illustration by Erika Streiskal
piranha flash mob
relentless razor fast feast
bone sinks into silt
Author Archives: skh
the circle game
“…the seasons they go round and round
and the painted ponies go up and down
we’re captive on the carousel of time
we can’t return we can only look behind
from where we came
and go round and round
in the circle game…” – Joni Mitchell
As a kid, I didn’t do well on amusement or playground rides that went in circles. I recall being held by the arms and swung in a circle by others but can’t imagine why I let them. I am predisposed to nausea and dizziness…even now blood pressure issues, hormonal swings, and a propensity to ear stones keeps me in a nearly constant state of vigilance for dizzy spells. I dread that feeling, the room spins, and the nausea that follows almost more than anything else.
Perhaps it’s that feeling of complete disorientation, vulnerability, and fear that holds the key to my practice, and search for the dharma (the truth about the way things are and will always be in nature and the universe). I know that challenging situations and people are my greatest teachers. I believe they are coming at me so relentlessly in recent years because I have not yet learned what I need to learn about surrendering to the circuitousness of life.
A new friend created the Dharma Wheel above for me…what a gift! I particularly love how the center evokes the warmth and brightness of the sun. The eight spokes remind me to practice the eightfold path. I am really struggling with truthful communication without harm. While I believe my intent is positive, clearly it is not always experienced as such by others…and I am simply too attached to the idea (my ego!) that they will experience me otherwise.
But it seems my real attachment is to the hurt of my past. In a Tricycle teaching by Tsulrim Allione in an adaptation from her book Feeding Your Demons, this former Tibetan Buddhist nun explains that demons are not ghouls waiting to harm us but rather the core of our ego-clinging. I followed her five step instruction of finding my demon in order to feed it what it needed and ultimately integrating it as an ally. I was surprised at how quickly and assuredly my demon provided me with profound insights.
When asked what my demon wanted from me, the answer was to be left alone. Likewise the response to what it needed from me was to be allowed to die. The demon assured me that it would feel free and at peace as a result.
So how has it served me to keep this wounded soul alive for so long? I have been compelled again and again to hold her up as a victim, demanding she be seen and her hurts revenged. The minute anyone disregards or attacks me, I immediately pull out this painful past and parade it over and over again in my mind. No rest for the demon, no rest for me. Completely irrelevant to the external world.
In the exercise, as I envisioned feeding the wretched soul of my demon as much nourishment and nectar as she could take in, she transformed into a tiny, translucent and luminescent being. I took my tiny Thumbelina lovingly into my heart and learned she would always be there to warm and protect my heart, I just needed to breathe mindfully into my heart to access this demon turned ally.
I realize this may sound kooky to most people. Yet it’s a powerful thing to own these attachments we have that cause us and others such suffering. What the mind creates, the mind can transform. Assaulted by nearly constant pain, I’m willing to commit to whatever practice or process carves out a new path of being…knowing the circuitous nature of the universe will likely keep bringing me back to that pain until one day it won’t hurt quite so much.
Strangers Non-Fiction
A recently discovered joy for me is talking with strangers.
For as long as I can remember, I have always been uncomfortable meeting new people. Awkward about what to say, uncertain how to act. Looking for an out.
So much energy put into what essentially was a play in one act that no one even came to see.
Miraculously, that has taken a complete 360 since gaining a loving acceptance of my introverted ways. Introverts are not shy, and we want to connect with others. It’s really hard to feel seen when it seems so effortless for so many others. I have always been in awe of those people. Parties are the worse.
Something about growing up in a large family perhaps. Hard to stand out, hard to be heard, hard to feel special. So much competition. So many incredibly wonderful siblings, each special in their own ways.
In recent years, as I have worked at my Buddhist practice and awakening, I’ve discovered that my real joy is one-on-one with someone. As a writer, I am drawn to stories in people.
When I was doing clinical training to be a psychoanalyst, those stories were heartbreaking. So much suffering, most of it caused in their own minds by how they perceived challenges, disappointment, judgments and worse (based on childhood introjects and the repetition of false stories we tell ourselves over years). The college students I counseled taught me how to set my own suffering aside in service to someone else. I was in awe of the depth of their pain. I was invested in their well-being, and so my own ego and countertransference was still baggage to be dealt with.
Just as it still sometimes does with friends, families, co-workers…the people I know. The people strangely it’s sometimes hard being my true self around. The people with whom I desperately want to be my best. An important group, perhaps too important, and just like a large party it can be overwhelming.
Talking to strangers, I’ve discovered, can be more than a simple delight. For me, it is truly a lifesaver during difficult times. There are often so many small, yet profound gifts even in a 5 minute exchange. Most miraculously of all, I find I can be my true self with no effort at all. And I know within a few seconds whether this is a person I simply smile and say hello to or someone with whom I connect deeply though may not even get their name.
This past weekend in Boston for the Marathon those strangers were a lifeline to myself and to humanity. The man I chatted with while waiting for our organic smoothies. He had that special air about him, a joyous and generous soul like my friend Peter. I decided to talk to him. He had so much to share with me about his wife and the book he just bought her, “The Confidence Code.” He shared his observations about how women, no matter how successful and wonderful they may be seem to lack that sense of themselves. His wife, a senior manager at an airline often comes home saying she’s not sure she can keep doing what she does, yet she had been doing so successfully for years. He said it’s similar to what African Americans experience (and he would know). I could relate. He read the book first to make sure it was good before gifting it to her. I said she is lucky to have a husband like him…and he looked deeply into my eyes and said “No, I am the lucky one to have her.”
This conversation along with the one with an Oregon couple who love their rescue dogs as much as I love mine…an elderly street jazz saxophonist whose dissonant notes I complimented and learned a bit about his travels back in the day…and many others. Simple and real exchanges of kindness, intelligence, laughter are precious moments that help me feel truly connected and renew my faith in humanity.
And the opportunities are all around us. namaste
turkey wandering & wonders
turkey wanderings and wonders
An unexpected gift came to me this morning in the form of a beautiful female turkey wandering along the road as I was driving to work.
I rolled down my window to speak to her. What a pretty girl you are! I’m worried about you being so close to the road. She gently looked at me and listened patiently. I was concerned about leaving her.
Suddenly a neighbor I didn’t know appeared and scooped her up. I rolled down my other window to ask “is she wild or yours?” She was indeed his turkey, and had started wandering due to the loss of her male companion who had been killed by a fox.
Following a friendly and delightful exchange about this beautiful gal, I found myself wondering…
What message did this lovely lady have for me?
The turkey as a spirit totem is a reminder to nurture a harmonious relationship with nature. To honor the sources of our physical, emotional, and spiritual nourishment. To embrace the fullness of life–rather than attempt to seek happiness through the accumulation of things. It symbolizes generosity and the value of our connection with community and with Mother Earth.
And for me personally, a much-needed reminder of the value of taking pause. My attunement to nature convinced me to follow my curiosity and concern, and rewarded me with simple yet profound wonders.
With much gratitude to my feathered friend.
the king and i
the king and i
Is it really good to be king?
The whole idea seems full of countless traps of the ego and attachment to a cherished outcome. But then what situations don’t bring those challenges?
After experiencing what Buddhists refer to as samvega last summer~a cataclysmic transformative shift has occurred within me. In spite of the immense suffering I endured, I am grateful.
No longer will I contort myself to fit the reality of others. No longer will I seek the reflection and approval of others to find my truth and happiness. I will continue to follow the path of that first painful lesson which is treat all others with kindness, and do my best to have compassion. Especially for those who cause me the greatest harm.
A true king is not someone seeking power and control, but one who is kind and generous. Someone who inspires. And while my intent is to be kind, generous and inspire, I do not wish to be king.
To quote the Fleet Foxes song Helplessness Blues: “I’d rather be a functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me.”
Thanks to that cataclysmic shift~and a very generous and loving king who took me to Sedona for a goddess retreat with Krystina Morgainee~I am well on my way to clarity about what is meaningful to me.
Focusing on what Seth Godin calls ‘the work’…finally having a clarity and direction of where my work needs to live.
The King and I are bonded by more than being sisters. Her soul type and mine, Warrior, are coupled together as action-oriented beings. I am learning to stay clear of any bullish tendencies I may have previously had the compulsion to act out. My sister rarely struggles with tyrannical behavior~though dysfunctional family dynamics and the tyranny of others can still hook her shenpa BIG time.
I am so grateful to have taken this path, and so honored to be taking it with her. It’s a spiritual two-fer! So thank you Sissy for your generous nature, unconditional love, respect, sharing, support, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
pixie dust
pixie dust
My first grade haircut: the pixie. It was overwhelming, and sort of magical.
At least I think it was supposed to be.
My mom made a big deal about it. Won’t this be fun!
Afterwards a celebration with a Creamsicle shake bigger than me at the local diner where she worked.
She was so happy and seemed proud of me…of my haircut.
Exactly why this haircut was such a wondrous thing was not clear to me. But who was I to pass up a special moment with just me and my mom. It was ALL about ME!
Yet even at 6 my inner dialogue asked, why are you the one who needs the haircut?
No one talked about my older sister chopping her long straight blonde hair.
We both once had the same short haircut when we were younger. I told myself it’s probably because she’s older (even though it was only by a year and a half).
Or the fact my mom was always telling me to brush my hair because it looked ‘strubbily.’
So I cut my hair and she was happy, and seemed happier with me.
Some four decades later, the pixie became a symbolic part of my transformative journey. In recent years I was pleased to reclaim my own long blonde hair.
Even the tedious monthly coloring to hide the grey felt like taking control of being the best me.
But at some point I started looking forward to my snowy white roots. I just stopped covering them up.
They couldn’t grow fast enough, I wanted more of my natural hair color. It had been so long since I even knew what that might be.
Why did I think hiding my natural hair color made me more presentable?
Many discussions about going grey, ranging from ‘do it, just cut it all off’ from women with radiant grey hair to ‘sure eventually, but not now’ from younger friends just fed my uncertainty. But exactly what was stopping me? Why was I afraid to be my natural (read: real) self?
Today I decided to cut my hair. A quick Google search on why Buddhist monks shave their heads was the final inspiration. It represents cutting off the three poisonous attitudes. Confusion, which creates ignorance. Hostility, which causes suffering.
Attachment, the empty pursuit of happiness through things and appearances (delusion).
I kept my eyes closed the entire time. I happily chatted away with my stylist. I admitted to her that I may hate it at first but I am fine with that, and she shouldn’t be concerned. A quick consult with the colorist and all agreed absolutely no coloring was needed to blend anything. My glorious grey was peeking through everywhere and looking perfectly fine. Any remaining color would be gone soon enough with the next haircut or two.
That little 6 year old girl was finally empowered.
I feel like I just shed a lot of unnecessary weight I’ve been carrying around for too long. 
Stuck in the Middle
stuck in the middle
I confess. I was a middle child. 
But you can hold your groans and knowing looks.
Unless you are a middle child and so, of course, understand.
While it’s true I was a middle child during my formative years.
Later I became the second oldest of six children.
Which may be why I excel at being #2.
As long as who I am is recognized and valued by #1.
Lucky for me, I have an older sister who has shown me the way.
So middle child is not what defines me. The journey is undefinable.
Who I am is the solid rock at the center of life’s rippling waters.
I am [the rock] stuck in the middle of that pond.
The journey is The Middle Way.
Rising above the water to return back to that authentic place.
susan k. hartman 