At this time in my life, I'm feeling called to pay attention at a deeper level to “coming home to myself.” Coming home to oneself involves a consenting to be vulnerable, to be curious, to call forth the courage to risk exploration of the still unknown parts of ourselves.
by Sasha Silberman
In my high school years, deeply depressed, I self-medicated with food up to the point of morbid obesity. Full of self-loathing and snacks, I didn’t think I deserved any better. Once I improved mentally, my sole aim was to shed the weight and get thin - and I did so with a ferocity that I had never experienced before, and have never experienced since. Even once I was back on the healthy side of that bridge, having shed the excess weight, I could never shed my fixation.
“Words for the Journey” is an ideal medium for sharing the insight, beauty and power of language. Well-intentioned and well-crafted words can enlighten, heal, empower, illuminate, and awaken. I have revered words since I was young, probably inspired by my mother who was among the first copywriters in the early days of the Martin Agency and lead writer on its creative team that originated the Virginia is for Lovers campaign. Language and discourse have obviously been critical elements of my own profession as a trial lawyer for forty years. My left brain has commandeered most of my life, so concepts, thought and expression have reigned ascendant.
Over time, however, I have become increasingly aware of the inherent limitations of language. How does one adequately express in words the ineffable sight of an exquisite sunset, the feeling of romantic love, a moving piece of music or a transcendent experience? Correspondingly, I have realized that some of the most profound revelations in my life arose from observation of others’ actions rather than their eloquent dialogue or prose. There is just a different quality to the experience.
Recently, I was invited to a friend’s for lunch to meet her new granddaughter. When I arrived, eight-week-old Baby Maya was sound asleep, lying sprawled on Grammy Barb’s chest, heart to heart. Dressed in a pink and white striped top, black pants with flowers of all colors gaily spread across them. White anklets on her little feet.
Even as a mindfulness practitioner, I still find myself from time to time, showing up stressed out, fearful, perhaps even with great doubt as a result of the pace of life and its challenges and threats. Or in moments of exuberance show up wondering ‘how can I make this last longer? how can I do this again soon?’ Both of these ways of showing up are full of discontent, even when the experience is pleasant. We are caught up in some mix of denial, resistance or wanting things to be other than they are.
It is a belief in the Buddhist tradition that we are brought to a given moment - to whatever is the Now for you- as a result of multiple causes and conditions, many of which have been beyond our ability to control. We have been influenced by our genetic makeup, by the conditioning within our families as we grew up and by this culture in which we live—none of which we chose
My spoiled brat has taken to waking me up in the middle the night over the past year…often at around 3:00 AM. He likes to get up early and apparently he wants company. He’s good at getting it too. He likes to remind my reactive self of every reason to tackle one “problem” or another immediately…often with the result of causing two additional problems. He likes to remind me of how my life sucks next to the lives of others. Comparison is one of his favorite late night games. He knows every weakness in my psyche and seems to love playing at the master control board of my neuroses, periodically flipping the “throw a pity party” switch…and I have duly obliged him all too often.
This past March I went to a week-long silent retreat at a buddhist monastery in the wooded hills of West Virginia (yes, West Virginia). It is a beautiful, simple place. No talking unless absolutely necessary. Up at 5am for the first sit at 6. No food after noon. To someone who happened upon the place unknowingly we may have looked half catatonic and rather unhappy – as if we had been sent there against our will and were not allowed to leave.