The Deep Practice of Being by Xochitl Alvizo   

I have arrived.
I am home;
in the here;
and the now.

I am solid.
I am free.

In the ultimate,
I dwell.

– Thich Na Han 

When you realize that [love for this tender human life] is always here, then there really is nowhere else to get to, there’s only being in this life, learning to love it, again and again, moment by moment.  
– Jeff Warren 

I have tried to be more intentional in my practice of this recently—of being at home with myself and of loving this life this moment. I am trying to learn how to let myself be with myself in whatever I am experiencing, especially in the midst of external stresses and internal grief.  

It has been difficult recently because so much of the time what I want to do is turn away from my experience, from the world, to escape it and not have to feel it. There is too much grief to bear; another death, another heartbreak, another global crisis. Being itself seems to hurt, and I seek escape.  

“What is this? What is this life? Can you feel the whole container of being here right now?” – Jeff Warren 

No.  

I do not feel the whole container of it. I feel only the sadness, the pain, the restlessness – so restless. I do not feel the joy, the connection, the peace I ache for. There is an emptiness in my stomach that I cannot fill, that longs for comfort, for assurance, which does not come.  

“What if we let go into wakefulness; into what is already right here?” – Jeff Warren 

But what about that hollow space in my stomach where love is supposed to feed me? The lump in my throat that won’t go away, that can’t find words, and that makes me feel like I’m drowning?  

I move in small steps between escapism and pain. What is the next small thing I can do? Where must I be that I cannot let myself off the hook from?  

Teaching. I must make it to the classroom; the committee meeting; the doctor’s appointment. In those moments, I am present. I arrive and I am able to dwell. There is some relief. Joy even in the simple and mundane things. And I can hope. Maybe I’m in the clear. Maybe it will be better now. Maybe I will be better now.  

“Nothing for you to do. Everything is happening just fine, all on its own, you can rest.” – Jeff Warren 

Or maybe this is it. All of it. The pain, the ache, the moments of presence and hope. Connected and eternal. No difference between them. “The whole container of being” in each one. If I can dare to dwell.  

Just breathe. “I have arrived. I am home.”  

I need the words of others. Of those who have more practice dwelling, “in the here, and the now.” And I get through another moment. Just the next one, that is all, and that’s ok.   

“Tenderness for everyone trying so hard.” – Jeff Warren 

What might I do if I could just dwell? I could write. I could smile, right here, right now. I could write my friend a letter. I could sit on the stoop and connect with my neighbor. Send a thank you card to those who’ve shared their time with me. I could check in on my plants—are any of them thirsty? I could cook and smell and taste.  

“What if this were it? Love for this tender human life and the slowed-down sense of spaciousness that lets you notice all of it.” – Jeff Warren 

The grief and stress of life is vast and at times I have difficulty finding a way to navigate it. I am weighed down, and yet, I don’t want escapism; I want to notice all of it, so I don’t miss the good and the beautiful and the just, and I can live more fully into that.  

So, what is the next small step I can take?  

What is yours?  

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Postscript: I wrote this post after a guided meditation by Jeff Warren (through the Calm app), and used some of the lines from the meditation to reflect on. I hope it extends a sense of solidarity as we are all navigating the tense political reality of the U.S. and whatever the aftermath of our election brings. May we at least feel a sense of groundedness with ourselves, in our bones.