Last week I coached and co-facilitated an agency-wide leadership program that I had helped design 15 months ago. I shouldn't be surprised then at the content, but to a certain extent I was. Major themes of mindfulness kept emerging throughout the five days. While I recall the team talking about mindfulness, I think my mild surprise came more from where I am in my life than the content.
There is a Buddhist quote, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." Last week I think I was ready for the teacher to appear.
Mindfulness has been described as "being here now." In other words, our minds aren't darting off to what we will do tomorrow or next week, nor are they ruminating on what happened last week, last month or last year. They are here, empty of expectation, ready for what will present itself in the next moment.
One of my most important paths to mindfulness has come in my relationship with food. There are others to be sure, but food just seems to always be "in my face." That journey began early in life for me--at the age of 10. My father was diagnosed with a hereditary disease, which my brother and I would almost certainly inherit if we didn't take steps early and consistently to avoid it.
As our friends were choosing foods, based on what they wanted to eat, we learned to choose what would keep us healthy, long before either of us probably understood the implications. That does not mean that we never ate what our peers did, but at least for me, the pizzas, hamburgers, and hot dogs and other ubiquitous teen foods that my friends regularly scarfed down were occasional treats to be savored. While the appreciation was about "what" we were eating, the rarity of the treats resulted in appreciation of each bite in a way that I think my peers didn't delight in quite as I did.
In my 40s when I discovered that I had a wheat allergy, I added another layer of consciousness of about what I would, or safely could, eat. I continue to be surprised that upon learning of my allergy how many people will say, "Isn't there something you can take for that?" Of course, there is. I took allergy medicines for decades, but I always felt tired. When I stopped eating wheat, it was like being shot full of energy. If I could experience that aliveness by just being mindful of what I was eating, why would I want a pharmaceutical solution?
Regular readers of this blog know that in recent years, my struggle with mindfulness in my eating has come with my relationship with sugar, as I give it up each year for Lent, and then usually I have found myself quickly slip-sliding back into that addiction. I am pleased to say that, although I have eaten sugar since Lent this year, I have been able to do so mindfully and very rarely. This has been a huge step in mindfulness for me.
In Cleveland this week, however, I was graced with a presentation by Dr. Susan Albers. Her book, Eat.Q., is about the "how" of mindful eating more than the "what." Although I wouldn't consider myself a master of the "what" of eating, I am light years ahead on the "what" than I am the "how."
What Albers encouraged us to do was "be here now" with our food. While I wasn't aware of what I was doing at the time, I can now reflect back on relishing those foods that I knew I should avoid as a teen and young adult and know that I was very mindful of being totally present to each wonderful treat. Once or twice a year on a special occasion, I will eat a small amount of something with wheat in it. (I wasn't going to be in Italy and not eat any pasta.) I am completely mindful of both the experience...and the potential risks...even as I value that moment intensely.
In her talk, Albers encouraged us to bring that level of consciousness to everything we ate--the how of eating. She reminded us of how often we eat at our desks or in front of the TV or computer, while doing three or four other things and end the meal without remembering or even tasting a bite of it. There are countless other ways that we mindlessly exit our meals.
I live alone, and, as an introvert, mostly I get along OK with that. However, eating alone is one of my challenges. My routine has been to come home, make a large salad, and sit down and watch the previous evening's "The Daily Show." Jon Stewart and I have dinner together. (I will miss my frequent dinner companion terribly come August.)
As Albers talked about the "how" of eating mindfully, I recalled a few years ago when for Lent, I gave up doing anything else when I was eating. It had been an exercise in the kind of eating she described. The entree salads that I make almost always fill a dinner plate, and most of the time, I finish them. During my Lenten exercise, I found that, when I ate mindfully, almost every day I realized that I was full by the time I was halfway through the plate. I'd scrape what was left into a container and have it for lunch the next day. Day in, day out. When I was present, I could actually be aware when I was full.
There are other things that we do mindlessly. Probably 25 years ago I became aware that when I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work, I was still in my rush mode from the day.
As I grabbed the cart, I would notice that, by just shifting my mind into the moment, my breathing relaxed, my shoulders dropped, and I was present. I didn't move any more slowly; I just noticed how I was moving.
I've begun how often people will ask "How are you?" and then upon being asked the same question of themselves, they will repeat the same question without realizing they've already asked it. There are times when I am tired, and I don't go to bed because it is too early, and other days I am not tired, but I do go to bed "because it is time." I find myself going to a job that doesn't nourish me spiritually almost every day.
So, last week in Cleveland shook me from my complacence about mindfulness. This student is ready. I know as with any spiritual discipline, mindfulness is a practice, and I will need to practice over and again. I am happy that the teacher, in the person of Albers and the lessons built into the leadership program, appeared last week.
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