​ ​just​ ​my​ ​complaining​ ​family​ ​member​ ​again.

Consider ​the moments when ​you​ take ​on​ ​a​ ​specific​ ​role with​ ​your​ ​loved​ ​ones.​ ​Notice​ ​that​ ​there’s some​ ​sense​ ​of​ ​space​ ​in​ ​the​ ​actual​ ​seeing​ ​of​ the role and the experience. The act of seeing the role ​could​ ​be​ ​the doorway​ ​into​ ​a​ ​different​ ​relationship.​ ​We​ may start​ ​to​ be​ ​more​ ​kind​ ​in​ ​that​ ​moment​ ​and​ ​think, ‘Huh,​ ​here​ ​it​ ​is​ ​again.’​ We may see​ ​how​ ​the​ ​role​ ​has​ ​an​ ​effect​ ​on​ ​our​ ​family​ ​members.​ ​Then​ ​we​ ​can​ ​start​ ​to​ ​open to​ ​more​ ​compassion,​ ​and​ ​perhaps,​ ​step​ ​by​ ​step,​ ​we​ ​can​ ​forgive​ ​both​ ​others​ ​and​ ​ourselves.”

–Bart van Melik, “A Simple Exercise for Navigating Family Dynamics Over the Holidays”

3. Offer Compassion to Yourself

“The Buddha’s injunction that we extend compassion to ourselves requires that after recognizing our suffering, we respond to it with love. This takes courage and commitment. … When practicing compassion as a formal meditation, the traditional phrases are ‘May I be held in compassion. May my pain and sorrow be eased. May I be at peace.’ If freedom from pain and sorrow seems impossible because of physical illness or other circumstances, we may need to experiment to find more resonant phrases. For example, ‘May I care for my body just as it is,’ or ‘May I meet this suffering with tenderness and love.’ …

The ability to offer compassion to oneself is the prerequisite to being able to offer compassion to others. If I run from my own pain, or habitually meet it with denial, aversion, distraction, or even self-pity, I will have little option but to react to the suffering of others with denial, aversion, distraction, or pity. All these reactions are based on fear and separation, whether from oneself or others, whereas compassion is based on love and connection, both to oneself and to others. Pema Chödrön explains that our own painful experiences are our greatest resource for compassion practice. ‘If you can know it in yourself, you can know it in everyone. This practice cuts through culture, economic status, intelligence, race, religion. People everywhere feel pain—jealousy, anger, being left out, feeling lonely. Everybody feels that exactly the way you feel it. The story lines vary, but the underlying feeling is the same for us all.’”

–Beth Roth, “Family Dharma: Leaning Into Suffering”

4. Be Present with Change

“Over the past several years, I’ve noticed that my practice has slowly stripped me of the delusion—and the wish—that any upcoming holiday will be the same as years gone by. Though painful at first, accepting this feels much more spacious and realistic than any longing that I get pulled into. Here is the truth: My family is changing. Someone who has been sitting across the table from me my whole life may not be there anymore. This is deeply saddening. At the same time, someone new may be sitting across the table from me, or I myself may be sitting at a different table, in another house, in some faraway town.”

–Lauren Krauze, “Confronting Family Dynamics During the Holidays”

5. Change “Me” Time to “We” Time

“Persisting in the pre-parent habit of thinking that you can only feel rejuvenated if you get ‘me time’—and for meditators, ‘me time’ means silent, seated meditation—will only result in frustration and further feelings of depletion. If you find yourself thinking this way, you may need to make a considerable shift in identity such that ‘me’ now includes your family members. This takes time, but it’s worth it. Opening up your sense of self to also consist of relationships reveals how the self is constructed through interconnectedness (or as Thich Nhat Hanh says, ‘interbeing’). Once you let go of the solitary self, spending time with your children becomes meditation itself, as long as you are with them intentionally in this way (again, no distractions, especially in the form of devices). This tectonic shift in identity is probably the single largest transformation a meditating parent undergoes, and it has profound implications for spiritual growth.”

–Sumi Loundon Kim, “How to Meditate While Raising Kids”

The post 5 Teachings on Navigating Family Dynamics appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

Meditation teacher Jack​ ​Kornfield​ ​calls​ ​family​ ​one​ ​of​ ​the​ ​final​ ​frontiers​ ​of spiritual​ ​development.​ ​It’s true​ ​that​ ​even​ ​when​ ​spiritual​ ​leaders​ ​come​ ​home​ ​to​ ​be​ ​with their​ ​family,​ ​it’s​ ​not always​ ​that​ ​easy. So​ ​often​ ​we​ ​slowly and​ ​habitually​ ​take​ ​on​ ​established roles​ ​with​ ​other​ ​people,​ ​especially​ ​with​ our own ​families.​ ​Whether it’s ​that​ ​of​ a ​stepchild​ ​or​ ​child, caregiver​ ​or​ ​parent,​ ​nephew or ​uncle,​ ​these​ ​roles​ ​are​ ​necessary​ ​for​ ​us​ ​to​ ​navigate​ ​our​ ​lives.​​ But​ ​so​ ​often​ ​we​ ​start​ ​to​ ​identify​ ​with​ ​them and​ ​add​ ​things.​ ​For example,​ a daughter​ ​might​ ​all​ ​of​ ​a​ ​sudden​ ​become​ ​the​ “responsible​ ​daughter”​ ​who​ ​has​ ​to​ ​live​ ​up​ ​to​ ​this​ ​role of​ ​always​ ​doing​ ​the​ ​right​ ​thing ​or​ ​being​ ​the​ ​successful​ ​one.​ ​Or​ ​someone might be inclined to think,​ ​​I​ ​have​ ​to​ ​achieve,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​have​ ​to​ ​look​ ​good​ ​in​ ​front​ ​of​ ​my​ ​family​.​ ​

Not​ ​only do​ ​we​ ​take​ ​on these​ ​roles​, but​ ​we​ ​also​ ​assume​ ​they’re true​ in other​ ​people.​ ​You​ ​might​ ​have​ ​someone​ ​in your​ ​family,​ ​or​ ​someone​ ​that​ ​you​ ​call​ ​family,​ ​who’s​ ​always​ ​complaining, and you​ ​see​ ​them​ ​through a certain​ ​lens​ ​when​ ​they​ ​are​ ​complaining.​ ​Or,​ ​for​ ​example,​ ​I​ ​have​ ​a​ ​brother-in-law who could​ ​make a​ ​rocket​ ​out​ ​of​ ​a​ ​meditation​ ​bowl;​ ​he’s​ ​very​ ​handy.​ ​Often,​ ​it’s​ ​almost​ ​taken​ ​for​ ​granted​ ​that​ ​he will​ ​be​ ​the​ ​one​ ​we​ ​turn​ ​to​ ​when​ ​we​ ​need​ ​something​ ​fixed.​ ​More and more, we start​ ​to​ ​see​ ​people​ in​ ​a​ ​rigid​ ​way​ ​within​ ​their​ ​roles, which ​can​ ​become​ ​conditioned​ ​over​ ​years,​ or ​even​ ​through generations.

I​ ​was​ ​recently​ ​teaching​ ​a​ ​mindful​ ​families​ ​class where​ ​children,​ ​parents,​ ​and caregivers​ were meditating and ​doing​ ​mindful​ ​drawing.​ ​At​ ​the​ ​end,​ ​when​ ​we​ ​were​ ​doing our​ ​sit,​ ​there​ ​was​ ​one​ ​father​ ​who​ ​was​ ​sitting​ ​[improperly],​ ​but​ ​then​ ​he​ ​would​ ​correct​ ​his​ ​son’s posture.​ ​I​ ​was​ ​probably​ ​suggesting​ ​something​ ​to​ ​let​ ​the​ ​spine​ ​be​ ​upright,​ ​and ​as​ ​I​ ​kept giving​ ​instructions,​ ​I​ ​could​ ​see​ ​the​ ​father​ ​constantly​ ​paying​ ​attention​ ​to​ ​how​ ​his​ ​son​ ​was doing​ ​it.​ ​So,​ ​I​ ​thought,​ ​maybe​ ​I​ ​should​ ​just​ ask​ ​the​ ​whole​ ​group:​ ​”What​ ​would​ ​it​ ​be​ ​like​ ​if you​ ​just​ ​paid​ ​attention​ ​to​ ​yourself?​ ​There’s no​ ​need​ ​to​ ​pay​ ​attention​ ​to​ ​anyone​ ​else.”

I​ ​could​ ​see​ ​the father’s​ ​body​ ​soften​ ​a​ ​little​ ​bit.​ ​His​ ​shoulders​ ​came​ ​down,​ ​and​ ​then​ ​after​ ​our​ ​practice, we​ ​reflected​​. It​ ​was​ ​beautiful.​ ​The father​ ​mentioned​ ​that​ ​he​ ​saw​ ​a​ ​very​ ​strong pattern​ ​that​ ​all​ ​of​ ​a​ ​sudden​ ​became​ ​much​ ​clearer​ ​to​ ​him.​ ​He​ ​said,​ ​”I​ ​take​ ​on​ ​this​ ​role​ ​of​ ​needing to​ ​correct​ ​my​ ​son,​ ​my​ ​children.”​ ​But ​he didn’t just report​ ​a​ ​sense​ ​of release while​ ​ ​meditating. He​ ​also​ ​noticed​ ​that​ ​his​ ​own dad​ used to do ​the​ ​same​ ​thing.​

​What​ ​roles​ ​do​ ​you​ ​take​ ​on​ ​in​ ​your​ ​own​ ​family? What​ ​roles​ ​are​ ​expected​ ​from​ ​you?​ ​The​ ​Buddha​ ​really​ ​encourages​ ​us​ ​to​ ​see​ ​the​ ​suffering​ ​element in​ ​adopting​ ​roles ​because​ ​they​ ​become​ ​rigid.​ ​Most​ ​of​ ​the​ ​time ​we​ ​act​ ​out​ ​of​ ​habit​ ​when​ ​we’re​ ​in these​ ​roles​ ​or​ ​see​ ​our​ ​loved​ ​ones​ ​in​ ​them.​ ​We​ ​constantly​ ​look​ ​for​ ​confirmation​ ​that​ our preconceptions ​are right. This​ ​is​ ​just​ ​my​ ​complaining​ ​family​ ​member​ ​again.

Consider ​the moments when ​you​ take ​on​ ​a​ ​specific​ ​role with​ ​your​ ​loved​ ​ones.​ ​Notice​ ​that​ ​there’s some​ ​sense​ ​of​ ​space​ ​in​ ​the​ ​actual​ ​seeing​ ​of​ the role and the experience. The act of seeing the role ​could​ ​be​ ​the doorway​ ​into​ ​a​ ​different​ ​relationship.​ ​We​ may start​ ​to​ be​ ​more​ ​kind​ ​in​ ​that​ ​moment​ ​and​ ​think, “Huh,​ ​here​ ​it​ ​is​ ​again.”​ We may see​ ​how​ ​the​ ​role​ ​has​ ​an​ ​effect​ ​on​ ​our​ ​family​ ​members.​ ​Then​ ​we​ ​can​ ​start​ ​to​ ​open to​ ​more​ ​compassion,​ ​and​ ​perhaps,​ ​step​ ​by​ ​step,​ ​we​ ​can​ ​forgive​ ​both​ ​others​ ​and​ ​ourselves. 

♦

Adapted from Bart van Melik’s Dharma Talk, “Family Awareness: A Relational Path to Freedom in Family Life.”

The post A Simple Exercise for Navigating Family Dynamics Over the Holidays appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

21 days after the death of his mother, Jin and his father navigate loss, grief, and their new lives without her.

Stream the film here.

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

Photos courtesy of Mun Chee

The post 21 Days 二十一天 appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

The goddess Tara is perhaps the most universally cherished archetype of Tibetan Buddhism, a figure so beloved that she is called “Mother Tara” by her devotees. Also known as “the mother of all buddhas,” she is the embodiment of fully awakened wisdom and compassion who lovingly shepherds sentient beings from the endless suffering of samsara all the way to enlightenment. Most Tibetan monasteries and nunneries start their days with prayers to Tara in order to encourage success in—and remove obstacles to—the community’s spiritual and charitable undertakings. Practitioners also chant Tara’s mantra for healing during illness, success in business, safety during travel, and help overcoming any of life’s hurdles. More profoundly, meditating on Tara helps dharma practitioners navigate the impediments to spiritual realization known as the eight fears: attachment, arrogance, wrong view, jealousy, anger, doubt, greed or miserliness, and ignorance.

The devotion to Tara in Tibetan Buddhism is indicative of the tradition’s great reverence for motherhood. To develop the qualities of universal love and compassion, students of Tibetan Buddhism are often instructed to “regard all beings as though they are your mother” and to reflect on the discomfort their mothers selflessly endured during pregnancy and childbirth. Likewise, reciting the mantra and contemplating the enlightened qualities of Mother Tara are skillful methods for cultivating her boundless warmth, self-confidence, and capacity to help others. Just as attuned, healthy parenting helps children navigate life with resilience and purpose, Tara meditation provides dharma practitioners with the courage and strength to persevere on the spiritual path.

But what if the mother you had growing up was the opposite of loving and attentive—even downright harmful? Although there is certainly no such thing as a perfect mother, there are countless wonderful mothers in this world. But there are also those who, because of their own considerable traumatic wounding, repeatedly act in ways that are seriously neglectful, abusive, or even sadistic. Mothers do exist who get a kind of gratification from hurting their children. Moreover, many people are drawn to Buddhist practice because they experienced dysfunction in their families growing up and are hoping to heal their emotional injuries. How are the adult children of harmful mothers supposed to relate to a practice like Tara meditation?

For some adult survivors of childhood trauma, the affectionate, maternal imagery of Tara provides transformative comfort and healing—sometimes very quickly. Contemplating Tara can become a form of rapid reparenting where one is able to connect with mother-love in a way not previously experienced. Others have the opposite reaction: they wrestle with relating to Tara’s unconditional maternal love because they have no internal frame of reference for that particular energy. Rather than generating the warmth of feeling deeply understood, Buddhist practices related to motherhood may conjure the recurrent themes that children of harmful parents struggle with: a profound sense of worthlessness, core shame, and an almost unshakeable conviction that there is something wrong with them. Understandably, there can be a strong impulse to avoid these practices completely.

However, if you can push yourself a little, Tara practice can help replace your traumatized sense of self with a view that is more compassionate, humane, and accurate. You just need some special additional reflections to make the practice more accessible. The following suggestions are drawn from contemporary relational approaches to psychotherapy: you can experiment with them during traditional Tara meditation, if that is a practice you are familiar with, or integrate them in a more natural way by directing Tara’s gentle caring toward yourself in daily life. Everyone is different, and it’s important to discern what works best for you while gently setting aside what doesn’t.

What starts with self-transformation of personal trauma can end with the very purpose of the Buddhist path.

Grieve for what you needed and didn’t get.

Every sentient being deserves loving, attuned parents to give them what they need for healthy growth and development. If this did not happen for you, or if in fact what you received early in life from your parents was detrimental, you have experienced the loss of something very precious that needs to be fully grieved. Reflecting on what was lost and making space with gentleness and kindness for the range of reactions to having missed out—sadness, despair, guilt, anger, and jealousy toward those who have healthy parents—is a necessary part of the healing process. Grief can be explored in many different ways: by speaking with loved ones, certainly, but also by writing, making art, or using movement practices like dance or yoga, just to name a few. Certain kinds of deep grief are beyond verbal communication and demand forms of expression that are able to capture that wordless quality. Find what resonates for you.

Accept your feelings fully.

The feelings of worthlessness, shame, and self-criticism that you may have experienced at different moments in your life and that may even appear during meditation sessions are a manifestation of profound wounding. Children whose parents neglect or abuse them often unconsciously form the belief early on that they are bad or worthless. While this may occur as a direct result of being told that explicitly, it also happens for more subtle reasons. Children are totally dependent on their parents for their survival, so to take in the idea that there is something deeply wrong with their caregivers who are harming them is too threatening to a child’s basic sense of reality. Therefore, kids turn the blame on themselves—someone has to be at fault, and it can’t be their parents, so it must be them. When the feelings of self-blame first arose, they were an inevitable and adaptive attempt at coping and staying sane. Understanding this and reminding yourself of it with compassion every time those feelings arise can help them dissolve naturally over time.

Bring your distress into meditation.

If you have feelings of grief or self-criticism that arise during meditation, rather than treat them as an obstacle, welcome them in and make them the object of your meditation until they naturally melt away. Fully feel the sensations that arise in your physical body along with emotions, witness the form that your painful thoughts take, and definitely allow tears to flow if the urge to cry surfaces. Really give yourself the opportunity to experience all of your emotions as they rise. If you have been taught Tara’s visualization and mantra, treat your distress as a precious offering you are making to her and ask for her help to heal and transform it.

Find Tara figures in your life.

Although Tara is a female bodhisattva, her energy can be present in sentient beings regardless of gender. What people in your life help you feel supported, understood, and cared for? Perhaps there are friends or other family members, or maybe you are working with a therapist or another kind of healing practitioner. You may have more Taras around you than you realize. Maybe you’ve even had brief encounters in which you’ve been the recipient of random acts of kindness from strangers that were imbued with that gentle compassion. By bringing conscious awareness to those relationships and moments by remembering them and reflecting on them, you imprint that nurturing love more deeply in your mindstream. If you don’t have enough Tara energy in your life, consider working with a therapist to intentionally cultivate more supportive relationships.

Whether you try out these reflections in meditation or in your daily life, approach them with a spirit of openness, kindness, and concern, and you will subtly begin to embody Tara. As your capacity to treat yourself with gentleness and understanding grows, you may also find yourself offering that kindness to others more and more. In this way, you can move steadily, step by step, toward the ultimate spiritual realization of Tara: to become like her for the benefit of all sentient beings. What starts with self-transformation of personal trauma can end with the very purpose of the Buddhist path—developing the wisdom and compassion to care for everyone, without exception.

♦

Tara Facts

The name Tara literally means “savioress,” “she who liberates,” or “the one who brings us across.” Tara also means “star” and refers to her ability to respond as fast as a shooting star to anyone who calls for help.

Her mantra, “Om tare tuttare ture soha,” can be understood as “I prostrate to the Liberator, Mother of all the Victorious Ones.”

There are 21 forms of Tara, each with her own iconography that depicts different colors, ornaments, and symbolic hand gestures. This is because Tara is a shape-shifter who appears in the form most useful for the situation at hand. Of Tara’s many incarnations, the best known are Green Tara, who protects devotees from harm, and White Tara, who cures illness and bestows long life. There is a Tara to meet every conceivable need of sentient beings.

Tara was born from a tear shed by Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion, as he sorrowfully surveyed the world. The teardrop filled the Tibetan valley that now holds the city of Lhasa and formed a lake. There, a lotus grew, and from that flower Tara emerged. (See Mayumi Oda’s Tara depictions in the portfolio.)

The post Embodying the Healing Mother appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

One Saturday morning, we wandered into the toy section of the Goodwill, and my mother picked something out for me. It was a map of the world, a puzzle, a thousand cardboard pieces inside a paper box for fifty cents. Each piece had a unique shape that fit into another. The point was to find the other pieces that fit into it somewhere in this pile of shapes and lock them together.

When we got home and I sat down to work on the puzzle, she did not pick up a piece or try to help me put it together. Instead, she watched me and what I did. She’d say, “That one doesn’t go there. Try another one.” When one fit, she’d say, “Every piece belongs somewhere, doesn’t it.”

I worked on the puzzle when I came home from school, and piece by piece, I put the colors together. First the blues, which stood for the oceans. Then the reds, greens, oranges, yellows, and pinks of all the many different countries. Weeks later, there were only a handful of pieces left, and when I put in the last piece, I announced, with pride, “Ma, I’m finished!”

My mother peered at the puzzle and pointed at a green spot, said that was where she was from. A tiny country on the lower far right. Then she pointed to where we were at this moment, a large pink area at the top far left. After a moment, she pointed to the puzzle’s edge and then to the floor, where there was nothing. “It’s dangerous there,” she said. “You fall off.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “The world is round. It’s like a ball.”

But my mother insisted, “That’s not right.”

Still, I continued, “When you get to the edge you just come right back around to the other side.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“My teacher says. Miss Soo says.”There was a globe on Miss Soo’s desk at school, and whenever she talked about the oceans or the continents or plate tectonics, she would point to those features on it. I didn’t know if what Miss Soo was telling me was true. I hadn’t thought to ask.

“It’s flat,” my mother said, touching the map. “Like this.” Then she swept the puzzle to the floor with her palm. All the connected pieces broke off from each other, the hours lost in a single gesture. “Just because I never went to school doesn’t mean I don’t know things.”

I thought of what my mother knew then. She knew about war, what it felt like to be shot at in the dark, what death looked like up close in your arms, what a bomb could destroy. Those were things I didn’t know about, and it was all right not to know them, living where we did now, in a country where nothing like that happened. There was a lot I did not know.

We were different people, and we understood that then.

A few weeks after, we went to the park. It was cold and the grass was yellow underneath a lumpy sheet of ice. Earlier, I had been reading and my mother had been watching television. She usually found a show to make her laugh, but that day she couldn’t settle on one. She kept pressing the button on the remote control, flipping to the next channel, and then the next, until she started all over again.

I rushed over to the swings, hopped on the seat of one, and pumped my legs so I shot myself high into the air. My mother sat on a park bench alone, in her blue winter coat, facing me. She was not far. I called to her to pay attention to me, to see how high I was going all by myself, but her head was turned away, her eyes focused on something else.

I stopped swinging and turned to see what she was looking at, the swing slowly coming to a halt. A man had run out of an apartment building in his boxers and a white T-shirt. He seemed flustered, in a hurry, as though he had not planned to be outside in the cold dressed like that.

A woman dressed in a pantsuit had followed him out. Heels tapping on the sidewalk like a pencil on a table.

The man glanced behind him, stopped, and screamed, “It’s over. We’re finished!” When the woman tried to embrace him, he refused, batting away her arms.

I walked over to where my mother was and stood right in front of her, blocking her view of the couple. I said, “Let’s go home.” She looked up at me and there were tears in her eyes. “It’s snowing,” she said and glanced away. She said it once, like that. In a small clear voice. It’s snowing. But the way she said it made it seem like it was not about snow at all. Something that I can’t ever know about her. Then my mother looked up at me again and said, “I never have to worry about you, do I.” I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure if it was really a question.

Soon after, sometime in the night when I was asleep, she walked out the door with a suitcase. My father saw her leave, he told me. And he did nothing.

I don’t think about why she left. It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that she did.

All this was years ago, but I can still feel the sadness of that time, waiting for her to come back. I know now what I couldn’t have known then—she wouldn’t just be gone, she’d stay gone. I don’t think about why she left. It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that she did. What more is there to think about than that?

Often, I dream of seeing her face, still young like she was then, and although I can’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice, she is always trying to tell me something, her lips wrapped around shapes I can’t hear. The dream might last only a few seconds, but that’s all it takes, really, to undo the time that has passed and has been put between us. I wake from these dreams raw, a child still, though I am forty-five now, and grieve the loss of her again and again.

My father did not grieve. He had done all of this life’s grieving when he became a refugee. To lose your love, to be abandoned by your wife was a thing of luxury even—it meant you were alive.

The other night, I saw an image of the Earth on the evening news. I had seen it many times before, and although my mother was not there, I spoke to her anyway as if she was. “See? It really is round. Now we know for sure.” I said it out loud again, and even though it disappeared, I knew what I said had become a sound in the world.

Afterwards, I went to the bathroom mirror and stared at the back of my mouth. I opened my mouth wide, saw the hot, wet, pink flesh, and the dark center where my voice came out of, and I laughed, loud and wild. The sound went into the air vent, and I imagined people living in the building wondering to themselves where a sound like that came from, what could make a woman laugh like that at this hour of the night.

♦

Excerpted from How to Pronounce Knife by Souvankham Thammavongsa. Copyright © 2020. Reprinted with permission of Little, Brown and Company, an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

Read more Buddhist short fiction here. 

The post Edge of the World appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

How can I connect with my family this holiday season if I can’t physically spend time with them?

COVID-19 will keep many of us from seeing our loved ones this holiday season. But our practice can support us as we navigate separation and the loneliness it brings.

REST

You can practice resting during the holidays. Each time you sit down, tell yourself “Now I will rest.” This is called resourcing and is a practice that comes from trauma work. In addition to letting your mind go, resourcing can include attuning yourself to what the body needs, generating a feeling of spaciousness in your practice that allows gratitude to arise.

Gently scan the body to let go of tightness and invite your mind to rest on an anchor such as your breath or sounds in the room. Then begin offering yourself lovingkindness phrases: “May I be safe, well, happy, and peaceful.”

RECONNECT

Isolation, social distancing, and mask-wearing are likely to make the feelings of loneliness even more pronounced this winter. Invoke those you are missing as a way to be with them during your practice. You might even imagine those at past holiday gatherings, who likely include people dear to you (a certain Aunt Ruth who offers warm hugs and hearty laughs), some you don’t know very well (so-and-so’s partner’s work friend), and some who are difficult (the proudly controversial cousin, or Aunt Ruth after a few glasses of wine). To practice connecting, start by calling to mind the face of the dear one. Notice how they look back at you and the physical feelings you experience in their company, and then offer them lovingkindness. When you’ve sent them enough well-wishes, bring to mind another loved one, repeating the practice and observing any feelings of warmth that spread through your body and heart.

Next, imagine some people you feel neutral about who show up at these gatherings, like those third cousins who look alike. See if you can muster up some of the same loving phrases as you mix these less familiar faces into the crowd.

Finally, imagine the person who makes your shoulders slump when you see them at the door. Welcome them into your house of love, remembering that they want the same things we all do: to feel happy, connected, loved, and free.

Conclude by including all beings in your wishes for peace and liberation.

REPEAT

Throughout the holidays, take breaks and treat yourself to the same warm-heartedness that you extended to your guests.

Our suffering connects us to billions of others around the world who are also conscientiously distancing themselves for the sake of kindness and safety. A hand on our hearts can remind us that freedom, peace, and connection are always here.

The post Ask a Teacher: Holidays 2020 appeared first on Tricycle: The Buddhist Review.

When Bethany Saltman’s daughter, Azalea, was born fourteen years ago, she felt love—and impatience and anger and other strong emotions she knew were inside her that we don’t often associate with motherhood. 

Saltman, a writer and longtime Zen practitioner who spent several years living at Zen Mountain Monastery in New York State’s Catskill Mountains, decided to investigate these difficult feelings. Her curiosity about the connection between her and Azalea led her to attachment theory and the American-Canadian developmental psychologist Mary Ainsworth (1913–1999). Attachment theory, first developed by the British psychologist John Bowlby and expanded by Ainsworth, posits that our future relationships and many other aspects of our lives are determined by the way that our parents tended to us in our early months, teaching us to regulate our emotions (or not) and to develop qualities such as empathy and insight.

Ainsworth is credited with developing the Strange Situation, a 20-minute laboratory procedure that ascertains the type of attachment shown by a one-year-old baby toward a caregiver (usually, but not always the mother). In the Strange Situation, the child toddles into a room that doesn’t look like a laboratory, making a beeline for the blocks, dolls, or poster on the wall. The parent and child play for a few moments. Then there’s a knock at the door and the parent leaves the child in the room, either alone or with a stranger who has entered and tries to keep the child entertained. Researchers believe that what happens next—tears, ambivalence, anger—determines so much about how we relate to others, not only at a year old, but throughout the rest of our lives.

Ainsworth’s procedure, based on her field research of attachment styles in mothers and their babies in Uganda, was a major development in attachment theory and remains the “gold standard in psych labs everywhere for assessing security between children and their caregivers,” according to Saltman. 

Saltman’s own “discovery” of attachment theory led to more than a decade of research into Ainsworth’s life and work, as well as to an examination of her own relationships and the intersections between attachment and karma. Her book about her findings, Strange Situation: A Mother’s Journey into the Science of Attachment, was published by Ballantine Books in April. Saltman joined Wendy Biddlecombe Agsar, Tricycle’s editor-at-large and resident new mother, to talk about the intersection of dharma and attachment.

***

So, some of my questions are more personal than I’m used to asking. But I have a 10-month-old baby, and it’s hard to ignore that while reading your book. I am totally into that.

I think we have to start with the basics. Can you start by telling me how you became interested in attachment theory? When my daughter, Azalea, was born, I noticed that I was confused by my feelings. In addition to love, I quickly noticed all these other parts of myself appearing—impatience, frustration, anger. I somehow thought that I would enter some other realm and that those edgier parts would be eclipsed by this love. I quickly discovered that this was not the case, and frankly, it scared me. I felt like there must be something wrong with me and I wanted to understand: Am I OK? Can I do this? Can I love this person?

Once a woman becomes a mother, every single thing she does, thinks, and feels is charged because our culture is very invested in the maternal experience.

So I started to read and investigate. I had heard about attachment, but I didn’t understand what it was, and I had become really worried that my so-called “attachment” with Azalea was going to be insecure. Then I heard about the Strange Situation and started to see pictures of Mary Ainsworth, and I just fell for her. I thought: “Who is this woman? She doesn’t have children, she’s very formal, but so friendly.” She’s from an era that I happen to love, and she reminds me of my grandma. And when I realized that in 20 minutes you could learn so much about a relationship between a mother and child I was like “Oh my God, count me in, I want to know everything there is to know about my relationship with my daughter.” For some reason, from the very beginning I really believed in it. 

Going back to all of these difficult emotions—we don’t have a lot of examples of the reality of motherhood. I had a baby last year, and I still feel, especially with social media and the way society is, that it’s supposed to be this wonderful and beautiful experience. And when you breastfeed, you’re supposed to have this amazing bond. Sometimes breastfeeding is amazing, but sometimes you’re hungry or tired and you have to pee and you’ve already tried to feed the baby like five times in an hour. And there’s no picture of that. One hundred percent, yes. As I wrote in one article, “People always tell me I’m brave for writing this book.” That comment alone tells me how afraid I should be. But I love my daughter so much, and I am willing to expose myself for her, I can make this an offering and say, “Look, I didn’t just get hungry or have to pee when I was nursing—I got mad.”

But if sitting on the cushion for however many years has taught me anything, it’s that if we can’t open the door to these difficult feelings, they will make themselves known somehow. And it might get ugly. Full stop. If we want to take care of this, there’s one way to do it: be all of our feelings. That’s all there is to it, and it’s very, very difficult.

I gave birth to my son via C-section, and it seemed that everything surrounding that decision seemed to be up for debate as to what was the best thing. I even had one woman in my mother’s group tell me she was so sorry that I didn’t have a “natural” birth. It’s these little things I never realized could be so charged. Well, once a woman becomes a mother, every single thing she does, thinks, and feels is charged because our culture is very invested in the maternal experience. This basically cancels out subtlety, nuance, and real feelings, because they’re very threatening. When, in fact, the bigger threat—as Mary Ainsworth discovered and as the Buddha discovered—is not having those feelings.

I think it’s important to note, like you write in the book, that up until the 1950s researchers believed that babies just needed parents for things like food. You write about the American behavioral psychologist B. F. Skinner, who kept his baby daughter in a climate-controlled “baby box.” The idea that babies need our love and attention was really a radical thing. Indeed. And I think today, as a culture, we are a little bit unclear about where we stand on that. Anybody would say “Of course babies need love.” But what does that mean for us? We almost treat the idea of needing love with a behaviorist slant—like love is a thing that you present with your breasts. It’s this belief that our children need us, because we don’t like love that’s messy. It’s the Instagram version of love, which is an awful lot like a baby box.

So you mean that love in our culture could mean doing something for your baby, like feeding them organic food, more than the actual feeling? That’s the checklist approach to love and attachment. This idea of doing things right is rigid and so deeply entrenched in our minds. It’s easy to say “Of course I love my baby, and of course they need me to love them. Look, I’m nursing, I’m feeding them organic stuff. I’m driving myself insane with effort, that must mean something. I’m smiling, I’m rejoicing, I’m doing all these things.”

But what Mary Ainsworth noticed in securely attached relationships was “mutual delight.” That is something that you can’t fake. We’re getting really good at almost faking it with our phones and pictures. We can look at someone’s Instagram feed and think they’re delighting in life. But we must know better, right?

How exactly do researchers determine attachment patterns based on 20 minutes of watching a child and mother in a room? During the Strange Situation, the researchers observe and take very particular notes about what’s going on during these reunions and separations—all the different types of attachment behavior. Ainsworth had a system of determining what kind of attachment relationship was being expressed during the 20 minutes, and they all flow from three types of behavior: secure, insecure/avoidant, and insecure/resistant [a fourth classification was later added for babies that were inconsistent, disorganized, or confused]. There are also subsets of these primary classifications. 

The Strange Situation is not an experiment; it’s a research tool. You get a baseline of the kind of relationship this parent and child have, and use that information for some kind of strategic solution—group therapy or video-based interventions, for example—that promotes reflective, functioning parents. You might use the Strange Situation at the end of the strategy to see whether it worked.

Researchers have also found that there’s a 75 percent correlation between a parent’s attachment and their child’s attachment at one year. Can you explain how the Strange Situation is used to come to that conclusion? In terms of our future this is a really important point, and one that dharma practitioners will be able to appreciate. What we see at one year is a flash, a snapshot of where that relationship between a caregiver and child stands, based on millions and trillions of minute interactions that have happened in that first year. Non-Buddhists often think of karma as some moral law or destination, as in you get what you deserve. Sometimes we do, and sometimes we don’t. What the Buddha meant by karma is the way every cause will have an effect. We can’t always know what that effect will be, but an accumulation of karmic seeds will affect us, for sure. This is true in culture, as we’re seeing now more clearly than ever, and in our families.

Karma works by developing power as it continues, and the only way to stop a karmic causation is to get in its way and give it a stronger dose of something else. Otherwise, our attachment tends to continue, not because there’s something magical about being one year old—it’s just karma; it’s just the way it goes. It’s incredible the way karmic seeds are sown and harvested. A strong positive event can certainly shift things. But if you’re avoidant at a year, you’ve got a good chance of being avoidant at 30.

I’ve felt a wide range of emotions since learning about this. It’s so amazing! But it’s also scary. What if I’m not securely attached, and then my son isn’t, either? There’s this opportunity and hope for change, and then this idea that things are just the way they are, that there’s no beginning and no end. Where do we go from there, in our practice, in our families? We practice. That’s all there is to do. It’s interesting information, but it doesn’t change the reality, which is that we’ve got one heart, one life to live.

I think the path of practice is the clearest thing in all of this. Everything else depends on so many different causes and conditions, but the path out seems to be clear. That’s what a securely attached adult does: they have mixed feelings. The avoidant baby at one year old is denying. It’s like that very fundamental dharmic understanding of heaven, hell, and other realms, jealous gods and all of that. Clinging takes many forms and so the avoidant baby is clinging to denial, to not feel what they’re feeling, by a year.

Well, and then there’s the other side, the resistant baby is also clinging to an idea of I’ll get it at some point, at some point this is going to feel good. Whereas the securely attached baby is able to actually experience their emotions to the point of extinguishing them, with the help of the parent. By the time we’re sitting on our cushions, we’re trying to learn how to do that on our own, extinguish our sensations by practicing them. By seeing through them, by experiencing them. A baby cannot do that, so that’s where we come in.

The avoidant baby in the Strange Situation is chilling. Their heart rate and stress levels are going up, but they sit there like a stone, while their parent is in the doorway, saying, “Daniel, I’m here, hi.” The avoidant babies ignore their own experience; they can’t tolerate the feeling of sadness, and by a year they’re repressing, they’re angry, they’re distancing themselves. They’re separating from their own experience because the parents, for whatever reason—and there are lots of good, understandable reasons—haven’t been able to be present with their child enough so that the child has fluency with their own sensations. And then the resistant child: they can feel for a second, then they have to step off, and then feel again, then step off.

What are some good reasons why a parent may not be able to be present with their child? They’re depressed, or had a traumatic childhood and never learned how to be attentive. Or they’re experiencing COVID-19, poverty, job loss. There are innumerable good reasons. A parent might have a hard time paying attention to a child because they’re having a hard time with their own experience and their internal life. And for those reasons, the result might be the same: a child won’t feel like they can trust that the parent will be there for them, which might lead to avoidance behavior at one year old.

One of my favorite concepts to come from the attachment literature was from Mary Main, a psychologist who had studied with Mary Ainsworth: she called it attentional flexibility. From a dharma perspective, that’s golden. When we’re sitting on our cushion and have thoughts passing through, our intention is to let go of them and return to the present. That’s developing attentional flexibility, and a secure baby in the Strange Situation has this. They are despairing, at the brink of death, their loved one is gone, and that is a seriously distressful situation. So they’re brought to the edge just a little bit and then when the parent returns they’re able to be, like, “Oh . . . that’s over,” and go back to playing. It’s like when we notice we’re thinking when we’re sitting. It takes so many of us a lifetime—at least—to learn how to do this, because we don’t have intentional flexibility—we get so stuck in our thoughts or lost in space. We’re rigid, we’re excessive, we’re avoidant, we’ll do anything but be present in the moment. And we can see that happening exactly in the Strange Situation with an insecure one-year-old. The insecure baby gets caught in their feelings of loss when the parent leaves, and they can’t return to playing when the parent returns because they don’t have a trusting relationship.

I’m definitely curious, and I’m sure other people will be, too. Do you have advice for people who want to learn more about their first year of life? Can this knowledge help us? As interesting as our patterns are, ultimately, I don’t think we have to know all the details of our early lives. If you’re really interested, then practice becoming more present. You’ll learn everything you need to know through rigorous self-study. By learning to work with yourself, you’ll become a more delighting person and parent, and your child will become more securely attached and just a happier person. It’s not like if you’re avoidant there’s one treatment and if you’re resistant there’s another.

Get right with yourself, get to know yourself, metabolize your feelings, and ask what is getting in your way. I could go on and on, but that’s our work as dharma practitioners and the work of anybody who wants to free themselves of their past. The past is fascinating and I totally support therapy and any kind of work you want to do. But ultimately, everything we need is right here, right now, in the present, on the cushion or wherever you are.

What haven’t I asked you that you’d like people to know about the book? This book is not just for parents; it’s for anybody who has a parent. Because it isn’t just about how we raise children—it’s how we raise ourselves to be reasonable, happy, delightful adults. And it’s never too late, or too early, to take a look at our minds. To me, a secure attachment is kind of a North Star: Some of us may never get there, but that doesn’t matter—it matters that we have intention and that we manifest that lovingkindness from wherever we begin.

Your book reminded me about something that Sharon Salzberg talks about in a podcast I listened to recently. She had a very difficult childhood, but she says that she was able to “re-parent” herself through her teachers by drawing upon qualities she saw in them. Exactly: the way that we talk is important, and we talk to our children the way we talk to ourselves. A friend of mine recently said, “The first person you talk to in the morning is you.” If we can put a microphone to that voice and hear it, we would learn a lot. And you don’t have to be a meditator, or a Buddhist—we’re just in a very fortunate position because we have the tools.

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Shortly after the arrival of my first child, a friend without children innocently asked how my meditation practice was going. Flustered and embarrassed, I mumbled something vague, as I bounced my baby on my chest to soothe her. Truth was, I had no energy or time to sit on a cushion, since every minute was spent on this newborn. The moment signaled to me that my meditation routine had radically changed and that, unless I had Angelina-Jolie-like levels of childcare, I’d need to thoroughly rethink how to meditate with children in the home. 

What follows is what I learned over the years combined with the pragmatic experience of countless others with children who figured out how to not only maintain meditation practice but also actually deepen it in profound ways.

Abandon all hope, ye who have children under three. If you have even one child under the age of three and you’re both at home all day, forget attempting formal, seated meditation. You get a Meditation Pass. If you have a quiet moment alone, go take a shower, exercise, nap, or watch a clip that makes you laugh. If the young one is taking an extended nap, by all means, sit on that cushion! However, toddlers have this freaky antenna that sends them a signal: “My caregiver is meditating, so now it’s time to wake up!” Parents consistently report that whenever they meditate, even if it’s at 4 a.m., the child will wake. We have no idea why, but it’s utterly maddening.

Turn quieter caregiving moments into meditation. Many infant or toddler tasks lend themselves beautifully to mindfulness meditation, if you do them intentionally. Nursing or bottle feeding, diapering, rocking the baby to sleep, bathing, strollering, walks with a carrier, and cuddling can all be done as meditations, with full attention to your senses, and touching into the breath. If the baby is on your body, you can breathe with the baby’s breaths. As with formal meditation, devices and screens are best shut down and out of sight. 

With preschoolers and older children, meditate at the playground. If you’re alone at the park, since you have to watch them for safety anyway, use the time to be fully present. Practice mindfulness with each sense: listen to cars going by or the wind blowing through the trees; feel your butt on the cold bench or the warmth of your coat; smell the melting snow or the waft of Cheerios’ aroma from the snack cup.

Reassign your meditation location from home to work. Many adults on active family duty change their meditation period to strategic times at their place of work. Some meditate in their car in the office parking lot before heading inside for the day or returning home. Meditating in the car also works for those who pick up their children from school. Some meditate on the bus or subway. Others meditate at lunch. Some create meditation groups with their colleagues. 

Meditate when the kids are sleeping. Once your children are older (over 3 or so, and depending on their developmental needs), you may have more energy left over to meditate in the early morning, later in the evening, or during their naptime. The “antenna problem” mentioned above seems to end once the kids start school. 

Adjust how you meditate. Because childcare is so demanding, you may not have enough sleep or mental energy to concentrate as easily as before. As such, you may need to shift from focusing on one object (such as the breath) to opening your range of awareness. Listening meditation, body scan or body sensation awareness, walking meditation, and calm abiding may be more doable. Believe it or not, you will still have important insights despite not accessing a more settled, concentrated meditation.

If you had a crappy childhood, emphasize meditations on compassion or kindness for yourself. Parenting can bring up old patterns and pain from your own childhood, and you may end up unconsciously reenacting them with your children. Becoming a parent presents a golden opportunity to not only heal from your past but also become a significantly more conscious, loving parent in the present. To begin this healing, spend ample time doing metta (lovingkindness) for yourself. This work is actually about healing generations of trauma. Raising non-traumatized children means, ideally, that they will raise your grandchildren in a functional home, and so on. If I had to just give one piece of advice to parents it would be to do extensive meditation on self-compassion.

(I discussed this point at length in August in a Dharma Talk video series on nurturing an intentional, compassionate family. You can watch it here.)

Reframe “me time” to “we time.” Persisting in the pre-parent habit of thinking that you can only feel rejuvenated if you get “me time”—and for meditators, “me time” means silent, seated meditation—will only result in frustration and further feelings of depletion. If you find yourself thinking this way, you may need to make a considerable shift in identity such that “me” now includes your family members. This takes time, but it’s worth it. Opening up your sense of self to also consist of relationships reveals how the self is constructed through interconnectedness (or as Thich Nhat Hanh says, “interbeing”). Once you let go of the solitary self, spending time with your children becomes meditation itself, as long as you are with them intentionally in this way (again, no distractions, especially in the form of devices). This tectonic shift in identity is probably the single largest transformation a meditating parent undergoes, and it has profound implications for spiritual growth. 

Practice with your children. Some families pull off the amazing feat of meditating together, but most find this to be a huge stretch as too many conditions (cohesion of developmental stages/ages, schedule alignment, etc.) have to come together to realistically make it happen. However, there are many ways to create a meditative family culture. For example, I’ve woven in times of intentional silence from my children’s earliest years so that they feel comfortable with quiet and being with themselves without distraction. We’ve practiced silence for portions of time while driving, going for walks, and cuddling. Another practice is to narrate what you’re aware of in the present moment—again, very informally. “I’m smelling the rain as it dries from the sidewalk; I see sparkles of sun on the wet leaves; I hear squirrels chattering.” Doing so not only helps you practice mindfulness but lays groundwork for your child’s own awareness. They’ll likely add further notes to yours.

(You can also incorporate meditation into your children’s bedtime routine with a nighttime metta practice.) 

Don’t be a stone-cold Buddha. Should your children stumble into your bedroom when you and/or your spouse are meditating, don’t panic. It’s good for your children to see you meditating, as it plants seeds for their future practice. In our times, it is radical to choose to sit still and be silent, to resist an identity of busyness, ceaseless motion, and noise, and to reclaim our sanity and humanity by coming home to ourselves. However, when your child comes across you meditating, break from your meditation and welcome them into your lap. Embrace them with full tenderness, hold them, and breathe with them for a few minutes until they’re ready to float off elsewhere (and you may need to end your meditation, then, too). If you remain as a stone-cold Buddha when your child enters your zone, the child receives the message that meditation means disconnection and distance. If, however, you enfold the child into your peaceful sphere, the child associates meditation with care, presence, and love.

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