Am I strong enough to be gentle?

I’ve been writing about living gently for three years now, but recently I haven’t been able to escape the sense that I’m walking a path leading no where. Algorithms don’t reward the quiet or the nuanced. The world beyond our screens celebrates loud, brash, black & white thinking. I’ve been feeling rather disheartened and anything but confident.

Then I spent eight days in the African bush: South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Bostwana. We saw elephants, rhinos, hippos, a female leopard, cheetahs, hyenas, wild dogs, giraffes, zebras, wildebeest, warthogs, crocodiles, jackals, mongooses, lions, ostriches, kudu, impala, gemsbok, and more amazing birds than I can list.

I’m not an expert, but it didn’t take long to see that the best guides and trackers all shared one quality in common: the ability to be gentle. These are the people you want on your team in a zombie apocalypse: they can make fire without matches, build shelter, find food and water, navigate the bush without a map, keep themselves and those around them safe, walk for as long as is necessary because they are physically fit, mentally disciplined, and emotionally resilient. These people are tough. They’re also gentle: they speak quietly, they walk through the bush softly, they listen to the animals, and respect all plant and animal life.

Share the art of living gently

I wouldn’t have given a second thought to how gentleness is a sign of true strength were it not for a random meeting as we went through security in Johannesburg. A group of three men loudly announced to anyone who would listen that they were returning from a hunting trip. They listed how many animals they killed in how many days. I had a beloved uncle who bow-hunted his entire life, so I’m not inherently opposed to hunting. But these men didn’t seem anything like my uncle. I don’t know if they navigated by the stars or made a fire without matches like he could. I don’t know if they trekked through the bush on foot and built their own shelter like he did. What I do know is that they talked about their guns.

That’s when it hit me. Sometimes, I’m just like those hunters: when I don’t feel strong, when I don’t know the terrain, when I can’t distinguish between the animal alarm call that announces true danger and the one that signals nothing, when I don’t know how to navigate by the stars, or see the tree in the distance that indicates water is nearby, that’s when I feel insecure, anxious, and uncertain. That’s when I’m likely to be aggressive and reach for my own weapons: a comment designed to cut someone down, an unkind word, silence when congratulations for a job well done is in order.

When I’m at my best, though, I’m more like the trackers and guides. When I’m grounded, realistically confident, aware of my inner and outer world, when I feel my own inner strength I have the capacity to be gentle — with myself and others. It’s easier to be forgiving, to see things from someone else’s point of view, to admit my own vulnerabilities and mistakes.

Gentleness isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s an indication of strength.

The raw and amazing beauty of Africa taught me two things I’m trying to remember now that I’m sitting back at my desk in New York City:

True strength is gentle. It doesn’t announce itself and is only used as a last resort. Think about your favorite movies and books. Who are the characters strong enough to be gentle? The protagonist in your favorite thriller doesn’t run around telling everyone he can incapacitate a man with his bare hands; the super hero doesn’t beat up the little guy; the good cowboy in the Western doesn’t shoot the innocent or unarmed.

This doesn’t mean I’m not spending my time on strength training and cardio. It doesn’t mean that I’m not on my mat deepening my meditation practice. It doesn’t mean I don’t spend hours/days/weeks frustrated by a plot line or character that just isn’t quite right. I’m working on personal goals just like everyone else, but I no longer doubt gentleness. My capacity to be gentle with myself and others is a sign that I’m getting stronger.

Gentleness opens up possibilities that don’t exist otherwise. On safari, animals who feel threatened remain hidden. The same is true in human interactions. When I trust someone enough to be vulnerable, I’m willing and able to do things I wouldn’t otherwise. Think about your best group project, a time when you had to coordinate and cooperate with other people to accomplish a goal. Now think about your worst group experience. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that the good experience was in a high-trust community, and the worst was in a low-to-no trust group. Trust can’t take hold when we’re braced against a potential attack, when we don’t believe we’ll be treated fairly, when we’re competing for supremacy. Trust grows when we’re gentle with ourselves and those around us. When we feel like we can admit what didn’t work and what might work better.

This doesn’t mean discernment doesn’t matter. It does. A lot. Some people don’t deserve our trust. It’s not wise to be vulnerable with everyone. Being openminded and openhearted is not the same as being gullible. While I occasionally have been burned by opening up to a person who didn’t deserve my trust, I would do it again because my goal is to see life as it is. When I’m on the lookout to find fault and criticize, so much of what is wonderful in life will stay hidden from view. Just like the animals do in the bush.

That’s it for now! I hope you have marvelous week. And if you have your own doubts about how you can be both strong and gentle, I hope this gave you a few reasons to put your mind at ease.

with love, as always,

alison

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hello dear friends~

If there’s one thing I’m pretty confident about it’s this: whenever I start walking a new path, I will backslide. There will come a point when I revert to the old way of doing things. For weeks, I’ll bounce out of bed and happily flow into a new morning ritual, then on some random Thursday, I’ll open my eyes and feel slodgy — not a word, but shouldn’t it be? sluggish + groggy + stodgy. Instead of doing the thing I have set out to do, I want to pull the covers back over my head and stay there. Then, the judgments start: “Of course you couldn’t keep this up!” and/or “Why did you think you could really change?” and/or “It doesn’t really matter anyway.” Sometimes, this one moment of backsliding invites friends. All of a sudden, it’s like every single one of my tendencies and habits that do not serve me want to get together for a big party. I’ll crave junk food I haven’t eaten since college and want to watch that reality show that I know highlights the worst of humanity.

I wish I were joking. I am not.

And yet now that I have been here so often, I have begun to welcome this point as a milestone. This moment of backsliding is when I decide if the new strength, habit, or way of being is worth the intentional effort it will take to embody.

Share the art of living gently

In 2014, a group of professors at the Wharton School — Hengchen Dai, Katherine L. Milkman, Jason Riis — published a paper in Management Science called “The Fresh Start Effect: Temporal Landmarks Motivate Aspirational Behavior.” Feel free to read it yourself, but the take away is something all of us already know: there is magic in starting a new way of being on a special day: Monday, January 1, equinoxes and solstices, a day that is also your favorite number. You get the idea.

The problem with the “fresh start” is that it can also become an excuse to procrastinate. If I backslide, I can say to myself, “Okay, Alison, we’ll start again next Monday.” This is not helpful, particularly when the backsliding happens on a Monday afternoon. That’s a whole week of letting the backsliding take over.

To take advantage of a fresh start without the temptation of putting off the change until next Monday, I’m playing with a backsliding ritual. For me, it looks like this:

• Greet the backsliding with friendliness. For years, I would judge myself and the old way of being harshly. Now, I look for how the old way was helpful. Eating that junk food was a way of self-soothing, watching the junk show was a way to distract and unwind. These are not bad things. Unskillful? Now that I have better tools, they are, but at the time they were the best I could do.

• Thank the behavior for its service and say good bye. Just like with Marie Kondo’s life-changing magic of tidying up, when I say thank you to the backsliding behavior, it makes it much easier to let go. I’ll admit, there are some things that keep coming back. Some may do so for as long as I live. And I will continue to thank them for their service and bid them adieu.

• Create a fresh start ritual. A dear friend of mine, Danielle Corcione — I’ve included her Substack link below — lights a candle as part of her morning intention setting routine. This simple action works beautifully for a fresh start. I keep a candle on my writing desk next to my colored pencils. When I hit that backsliding milestone, I take a few intentional moments to light it, greet the backsliding with friendliness, thank it for it’s service and re-commit. Writing a letter and burning it (in the sink!), going for a fresh start walk through the park or woods, and dedicating a session of yoga or meditation to the fresh start works, too. Play around and see what you like.

• Expect more backsliding milestones. C’est la vie! Letting go of the harsh judgment and the temptation to procrastinate when I encounter the backsliding milestone has transformed how I approach making changes in how I live. Treating myself with gentleness when I’m making a challenging shift is so much more effective than beating myself up and/or procrastinating.

That’s it for this week! If you’re in the middle of a strength training effort and have hit a backsliding milestone: Congratulations! You’re part of the human family. I hope you find something here that is helpful.

with love, as always,

alison

p.s.

Here’s Danielle’s Substack if you’d like to subscribe.

Unapologetically First

Lighten your heart and awaken your spirit

By Danielle Corcione

hi ~

I still remember the first time I heard the strange phrase: push to failure! A young, knowledgable, very fit personal trainer was standing over me while I was bench pressing. I was on the last set. She told me to do one more rep. I tried. I really did. My brain told my arms to move. My arms were like, “Uh, yeah. No.”

It was humbling. It was also the moment when I really understood what strength training was about: getting supremely uncomfortable and still doing the thing, then failing completely and coming back stronger. At first, it seems strange to try to fail, but once you understand how muscle fibers get micro-tears than grow back stronger, it makes a lot of sense. As I work on mental and emotional strengths, I’m realizing that pushing to failure is as effective outside of the gym as it is inside.

Here’s how I’m adapting the method of pushing to failure to non-physical strength training:

Take advantage of failure when it comes your way.

When we push to failure in a work-out, we set out to actually fail. When I push to failure in developing a mental or emotional strength, I can’t really prepare for it. What I can do is take advantage of failures when they happen. The moment I’m aware that I’m falling back into an old pattern, I try the new way of responding even when I am already failing. That exact moment when I could shrug my shoulders and just give up, I make the effort. It doesn’t look pretty, but it doesn’t have to. The point is not doing the thing well, the point is to try when it’s not going well. This is exactly when and where it is possible to increase capacity. This is where I can grow stronger for next time.

Here’s an example from my own life. I was driving into Manhattan a few weeks ago when a driver cut me off. I muttered something I won’t repeat under my breath. As I became aware of my anger I reminded myself that this was pushing to failure. Instead of letting that spark of irritation take over and ruin the next ten minutes, I took a breath, exhaled slowly, and intentionally reframed the moment as an opportunity to work on my equanimity muscle. And just like with physical muscle fibers, I’m discovering that every time I remind myself that this is an opportunity to act the way I want to, I’m able to take advantage of those tiny failures. Remarkably, it really does work. After that reframe with the driver, the next time I was behind the wheel, I was completely calm, cool, and collected the entire drive — even though there were a number of incidents that would have rankled my earlier self.

There is some magic in trying when you’re already failing. Sure, it doesn’t look pretty and it doesn’t exactly feel good in the moment, but the next time I’m in the same situation, I’m able to be more how I want to be because I tore those micro-fibers and they grew back stronger.

That’s it for this week! I hope you found something helpful here.

with love, as always

alison

Share the art of living gently

dear friends,

Last week, my husband and I made a difficult decision. After years of talking about renovations, we had finally hired an architect and a design team. There were beautiful renderings of what everything would look like. We had proposals for every room — wallpaper, finishes, furniture. I thought it was fantastic. My husband, well, not so much. We disagreed about pretty much everything.

It was maddening. I was so tempted to slip into argument mode — turn our conversations into debates. But, since I’m working on the inner strength of maintaining a calm and open heart, I paid attention to those trigger moments when frustration threatened to take over. I slowed down. I breathed. I stayed grounded in knowing that any renovation project requires us both to be happy. I couldn’t debate my husband into liking something he didn’t like. So, he talked, and I listened. Then, I talked, and he listened. We gave each other space and time. We made a joint decision.

Afterwards, I reminded myself — intellectually and somatically — how nice it is to maintain an open and calm heart when life gets bumpy. I felt a happy warmth in my chest. I relished the peacefulness of not having said anything I wish I hadn’t. I gave myself a gold star.

Do I know that this isn’t a big deal? Yes, of course I do. Most adults are very good at having calm discussions about hard things. But, for me, this was a milestone. A sign that I’m moving in the direction I want. Sure, I’ve fallen back into my old pattern a few times. I undoubtedly will again. But, I have also greeted a whole slew of other things with a calm and open heart. For every single one of those tiny things, I’m giving myself a gold star: the moment when I breathe deeply instead of tensing, when I smile instead of gritting my teeth, when I choose calm silence instead of loud frustration.

We live in a world that celebrates the bold, big, and brash. It’s easy to assume that the small things don’t really make a difference. But they do. If there is anything that I am learning from my inner strength work, it’s that celebrating the small things matters a lot. Those tiny wins give us confidence that we can make the change we’re trying to make. They give us the opportunity to fully inhabit the person we are choosing to be. They provide the practice we need for bigger challenges.

Share the art of living gently

That’s it for this week! If you’re working on some inner strengths like me, I hope you find something useful here. And I hope you’re giving yourself lots of gold stars!

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

For years, I wobbled on my right ankle. Whenever I moved into Half Moon, Tree, or Warrior III, I’d grip my toes and tense up my entire right leg in an attempt to stabilize. Balance poses were challenging for me. I accepted that. Somehow, I thought that being aware of the problem would change my ability.

It didn’t.

Then it struck me: I wasn’t actually doing anything to change my skill. As I write this, it’s rather remarkable to me that it took me as long as it did to realize that self-awareness alone does not magically translate into change — whether that change is physical, mental, or emotional.

I realized that if I wanted to improve how I balanced in yoga poses, I needed to do something. So, I decided I would stand on my right ankle the entire time I brush my teeth in the morning. This action takes no extra time from my day because I already brush my teeth. It’s very easy to do. It also translates into 14 minutes of ankle strengthening and balancing practice every week. Within a month of brushing my teeth while standing on my right foot, not only had my ability improved on the mat, but I had a much better understanding of how to stabilize my hip, engage my knee, activate muscles in my inner thigh to better balance.

Two years later, I still stand on my right foot in the morning because it’s good practice for me. It’s also a pretty wonderful example of a truth we all know: we can make big changes by doing small things consistently. Developing inner strengths is like developing physical strengths: you actually have to do something. A little done every day can lead to big change.

When I took stock of my inner landscape at the beginning of July with the view to developing inner strengths, I knew there were wobbly ankles—aspects of my character that I know, deep down, would be better if I strengthened. I picked two. Both are areas that, like my right ankle, have needed some care for a long time.

Here are the steps I’m taking for my inner strength training:

(1) Be clear about the goal.

Define the change you’d like to make. Be as specific as you can be. Think about the times that will be the most challenging and the times that will be easiest for you to embody what you want. If there’s someone who models what you’re aiming for, think of them.

I want to be able to handle whatever comes my way with a calm, open heart and mind. My brother is impressively adept at keeping his cool under difficult circumstances while maintaining openness. He’s my model for imagining how I can respond to frustration in a way that is in line with who I want to be.

(2) Identify the sensory marker.

When you’re working on a inner strength, there is a state we want to embody and then there’s the rest. When I’m talking about s sensory marker, I’m talking about the feeling you have when you’re pulled out of the quality you want. For me, there’s a contraction in my chest the moment I encounter a situation that makes me angry or frustrated, something that makes me not calm, open hearted, and open minded. This is my wobble. This is the moment to start the strength training.

We all have different bodies and different sensations. Start paying attention. Do you clench you jaw when you’re about to lose it? Do you feel tired when you’re feeling overwhelmed? Does your heart race when anxiety is about to take over? It might take some time to identify your sensory markers. That’s fine. All the information you gather is helpful in creating your inner strength training program.

(3) Define what you’re going to do and do it.

I’m working with a two-prong practice when I sense clenching in my chest: slow breathing + mantras. I inhale slowly as soon as I sense the clenching, which allows me to expand both my lungs and my perspective. While I inhale, I say to myself, “Hello there” to whatever is causing the contraction. Then, I exhale slowly and say: “Clear eyes. Wise heart. And smile.” This quick mantra reminds me that the goal is to see the world clearly, be guided by wisdom in my actions, and embody as much joy and gratitude as possible in any given moment.

Your practice is whatever will help strengthen the quality you’ve identified. Most of us have a pretty good intuition for where to start. Don’t get bogged down in self doubt or wanting to create something elaborate. Get started with small and simple. You can always do more later.

(4) Be mindful of how nice it feels when actions align with principles.

There is no doubt that I am happier when I live according to what I value. That doesn’t mean that I don’t slip up. I do and always will. That’s okay; I’m human. I’m also already seeing improvements from one week of practice. I’m catching myself more quickly when I get pulled out of equanimity. The mantra is becoming more automatic. I’m smiling more.

That’s all for this week! If you’re trying to do some inner strength training yourself, I hope you found something here that’s helpful.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

Happy July!

Back in January, I set myself the goal of focussing on three main qualities over the course of 2026 — joy, equanimity, and strength — all within the larger paradigm of living gently. This week marks the beginning of strength training season.

Let me say straight out that I believe that gentleness is built in to true strength. There is no tension: no either/or, no if/then. The people who are truly strong know how and when to be gentle. They know how much force and effort needs to be exerted. They know when they should act, and when they should rest. They know when it’s time to speak, and when it’s time to listen. Living gently is to live an embodied life based on interconnection. We are all vulnerable, mortal, social creatures who live our best lives when we are capable of caring for ourselves and others — being capable means being strong.

What does it mean to be strong? As I contemplated this question, I looked to the people I admire who embody strength. They all share these four things:

(1) They exert and endure. When they need to push through challenges, discomfort, boredom, frustration, they can and do. They don’t complain or make excuses. They do the hard thing.

(2) They resist being broken. This is not the same thing as not being hurt. Strong people do get hurt — physically, emotionally, and mentally — but they are able to get back up when they fall or get knocked off course.

(3) They deal with challenges in a determined and effective way. Truly strong people are smart. They can discern between what matters and what doesn’t. They don’t waste time or resources.

(4) They are skillful. The truly strong are the people we all want as friends because when life get tough they not only know what needs to be done, they know how to do it. These are people who are constantly learning and are open to new concepts. These are people who grow.

Share the art of living gently

With these four qualities in mind, I’m starting this week with emotional strength training. I’ve decided to start with working on three things that make me anxious: public speaking, driving into the city, and taking photos of myself.

The method? It’s what I’m calling the peloton principle. We all know someone — or maybe it’s us — who lulls themselves into thinking that the fact that they know what is the right thing to do is enough. It’s the equivalent of thinking that having a peloton, or gym membership, is the same thing as working out.

I know that the only way to become less anxious about public speaking, driving into the city, or taking photos of myself is to do those very things, yet over and over I don’t do those things. Effectively, I don’t get on the bike. So, this week, I’m going to spend three days working on a possible podcast with my dear friend and clinical psychologist Dr. Chris Molnar. I’m going to drive into the city. And — with this post — I get to put a check mark next to taking a photo of myself.

That’s it for this week! I hope you found something here that you find helpful.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

Equanimity is not a quality that comes naturally to me. I’m someone who is frequently carried away by waves happy excitement, deep despair, and fierce anger. When I was younger, I thought this immediate emotionalism was a reflection of my honesty. As I got older, I could see the disadvantages to letting these emotional states take over, but thought that there was nothing to be done — one was either born even-keeled or not.

Then I spent these past three months practicing equanimity: when I was elated, happy, excited; when I was enraged and angry; when I was anxious, nervous, or depressed. As the weeks wore on, I became more and more attuned to when I was not in a state of equanimity. I got to know my inner balance set point — that spot where I am most able to see the world and myself clearly because I am not under the influence of emotions that cloud my judgment. Equanimity, it turns out, is a skill that can be cultivated! Even for those of us not born with a dominant even-keeled gene.

The more I practiced, the clearer it became to me why Buddhists consider equanimity to be one of the four most important virtues — alongside loving-kindness, compassion, and sympathetic joy. Equanimity is the compassionate space that can hold both negative and positive emotions, the things we want and the things we don’t. When we rest here, we are at our most skillful. We feel most at peace.

For all my misgivings about an equanimity practice, it has turned out to be one of the most transformational things I’ve done in a long time. The quality of my inner life has improved immeasurably. My days are happier, even when I have a backache/rush to the subway as the train pulls away/get a rejection letter from an agent. I can greet everything in life with more ease. I might even go so far as to say that I’m able to greet everything with an openhearted sense of joy, even when I am greeting something I think of as unpleasant or unwanted.

Here’s why:

(1) Equanimity isn’t a boring, neutral space — it’s a generous, open field of awareness.

When I first embarked on this practice, there was part of me that was worried that I would turn myself into some kind of milquetoast human without convictions or opinions. That fear was entirely unwarranted. In fact, now that I’m learning to allow the energy of an emotional state to dissipate before I speak, my thinking is more cogent, my words are more precise, my conversational engagement is deeper.

This is true for both when I face trivial everyday inconveniences — discovering the dress I want to wear is still at the cleaners — and the more substantial hard things — waiting for the results of a medical test. I see with clear eyes (or at least clearer then when I’m not resting in equanimity), with more patience, humor, and an understanding that whatever it is, wanted or unwanted, will pass.

(2) No one ever walks away from an interaction wishing they had spoken more harshly or acted more rashly.

I’m experiencing far fewer conversation hangovers now that I’m intentionally trying to practice equanimity. It’s not that I’m holding my tongue, although there are now times when I make the decision not to say something, but I speak without topspin. I think of it as keeping my thoughts and words clean. What I’m learning is that when I communicate without unnecessary emotional energy — anger, frustration, resentment, the desire to prove I’m right — I can walk away without regret. I can’t control how someone else takes in information, but I can do my best to make sure that my words are clear, honest, and thoughtful.

So, the other morning when my husband forgot to mention that he would be working from home on a day when he usually doesn’t and that meant I had to skip my work out because the Peloton lives in the home office? I didn’t pounce as the innocent and aggrieved party like I might have a few months ago. Instead, I accepted I would miss my work out that day and rearranged my schedule the best I could. After I let me irritation dissipate and moved on, my husband sua sponte apologized for not letting me know about working from home that day. Go equanimity!

(3) Practicing equanimity is a fantastic way to regulate your nervous system.

Being alive right now is psychologically draining. We all know that levels of depression and anxiety are spiking across the globe. For good reason. We’re living in a time of war, climate devastation, political corruption, breathtaking dishonesty, cruelty, and just plain old stupidity. It’s brutal out there. Practicing equanimity helps.

Now, instead of spiraling into despair every time some new and awful thing happens, I put my hand over my heart and silently remind myself, “This, too, is here.” My nervous system immediately relaxes a bit because instead of fighting reality, I’m acknowledging it. When I add the reminder, “This, too, belongs” about my anger, fear, frustration, my nervous system relaxes even more because I’m welcoming my own inner reaction to that reality. If I’m practicing equanimity at a high level (for me, anyway), I complete this sequence with the reminder, “This, too, will change,” and I relax even more because it’s true: all things will change.

The reflecting pool is a swamp, the East Wing is a pile of rubble, innocent people have died because we started a war, ended USAID funding, stopped requiring vaccinations. Those things are. Taking a deep intentional breath, accepting what is, and reciting these reminders gives me space. I wouldn’t say I feel good about any of it, but I can bear it. Sometimes, that is all we can do. And, it is enough.

That’s it for this week! I hope you find something here that is helpful. If you start your own equanimity practice, I hope you discover for yourself what I have and still am: there’s a lot of peace and joy to be found here.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

This Monday afternoon, my daughter came into the city because Count Cashmere, aka Cashy, needed to see the vet. I join her because I always do. No one should be alone when they might receive difficult news. (Happily, the news is good. Cashy is fine, his heart only slightly enlarged. We need to make sure he does not get overheated this summer.)

The pet hospital is at 410 West 55th Street. I take the 6 train.

After I find a seat, an elderly couple gets on the train. It’s clear from their body language and dress that (one) they are very much in love, (two) they have been together for quite some time, and (three) life is not easy for them. There’s one seat across from me, next to a young woman reading a thick text book. There’s another seat next to me. The older woman sits down across from me, and the older man sits next to me. When the young woman looks up from her book, she catches the man’s eye and asks if he would like her seat. His face lights up as she stands. He takes the seat next to his beloved.

The young woman slips her text book into her bag and stands up, facing me, with her back to the couple.

Then the older woman reaches out and touches the young women’s bag, “Thank you very much.” The young woman smiles, shrugs, and says, “No problem. I’m getting off at the next stop.” Then, the older man touches her bag. “Thank you very much.” The young woman again says, “No problem.” The train stops at 68th Street — Hunter College — the doors open, and the young woman disappears into the crowd, leaving the elderly couple sitting next to each other, holding hands.

And leaving me with a warmed heart for having witnessed three humans — three strangers — treat each other with unnecessary kindness.

It’s easy to not see the kindnesses that happen all around us. Life is busy and loud. A lot of people in power are doing terrible things. They want us to believe that there is no reason to trust, no reason to be honest, no reason to be kind because other people — people who are not like us — can’t be trusted to be honest or kind. If we believe them, it justifies their own bad behavior. If we believe them, we can justify giving in to our own baser instincts.

But that version of humanity is simply not accurate. Every day I see people who choose to be their kinder selves. I’m inspired by the teenager who opens the door for the woman with a stroller, the post office worker who brings a chair out so an older person can sit down and catch their breath, the neighbor who volunteers at the Friday Night Soup Kitchen. What is true is that all of us — people who are like us and people who aren’t — have the capacity to be trustworthy, honest, and kind. There is no group that has a monopoly on good behavior. I grew up in a religion that told me there was, but I know better now. So now, every day, every moment, I understand that it is my choice in how I think, speak, and act that determines whether I am trustworthy, honest, and kind. I try. Sometimes I mess up.

Then, I get on the 6 train and see three someones who get it right.

That’s it for this week! I hope you encounter some unnecessary kindness today. Better yet, I hope we all engage in some unnecessary kindness.

Share the art of living gently

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

This morning, SandiLindgren, a fellow Substack writer, inspired me. She wrote:

The older I get, the less advice I give.

Not because I know less.

Because I’ve learned that people rarely need my answers. They just need space to discover their own.

Isn’t that a wonderful observation?

It hit home for me, both because it’s true, and because I write about what I’m doing in my own life to find more meaning, peace, kindness and connection. My intention is always to stay in the lane of sharing — my observations, my struggles, my moments of clarity and success — yet I’m aware that it’s all too easy to veer off into the land of “let me tell you how to do it.”

This is an apology for any time that I’ve done that.

This is also an invitation to myself to sit in the openness that exists when I don’t grasp for answers — for me or for anyone else. The recent work of both Pema Chödrön and Yung Pueblo has referenced this idea a lot: there are few aspects of life that have hard and fast rules. A well-lived life — that is, one where we do more good than harm to ourselves and others — is not about following a narrow and defined path of righteousness. A good life is about doing the kind and skillful thing in the moment.

That’s the trick. How do we do the kind and skillful thing without holding to a narrow set of rules about what is always right? Without following those people who tell us they know exactly how to do it?

I don’t know the answer. What I do have are some observations from my six years of intentionally integrating gentleness into my life:

(1) When caught in doubt, fear, or anger, ask yourself how you’re relating to the thing.

The moment I sense that I’m caught in one of these contracting states, I pause and ask myself how I’m relating to it. Usually, the answer is that I’m wishing it weren’t this way. Occasionally, it’s the despairing thought that things will always be this way. I know both thoughts aren’t accurate: things are how they are and life always changes. But knowing generally doesn’t help. What helps is to shift how I’m treating the moment internally. I literally ask myself, “How can I treat this knot in the pit of my stomach gently? Can I relate to this overwhelm with gentleness?”

These questions aren’t magic, but they never fail to help.

(2) Find inner principles that align with what you value.

For me, the four Brahma Viharas — loving kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity — point me in a good direction whenever I lose my bearings, which I do. A lot. There are people who rub me the wrong way for no reason, conversations where I get caught up in wanting to be right, situations in the world that enrage me. The list is long. But I no longer doubt that coming back to these four principles puts me in a better place. I don’t even have to succeed, intention on its own is powerful. So, every day I just try to embody loving kindness and compassion for myself and my fellow beings. I try to experience sympathetic joy for the success of others, even the people I don’t like all that much. I try to rest in equanimity.

I mess up all the time. Then I come back and try again. I no longer expect to get it perfect, but I’m finding there’s a lot of peace and contentment in continuing to try.

(3) Incline the mind toward joy, happiness, and fun.

The world needs more light right now, and I have a tendency to let my awareness of the darkness make me feel like I shouldn’t experience it. What I’m learning, though, is that the more joy there is, the more joy there can be. For everyone.

So, I start with the commitment that I will be intentionally grateful for all good things in my life. I do not want to take anything for granted. I remind myself that savoring the piece of chocolate, celebrating the beauty of sunlight filtering through the leaves, letting myself be changed by the genius of an artist is a way of honoring life, in all its forms.

Then, I consciously practice internalizing those moments of joy, beauty, humor, fun. Rick Hanson has written extensively about turning states into traits, and I’m pretty much following his suggested practice: as soon as I become aware of something wonderful, I pause and stay in that moment. I think he says that we need 15 to 30 seconds. I have found that setting a timer on my phone interrupts the process. My favorite number is 8, so I try to rest in that moment of joy for the length of 8 conscious inhalations and exhalations.

It’s working. I have moments of pain, sadness, and grief. There are disappointments and failures. That’s life. But the more I practice, the more I rest in a space of contentment. It’s nice.

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That’s it for this week. I hope I’ve shared something here that resonates for you.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

This week I’m dedicating every afternoon to growing my intuition. This may sound a bit out there. Maybe it is, maybe it’s not. I’ll let you decide, but let me start by explaining what I don’t mean by intuition. I’m not trying to junk analytical thinking. I’m not trying to magically attain direct knowledge of, say, whether we should go ahead with our planned trip to Africa in August without rational thought about whether we’re traveling anywhere near a country with Ebola. We need level-headed logic more than ever in a world where so many who trade in information are peddling obvious lies and poorly-thought through ideas. I’m completely on the side of scientific inquiry and intelligent thinking. We need our intellectual powers to understand complex problems, to foresee consequences, both the obvious ones and the not-so-obvious.

And, we need something more, too.

That something more is what I’m practicing. I’m reconnecting with my long-forgotten insight into what is right for me in any given moment. The inner knowing on a summer day that triple chocolate fudge brownie is exactly the thing. Or that it’s time to leave a relationship that doesn’t fit any more. The intuition I’m talking about is not a rejection of reason, but a tool to discern among all the many reasons which one matters most to me.

This is no simple task. In our AI world of infinite shiny things and never-ending possibilities, being able to choose what’s right for ourselves is hard, maybe harder than it ever has been — and probably more important. When we can’t discern what is right for us, we have a really hard time finding peace, balance, and contentment. Buying what the influencer wants us to buy, thinking what the billionaire wants us to think, believing what the politician wants us to believe is not the foundation for a good life. We all know this. And yet it isn’t so easy to put that knowledge into practice because reconnecting with our own inner wisdom — our intuition — requires us to be quiet, to disconnect, and to pay attention to nuance. All things that are hard to do on planet earth right now.

It’s worth the effort.

Here’s what I’m doing to hone my intuitive skills:

(1) Set aside an intuition afternoon. This doesn’t have to be a stretch of time when you have nothing to do. In fact, I’m finding that it works best when you have some things on your to-do list, but you don’t have many other restrictions: you can do the things in a lot of different ways and times. There probably aren’t other people you need to coordinate with. This flexibility matters because the goal of this practice is to reconnect with your somatic wisdom. You need to be able to ask yourself: What way of approaching this task makes me feel most open and peaceful?

Here’s a concrete example from the other afternoon. I had some errands to run in the neighborhood — dry cleaning, pharmacy, florist, UPS, bakery, and food market — and I also had to jump on the 6 train for an appointment in mid-town. There was a some time pressure. But, because this was my intuition afternoon, I took a moment to get quiet. I breathed. I sensed some anxiety about getting everything done. My chest was slightly clenched. Then I imagined every task (it only took a few seconds) and asked myself how I could do everything in way that made me feel open and at ease. I realized I could do all but UPS, bakery, and food market in the time before I needed to jump on the train. If I brought my shopping bag with me to mid-town, both the bakery and food market were not far off my path when I came back. I could tackle them on the way home. UPS could wait until the next day. In the time it would take to listen to an advertisement, the tension in my chest loosened. I felt grounded and calm. No rushing, no stress.

This is a silly example, I know, but life is lived in those little moments. When we’re discerning, we strengthen our internal wisdom. If we want to be able to calmly assess the big challenges, we need to practice with the little stuff.

(2) Assess. Be ruthlessly honest about how you feel during and after your intuition afternoon. No detail is too small because every detail is a data point about what works for you. What is right is what makes you feel good, balanced, at peace. What is wrong is what makes you feel bad, stressed, ill at ease. This process doesn’t take long, but it does require getting out of a “should” mindset about efficiency and productivity. For me, this pre-judgment about how I ought to do things has been both the most challenging and most liberating aspect of this practice. I’m discovering that my life is flowing with more ease and opportunity the more I’m able to home in my own senses and let go of the outside noise.

(3) Practice, practice, practice. Because it feels nice

to be aligned with what works best for us, once we start actively making life choices based on our intuitive wisdom, we want to do it more. I’m now practicing beyond the realm of running errands, with more important decisions. I get deeply quiet, disconnect from the outside, and ask myself what makes me feel more open, more honest, more at peace.

That’s it for this week! I hope you find something helpful here.

with love, as always,

alison

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dear friends,

Life doesn’t move in straight lines. There have been stretches when I’ve been able to convince myself that it does — that if I do x, y will follow; if I cultivate exactly the right habits and thinking, everything will flow smoothly — but sooner or later, reality reveals itself: a loved one gets sick, the water heater gives up the ghost, a storm knocks a tree into the swimming pool. Still, somehow, I find myself reverting to this magical thinking — this idea that when things aren’t just so, that something is wrong, something must be fixed.

As I move into my last month of focusing on equanimity, I’m paying very close attention to what pulls me out of balance. It turns out that for me one of the biggest culprits is this persistent thought that life isn’t exactly as it should be, a low-level sense of not alright-ness. I feel it as tightness, both in my lower stomach and the center of my chest. It is at once both grasping and dissatisfied, like a desire to keep scrolling through movie choices, dismissing every film option based on the belief that there will be something better, something perfect.

And there never is something perfect on the horizon because life is lived in the very imperfect moments we’re in.

This habit of wanting to be just so — of wanting my life to be just so — has been part of me for a very long time. I didn’t expect any equanimity practice to shift anything overnight, but I must confess that I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how quickly this habit is dissolving as I meet it with gentle acceptance.

What exactly am I doing?

I start with simply greeting the thought as soon as I’m aware I’m caught in it. If I’m alone, I actually put my hand on my heart, which is really good for me because, as I mentioned, one of the places I feel the sensation is a clenching in the enter of my chest. I say to myself, “Ah, hello, just so.” This thought usually brings a smile to my lips. There’s just something about naming this thing that automatically reveals the humor in thinking life ever can be anything other than it is. If I’m getting ready for a nice dinner out with friends and my hair simply refuses to do what I want, the moment I’m able to identify that I’m having a just so moment, I relax. Tension dissolves because I’m no longer fighting with what is.

The next thing I do is a step Tara Brach recommends for just about everything: I say, “This, too, belongs.” Yes, I’m trying to gently re-wire my brain and nervous system to spend less time in this grasping dissatisfied state, but if there is anything I have learned over the last six years of living gently, it’s that acceptance is the best — and often the only — way to move beyond unskillful thoughts, emotions, and behaviors. If I want to spend more time in a state of equanimity, present with what is without grasping for some imagined better future or pushing away some uncomfortable or unwanted state, I have to welcome my just so mind.

When I accepted this craving for things to be just so, I was able to see that it is based on the very human desire to improve. It’s just not a very skillful manifestation of that desire because it makes me unhappy with the present moment. It inclines me to find flaws instead of seeing the entirety of a situation. What I’m finding is that each time I accept my just so mind, some of the dissatisfaction and craving slough off. Acceptance sands down what is unskillful to reveal what is essential.

Each time I catch myself and walk through these steps, I feel a little lighter. My heart opens. I see more clearly. I feel a sense of quiet contentment. This is equanimity: accepting the moment as it is, and being open to creating the causes and conditions for something better.

That’s it for this week! If you also struggle with just so mind, I hope you’ll find this practice helpful.

with love, as always,

alison

p.s.

The photo is of me and my hair when I started writing this essay — being distinctly not just so.

dear friends,

A few days ago, our building’s hot water system broke down. We live in a “pre-war,” which in New York City means that the building was built before WWII. In our case, 1929. Hot water (and heating) comes through the city’s steam pipes. If you’ve ever seen a movie or TV show filmed in New York in the winter, you’ve probably seen steam coming up through manhole covers from the network of steam pipes weaving underneath our streets. That steam is very, very hot. Our building manager texted early in the morning to be careful with the hot water. Then he texted to let us know that he had shut off the hot water until a technician could arrive to fix the problem.

The water was so hot it was dangerous.

This got me thinking. First, about the prospect of taking a cold shower. Not a pleasant thought. Then, how this situation fit into my equanimity practice. Equanimity in many ways is about not letting ourselves get so hot that we do harm to ourselves or those around us. But that’s not all. It’s also about finding the right temperature. Sometimes that means warmer water (for a shower) and sometimes cooler water (for lemonade).

In Buddhism, there’s a concept of near enemies and far enemies for the four foundational virtues. Equanimity is one of those virtues (along with loving-kindness, compassion, and empathetic joy). I’ve always liked this idea of near and far because that’s how these emotional states show up in my own life: there’s the opposite of the virtue and then there’s what looks like the virtue, but isn’t quite. Water, like equanimity, looks the same even when it is too hot or too cold for what we want. We only know we have it right when we feel it.

For equanimity, the far enemies are craving and aversion. Two sides of the same coin. You really want something or you really don’t want something. When I’m in either of the far enemy spaces, I feel contracted. I’m so focused on what

I’m grasping for that I miss out on other nice things going on around me. I don’t pay attention to a conversation I’m having with someone I care about because I’m obsessed with the thing I want (a warm shower, positive feedback on a project, a “yes” to my query letter). The flip side is the same, if I’m trying to avoid something, my chest feels tight, my perception of those around me narrows. I’m not fully present because I’m worried/anxious/angry about the thing I don’t want. This happens, at least for a brief moment, almost every time I check in with current events. My heart clenches as I read about the things I don’t want to happen, but are. It also happened when I was facing that cold shower.

Then there is the near enemy. This is where I think Buddhist thinking was so far ahead of its time because the religion I grew up in didn’t have any such nuance: there was virtue and there was vice, righteous and evil. In fact, I now realize that what I used to think was virtuous was actually the near-enemy state. The near enemy looks like the thing itself, but it’s not. It’s why even though I was following all the rules, and felt smugly superior for doing so, it didn’t feel very good. I felt closed off and judgey. The near enemy of equanimity is detachment. We all know it when we feel it. The person who projects calm with a strong side helping of “I don’t care.” They may never raise their voice or get angry, but it doesn’t feel the same as the person who is embodying equanimity. There’s a dismissive, maybe even condescending, flavor to their even-keeledness.

As these ideas played together in my head, I realized that there was room for all of them: the craving part of me, the part of me that is averse to something, the part that wants to be detached. Accepting the near and far enemies is the way back into equanimity.

Whether you’re into Dr. Richard Schwartz’s internal family systems or simply can sense the truth of Section 51 of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,”* we all are many things at the same time. It’s just that sometimes we forget. Asking the question, “Who is feeling this?” reminds me that I am more than the emotional state I’m contracting into. When I asked this question as I was tensing against the unpleasant prospect of a cold shower, there were two immediate responses: the Alison who doesn’t like cold showers and the Alison who knows it’s really not a big deal. Both responses reminded me that I was more than my aversion to the cold shower. I exhaled.

I’ve been asking this question with bigger challenges, things that matter more than momentary physical discomfort. It’s working. Not because it changes the situation, but because it changes how I relate to the situation. As soon as I recognize that I’m in a state of really wanting or really not wanting, which happens quite a bit, I ask the question. It's a practice, but even in the little time I’ve been working with it, I find that I can return to open equanimity more quickly. It feels good.

That’s it for this week! I hope you’ll find something in this practice that works for you. And, if you have to take a cold shower, you’re able to do so with equanimity.

with love, as always,

alison

btw, the steam system was fixed by the time I took my very nice and warm shower

* Here’s the famous Whitman quote: Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

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dear friends,

When I started this deep dive into equanimity at the beginning of April, I was expecting a lot of different things: less reactivity, more even-keeled moments, less anger, more calm. Sure, I thought about equanimity as a whole-person quality, not just an intellectual approach, but I think subconsciously I believed I’d end up learning how to be stoic.

I was wrong.

Equanimity isn’t about shutting down or controlling emotions, it’s about opening up — with kindness, gentleness, and a sense of caring.

Let me get granular about how this is unfolding for me. Cultivating equanimity requires me to be aware of the smallest most nuanced senses, emotions, and thoughts. As someone who puts in her fair share of time on the cushion, I’m not a complete novice when it comes to noticing these forms when they arise. I’m no Sharon Salzberg, but I’m not that person whose body, heart and mind are entirely disconnected from one another — and, believe me, I know what it’s like to be that person because I was her, for decades! — what I was not skilled at, though, was meeting everything with gentle kindness immediately. Or as immediately as I’m able.

When I say, immediate, I mean as soon as I become aware of the thing that is pulling me out of equanimity: anger, sadness, jealousy, wanting the moment to be different than it is. Before I define what I’m feeling, before I can form a thought about the sensation, before I discern what is a skillful response, before I judge what I’m feeling (something I know is unskillful, but I still do with some regularity). As soon as I’m not feeling balanced, I try to meet whatever is pulling me out of peace with a nurturing gentleness, like a kind-hearted grandma does when a child is upset. A loving grandma doesn’t ask, “What happened? Why are you upset? Who did this? What did you do?” before putting her arms around you. She just gives you a hug. Meeting the unpleasant immediately with kindness restores balance quickly.

Why?

Because meeting whatever is pulling you out of balance with a gentle nurturing allows whatever it is to open, move, pass through. It doesn’t have to defend itself or explain or justify. When I meet the thing that has knocked me off balance with questions, judgment, or even neutral discernment, I’m already hardening it into something. When I can meet the sensation with kindness before the thinking, the questions, the categorization, it can relax. Sometimes, it dissolves immediately.

As a person who is very comfortable in her head, this doesn’t come easily. I’m definitely in the “conscious incompetence” stage of learning. But I can tell you, it’s transforming my days. Here’s a concrete example from earlier this week: I’m working on a project and discovered in a shared review that I had a very different understanding from another person on the team. I sensed myself tense up, judge the other person, then judge myself for judging. I was definitely being pulled out of equanimity. Then, I paused and channelled my grandma. I stopped analyzing. I imagined my grandma giving me a hug. I felt the warmth, the relief, that comes from another person genuinely caring that you’re hurting.

When I let that warmth and relief sink in fully, the discomfort and judgment dissolved. What was left became the simple realization: this person and I have different views. That’s okay. There was no charge, either to what my perspective was or to what the other person’s was. Later that day, a third person on the team wanted to talk about the project. I not only was able to speak calmly and openly, but I felt both calm and open. It was a good conversation.

I suspect how to practice this immediate self-compassion when we’re pulled out of equanimity will look a little different for all of us. I did have a grandma who gave me hugs when I was hurting. I’m connecting with those memories. I don’t know what your memories are, but we all have something or someone. Find yours and practice.

That’s it for this week! I hope that you’ll find what I’m finding: meeting whatever pulls us out of balance with immediate kindness restores equanimity.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

I know Mother’s Day isn’t everyone’s favorite holiday. It can be an absolutely delightful day. I can also be bittersweet, challenging, or a painful reminder for more reasons than I can list here.

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Yet, Mother’s Day it is, at least here in the United States.

And so I’ve spent this week thinking about a deeper meaning to the holiday. A meaning beneath the cards, the flowers, the brunches. Something that isn’t commercial, that can’t be bought or sold.

There’s parable called “The Porcupine Dilemma” that, I think, crystallizes what Mother’s Day can be about: our deep need for human connection, despite its inevitable, occasional pain. If you’re not familiar with the story, it’s attributed to the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. If you’re interested, Deborah Anna Luepnitz published a lovely book, Schopenhauer’s Porcupines: Intimacy And Its Dilemmas: Five Stories Of Psychotherapy, where she does a deep dive.

Here’s my quick and dirty version: A prickle of porcupines — isn’t that the most wonderful collective noun? — finds itself living through the coldest winter in history. On their own, each porcupine faces certain death, but when they huddle together to stay warm they prick each other. After much debate, the porcupines decide that warmth and life is wiser than solitary freezing. Their task is to learn to be as gentle as they can so as to inflict the fewest wounds possible and to help the wounds heal when they invariably happen.

The reason I love this story is that it doesn’t shy away from the truth. It embraces the imperfection of life and human connection: we need each other and we will hurt and be hurt by one another. That’s it. There is no flawless happy ending.

I know that all the Mother’s Day marketers are peddling perfection, but I think there is something wonderfully life-affirming about recognizing our messy humanity. As mammals, we’re all connected to others by virtue of being born. Without someone caring for us when we were hungry, vulnerable, incapable creatures, not to mention difficult and inconvenient, none of us survives. Someone tended to us, prickles and all. It’s in that tending to wounds, the ones we cause and the ones we receive, that we show our humanity, our love.

So this Mother’s Day, as both an imperfect daughter and an imperfect mother, I’m going to focus on how I can inflict fewer pricks and to be intentionally gentle with the tender spots that are there, in others and myself.

That’s it! I wish you a beautiful Sunday, however you will be spending it.

with love, as always,

alison

ps

The photo is of my mom and grandma on the front porch of my great grandmother’s house in Grantsville, Utah. Probably in the late 1940s.

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dear friends,

Every week when I sit down to write these missives, I try to capture a practice that I’ve been playing with in my own life. Something that has proven to be particularly helpful for me. I write about living gently because I believe that we’re all connected and similar in many ways, so if something works for me, it’s likely to work for you, too. At least some of you, some of the time.

This week, I’m not too sure if this will resonate with anyone because the subject is confidence. Self confidence is something I’ve struggled with for decades. At my age, it seems like I should have figured it out a long time ago. Writing about it makes me feel a little exposed, but I’m going to forge ahead because as I practice equanimity, it’s become clear that not feeling self confidence is inherently imbalanced.

Part of my issue with self confidence is that the version we see celebrated in the world is frequently toxic, superficial, and fragile. You know what I’m talking about: self confidence based on projecting wealth/beauty/power, that claims superiority, excuses harming others, justifies reckless action, and suggests that the rules of common decency — let alone actual laws — do not apply.

But that’s not really what self confidence is.

A few days ago I came face to face with what it truly is. I received some news that can only be described as a distinct setback for a project I care deeply about. Thoughts of certain failure and doom swirled in my head. But because I’m in the middle of this three-month journey exploring equanimity, I caught myself and took a breath. What became clear was that in order to practice equanimity in this life moment, I needed to cultivate trust that I could handle the challenge, that deep inner knowing that, yes, I can do this.

That’s what self confidence really is: the Latin root of the word is confīdere, which simply means to be with (con) full trust (fidere) in yourself. As I sat with this version of self confidence, my mind played through a whole cast of wonderful people in my life who embody this form of self confidence. I began to list the qualities that make up real self confidence, the quality of being quietly and deeply grounded in knowing that you can handle whatever comes your way, ideally with humor, kindness, and wisdom.

So, here’s my list of what qualities support and collaborate with real self confidence:

Trusting the ability to handle any outcome. We can do our best, but sometimes that doesn’t matter. The people I know who are truly self confident do everything they can to move toward their goals, but they respect the reality that sometimes things don’t work out. They know that whether they meet with success or failure, they’ll get up the next morning, brush their teeth and move on.

Honoring all the things you’ve done and been through to make it to where you are now. As I processed my challenging news, I let my mind expand to all the times I’ve been through things that were tough for me: spending a year in the Soviet Union away from the man I desperately loved and who has been my husband for 31 years and counting, losing our first baby when I was nearly five months pregnant, leaving the practice of law, watching my mother go through the stages of Alzheimers, losing my dad, feeling the pain when life deals a blow to one of my fantastic children or my darling husband, getting tough medical diagnoses — one of my beloved doctors joked, “Well, you really rolled snake eyes in the gene department, didn’t you?” I know that none of this makes me special. We all have been through our share of tough times. We’ll all go through more tough times. I know my own list is rather short and not all that rough. That’s not the point when it comes to self confidence. Honoring all the times you got up, dusted yourself off, and kept going is the source of trust. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.

Treating yourself like a friend. The thing that stands out to me about the people I know who embody true self confidence is that they treat themselves as well as they treat others. Put another way, they treat everyone with equal respect and kindness, themselves included. As I contemplate equanimity, one of the truths that has emerged is that there is only balance when there is balance. I know that sounds a little koan-like, but it’s true. We are all worthy of respect, kindness, and love. If you treat others well, but you let your own inner critic call you all sorts of names you would never repeat out loud, well, that’s not balanced. It’s not skillful. Usually, it’s not even honest. Self confidence isn’t about lying to yourself to make yourself feel better. It’s also not about being unfairly hard on yourself. Confidence is based on trust, a lot like good friendship. This week, when I met my hard news and tried to practice equanimity, I found myself brainstorming in ways I would with a good friend facing a challenge. The next thing I knew, I was at my computer drafting an email to someone who could help. I hit send. You know what? I got a response within an hour. It wasn’t a miraculous fix, but it was a step in the right direction.

That’s it for now. If self confidence isn’t an issue for you, thank you for being a model for the rest of us. If you sometimes struggle like I do, I hope some of this helps.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

Last night I was in a car heading downtown on the FDR. Traffic was — how shall I put this diplomatically? — %$# maddening. Like all New Yorkers, I know that the subway is the most reliable, quickest, and greenest way to get around the city. Like a certain subset of New Yorkers, I succumb from time to time to my love of a shoe that is distinctly not made for walking. The four inch stilettos I wore last night are divine but, hence, the car.

I was born with the early gene. I naturally build in a generous cushion between when I need to be someplace and when I actually I arrive. I’m the person who gets a lot of reading done at the airport because I don’t ever cut it close. This long preamble is my way of admitting that I really, really don’t like to be late.

And last night, as the car inched along the FDR, and I watched on my app as the ETA shifted from being ten minutes early to being several minutes late, every fiber in my punctual self was on the verge of panic.

But.

I’m practicing equanimity. Not that I’m good at it. In fact, I wouldn’t even grade myself as mediocre. If I were to assess where I am on the Four Stages of Competence, I’m somewhere in the conscious incompetence stage. If you’re not familiar with this paradigm, it’s a psychological model of learning that posits that when we acquire a new skill or way of being, we move from unconscious incompetence (wrong intuition), to conscious incompetence (wrong analysis), then conscious competence (right analysis) and finally, to unconscious competence (right intuition).

I am fully aware of my equanimity incompetence. Last night was the perfect opportunity to test out two questions I’ve been playing with to rebalance myself when I’m thrown off. The good news is that they actually work.

So, here they are:

(1) What is happening right now? When I ask this question in the context of equanimity, the answer is usually something like, “I just hit send on that email with a huge typo in the very first sentence” or “My tone just then was harsh.” Last night, it was, “I’m going to be late for a reservation where the restaurant specifically sent a text reminding all guests to arrive several minutes early.”

I know none of these examples are significant. They’re trivial in the scale of what really matters in life. But if I can’t maintain equanimity with the easy stuff, how on earth will I be able to handle the really important things?

So, I’m asking this question every time I feel myself lurching outside the bounds of equanimity. The beauty in the question is that it stops catastrophizing dead in its tracks. It forces me back into the present moment because I need to accurately describe the situation. Last night, instead of spiraling into “I’m going to be fifteen minutes late and the world will end,” I answered, “The ETA has changed from 6:47 to 7:02. It’s 6:35 right now. I do not know what will happen in the next 25 minutes on the FDR.”

That true and accurate answer alone had a tremendous calming effect. My sense of scale, and humor, returned.

(2) Is there anything I can do to make the current situation better? Sometimes the answer is no. Last night, it was. There was absolutely nothing I could do, nothing the driver could do, to change the traffic of the FDR. Sometimes, though, the answer is yes. If I send an important email with a typo, I can decide whether it is more skillful to let it go (we’re all human) or send a follow-up admitting the brain hiccup. When I say something that comes out of my mouth sounding harsh, I can acknowledge that to the person on the receiving end and apologize.

The magic in this question is that it reminds me that sometimes I have control and sometimes I don’t. That’s life, and it’s true for all of us. When I have control, I can decide what is the most skillful thing to do and do it. Taking wise action brings me back into a sense of calm. When I don’t have control, there is peace in accepting that the only thing to do is to be. Last night, for me, that meant savoring the beautiful evening light, the East River, some fantastic New York City architecture, and the vibrant street life of Manhattan.

In the end, I was six minutes early.

That’s it for this week! If you’re playing around with cultivating equanimity, try asking these questions and see if they’re as helpful for you as they are for me.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

Because evenness of temper is distinctly not my strong suit, I knew that this three-month deep dive into equanimity was going to be a challenge. What I didn’t foresee was that the very idea of attempting to maintain quiet composure in the face of adversity is countercultural.

As it turns out, wanting to practice equanimity at this historical moment is to swim against a very strong tide. So many in this world are embracing the opposite: create your life, regardless of who is harmed in the process, where you only encounter what you want and then do everything in your power to maintain it. Countless political leaders, particularly here in the US, are behaving like characters in a mediocre first-person shooter video game, seeing the world only through their own point of view and treating the rest of humanity either as tools to be used or targets to be destroyed; manosphere influencers, as Miranda Collinge of Esquire points out, model a me-only culture of unhingedness to their millions of followers; and billionaire wives preach self-centered let’s-just-eat-cake hedonism, trying to buy their way out of encountering anything they don’t like. Louis XVI meets Franco.

And, yet, as many celebrate a world spinning into ever more grotesque versions of itself, I find the current Zeitgeist strangely unpersuasive. It’s hard not to see that the emperor is naked. When I watched Louis Theroux: Inside the Manosphere, I saw anxious desperation behind the attempts to project images of material wealth, sexual conquest, and physical power. When I read the strange article in the New York Times testifying to Mrs. Sanchez-Bezos’s off-the-charts level of happiness, I couldn’t help thinking that the lady doth protest too much. As loudly as the missionaries of excess — power, wealth, indulgence, hate, destruction — preach their gospel, I’m finding what they’re selling unappealing. I wouldn’t want their energy swirling through my head when it hits the pillow at night.

So, I’m going to continue my practice of learning how to neither grasp for more of what I find pleasant and push away that which I find unpleasant. I want to move through my days without letting my own personal issues spill out into the world and cause harm. I want to reduce my reactivity. I want to cultivate balance in my thoughts, words, and actions.

That’s the goal, anyway. Reality? Well, it’s a lot messier. But I’m learning. And even though I’m wobbly, I’ve found a few practices that reliably help me to re-center. This week, I’m focusing on this one:

Embracing impermanence. Every major faith and wisdom tradition acknowledges that change is the only constant in life.* (I’ve included my brief overview at the end of this missive, but understand that not everyone wants to read a synopsis of impermanence spanning Taoism to Judaism. If you do, please see the asterisk below.) I grew up Mormon and now distinctly lean in to Buddhism. The two philosophies of life could not be more different, and yet they both have, to varying degrees, an understanding that to live life well is to accept change. The idea is universal.

But, it’s much easier said than done. It’s really hard to accept the reality of impermanence deep in our bones, not just as an intellectual exercise. I find it challenging because I want the things that I like to stay the way they are. At the same time, I want the things I don’t like to change. Like yesterday.

So, instead of fighting this tendency, I decided to use my natural wanting things I don’t like to end as my entry point into embracing impermanence. It’s a practice I’m finding rather satisfying. I recently had some minor surgery under local anesthesia. It was distinctly unpleasant. As I breathed through the mild pain, I found comfort in reminding myself that this too shall pass. Now, I’m trying to practice this every time I realize I’m tensing against a moment I don’t like: another horrible story in the news, feeling too hot or too cold, stubbing my toe, realizing that the candy I just put in my mouth is black licorice. Every day, life gives me plenty of opportunities to practice. The weird thing I’m discovering is that when I embrace those unpleasant moments as a chance to practice equanimity, they become less unpleasant, and I find more calm. It happens sort of automatically.

Then, I started doing the same practice with the things I find pleasant. When I have my nightly chocolate — yes, I have some chocolate every night — I focus on the beginning, middle, and inevitable end. After I turn on the kettle for tea, I carefully choose a chocolate. Classic Gianduja from Vennchi? A truffle from Maison du Chocolat? A row of 100% from The Lazy Cocoa Grower? As I sip my tea, I focus on the first taste of chocolate, letting it melt on my tongue and trying my best to hold space for both the loveliness of the moment and the understanding that when I finish my tea and my chocolate, it will be over. I’ll brush my teeth and go to bed.

I’ve been having chocolate every night with my tea for years. It’s only been a few weeks since I started my equanimity practice where I focus both on the pleasure of the chocolate and the knowledge that it will end at the same time, but I’m already noticing that I enjoy my chocolate more now. Knowing that something won’t last enhances the moment. I’m trying to practice this with other things I like: my morning coffee, a walk through the park, reading a good book, stretching. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail, but I’m finding that the more I try to embrace impermanence, the less reactive I am, the more I embody equanimity.

I’m not sure what you find unpleasant, but the next time you’re feeling yourself tense up against a thing you don’t like, try reminding yourself right that it will pass. See how you feel. Then try it with something you like, some pleasant ritual in your life: playing with your cat, eating the perfect burger, watching your favorite show. Experiment with deeply enjoying the thing you’re doing in the moment you’re doing it while intentionally accepting the truth that this moment will pass into the next.

So, go ahead, be countercultural. I hope you’ll find, like I am, that the more you embrace the truth of impermanence, the more you’ll be able to meet whatever life throws at you with calm. It feels nice, peaceful. And when your head hits the pillow at night, it won’t be swirling.

That’s it for this week! I wish you all pleasant moments, but when you meet the unpleasant ones, I hope you can practice.

with love, as always,

alison

* If you’re interested, here’s my brief research into impermanence across faith and wisdom traditions: In Judaism, Kohelet confronts impermanence with unflinching honesty: “vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” For Hindus, the phenomenal world (maya) is in constant flux, while the eternal Self (Atman) and ultimate reality (Brahman) are unchanging. Islam frames worldly life as temporary (dunya) in contrast to the eternal (akhira). For Christians, Corinthians reminds us that love never fails, but where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; and where there is knowledge, it will pass away. Buddhism explicitly acknowledges impermanence (anicca) as one of the Three Marks of Existence. Clinging to what is transient is the root of suffering, and liberation comes through directly perceiving and accepting the ever-changing nature of all phenomena. Impermanence isn’t a problem to solve but a truth to awaken to. The Taoists, I think, most gracefully embrace impermanence — the Tao itself is the ever-flowing, ever-changing nature of reality. Resistance to change is resistance to the Tao. The ideal is wu wei, an effortless flowing with what is, like water taking the shape of whatever contains it.

dear friends,

It’s April. Spring’s officially here. This is the season of new beginnings, and even if the world doesn’t seem to be in step with the cherry blossoms, I’m starting something new: a deep dive into the practice of equanimity. And when I say new, I mean new. There is no psychological trait, personality characteristic, or state of being that could be more foreign to my natural tendencies than equanimity is. I’m a person who swings between extremes: exuberant then deeply quiet, enraged then forgiving, loud then silent. This is going to be an interesting ride.

The dictionary defines equanimity as a state of profound psychological stability, composure, and non-reactive ease of mind that remains undisturbed by stress, emotions, or difficult circumstances. It’s from Latin for, literally, “even mind” (aequus + animus). It is also one of the four Buddhist Brahmaviharas, or sublime abodes, to be cultivated through mindfulness, meditation, and accepting the present moment without attachment or aversion.

I suspect you already knew most, if not all, of that. It’s helpful information, but knowing and being are two entirely different things. As I look around our ever-more-crowded world, where the actions of one person, one company, platform or app, can have devastating consequences for all, it’s clear that the more of us who can rest in this state the better. When people can’t self regulate, we all suffer.

So, I’m going to do my part and get started with my own equanimity practice.

In January, when I divided my year into four quarters of focus: joy, equanimity, strength, and the interplay of all three, I’ve been comparing definitions, studying the etymology, and reviewing some of my favorite Buddhist thinkers on the topic. This was an intellectual effort, and I sensed I was missing what mattered most if I was going to learn how to rest in this state more of the time. I was missing what it felt like to embody equanimity.

The last mantra I repeat every morning is a wish: May I stay grounded in integrity, may I be guided by intuition, and may I embody what is skillful. So, I sat with this question: What does it mean to embody equanimity?

Two things emerged for me.

The first is the title of this missive. I discovered that, for me, equanimity is about finding my center when I can’t find ground beneath my feet. For the last ten years, I feel like the ground keeps crumbling. A global pandemic, war, domestic oppression, economic inequality, destruction of international alliances, attacks of the very concept of the rule of law, I could go on, but won’t. The term “grounded” seems ridiculous in the face of all of that. I’m finally understanding why the Japanese, who live on an island where the earth beneath their feet can never be trusted, have developed a culture that so highly prizes self regulation. In tumultuous times, it’s the only way.

The second thing that emerged is that equanimity is not about detaching, ignoring, or not feeling the outer and inner tempests. It’s about recognizing whatever is happening quickly and mindfully responding with appropriate speed to what is needed to restore balance before you think, say, or do something that will make the situation worse. If you’ve ever stood on one foot with your eyes closed, you’ll know what I’m talking about. As you become more skillful, it’s not that the wobbling stops, it’s that you become better at noticing the tiniest movements and responding immediately with whatever best counters that unbalancing.

This week, I’m starting small, gently, if you will. My practice is composed of three parts. First, to sense what center feels like for me; second, to know what it feels like when I get pulled or pushed out of that state; and, third, to figure out how to get back to center with as much speed and ease as possible.

How?

(1) My first attempt to really get to know what centered feels like was during a meditation. When I place both of my hands over my heart, no matter what I’m feeling at that moment, a sense of calm emerges. So, I sat there with my eyes closed, hands on my heart, breathing. Then I started to describe what I was feeling: open, calm, fearless, curious, content, relaxed. You may have different words and different sensations. I suspect, though, that all of us experience a certain level of peaceful awareness when we’re inhabiting equanimity. Play around a bit until you can reliably recognize how your body feels, and how your mind rests, when you’re centered.

(2) Falling out of a state of equanimity is easy. Life gives me at least a dozen opportunities before I have my first cup of coffee. This past week, though, I made a conscious choice to practice. Every morning, while getting ready for the day, I would listen to my 10-15 minute news podcast (up first, from NPR, if you’re interested) with the intention of returning to equanimity each time I was pulled or pushed out. The moment I recognized that I was caught in a state of anger or despair, I’d put my hands on my heart. This simple act is surprisingly powerful. It interrupts the spiraling that I’m so accustomed to. It reminds me to breathe. Once I breathe, my wiser self comes back on line.

Other things pull me out of an equanimous state: being tired or rushed, feeling like I have too much to do and too little time in which to do it, a headache, having a disagreement with someone I care about, worrying about a loved one going through a tough time. I’m being guided by a Zen Buddhist saying, often attributed to Linji or Bankei (but I’m not a Zen expert, so please take my word with a large grain of salt): When hungry, eat; when tired, sleep. For me, this translates roughly into counterbalancing: if I’m having a disagreement, I lean into friendliness and compassion for myself, then, once I’m feeling centered again, for the other person. I try not to attach to my thoughts when I’m pulled out of equanimity, and I really try not to say or do anything. Of course, I mess up, but there is no doubt in my mind that I am much more skillful when I’m resting in an equanimous state, so I want to get good at this.

We’re all different. I don’t know what pulls you out of your equanimity, but you do. Play around. Experiment. See what works. Then keep practicing.

…which delivers me nicely to my third step this week.

(3) Practice, practice, practice. It’s the only way to improve, to create those new neural pathways that lead us toward being our better selves. I still can’t listen to my morning news podcast without having reactions, but I’m learning to surf those waves better. And when I get completely knocked under the water, I’m getting better at swimming more calmly and quickly to the surface.

That’s it for this week! I wish you both joy and equanimity as you step into spring.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

It’s been three months of thinking, practicing, and writing about joy. In some ways, I feel like I’ve learned a lot, in other ways, I feel like I’ve only scratched the surface. Both things are true.

There’s a reason that so many of us, and pretty much every wisdom and faith tradition, focus on joy. When we experience it, we’re in a space of deep-seated contentment and peace. We’re neither grasping for something nor pushing anything away. We’re honest with ourselves and others, connected to our fellow humans and sentient beings, and aware that life is both precious and fleeting. There’s nothing flashy or exciting about it. Joy is quiet.

Joy is not the same thing as happiness, excitement, or pleasure. Although we can experience those states when we’re resting in joy. Joy is not to be found outside of us, although, as I’ll write more below, I’ve learned that I can rely on certain external practices to help bring myself back into a space of joy when I’m knocked out of it, which happens all the time every single day. These practices are now part of my life, even though I mess up all the time, because when I come back to them, I’m able to make wiser decisions than I otherwise would, I’m more creative, I see the world and myself more clearly. When Buddhists talk about sensing that you are the water, not the waves; the sky, not the clouds, I think this is the state they’re talking about.

And it’s $%@! hard.

We live in a world full of distractions designed to mimic joy. Foods specifically created to hit certain pleasure receptors, stadiums designed to envelope us in hours of absorbing entertainment, apps carefully planned to entice us to keep scrolling, social media constructed to send us all into a spiral of showing off and keeping up. In 2004, Patrick J. McGinnis, then a Harvard Business School student, coined the term FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) to describe the anxieties that coincided with the rise of social media. All those lists of best restaurants, “it” handbags/shoes/accessories/things, top destinations to visit this year. The OED added it as a term in 2013.

In 2012, Anil Dash wrote a short piece titled JOMO! In 2018, Hayley Phelan wrote a piece in the NYT picking up on his idea of the Joy of Missing Out. Feel free to read these for yourself, but I don’t think you need to in order to understand what you already sense. There is no joy when we’re grasping out of fear (of not being cool, not looking a certain way, not projecting wealth or power or leisure or whatever it is your particular segment of the universe is telling you is important). When we can sit for a moment in silence, we all know this, but life gets in the way. And it will continue to get in the way.

I know. I get caught up in it, too. But after three months of focussing on joy, I know that there are ways to come back to it, get better at staying in it, become more skillful. Three months where we’ve had more war, more violence embraced as a political tool, more government corruption and dishonesty (at least in the United States), more rising costs of living, more uncertainty, I’ve still managed to connect to joy. It is a solitary and internal act. It will look different for everyone, but I’ll share how it looks for me.

(1) Carve out space every morning and every evening for being unconnected. I start my day in quiet solitude and do not interact with social media or news of any kind until after I’ve written for four hours. I get up around five, so by nine, I can engage, but I’m a writer, so I know this isn’t a blueprint for most people. I do, however, think that grabbing your phone to check your socials and download news is not going to set you up for success. Give yourself as much quiet as you can, even if it only means not connecting until after you have showered and dressed for the day. I’m not going to pretend this isn’t difficult. It is. But after a few weeks, you’ll start feeling a clarity you forgot was possible. It’s important to do this before you got to bed, too. Again, I know it’s hard. The times I mess up and decide to scroll or read the news, I get sucked in. But the more you practice, the better you’ll get because you will actually start reconnecting with joy. You’ll also start sensing some agency over your attention.

(2) Your attention is precious. Treat it that way. Whenever I find myself feeling that urge to click, buy, post, or do anything out of a sense of grasping, I tell myself, “I’m not for sale.” It’s a stark and powerful reminder that what I think about, where I focus my attention, are both valuable things. If you doubt this, ask yourself why all the influencers/tech companies/billionaires are trying so desperately to get your attention. Just think of the power you have. You can choose not to pay attention to their attempts to make you feel a certain way, want to buy a certain thing, believe a lie they’re peddling. (Come on, everybody, practice some discernment here. We’re smarter than the inane supplements/crypto/advice offered by non-experts who want to sell us something. If they’re making money, ask yourself why.)

(3) Experiment with what practices help you return to a space of joy. Since I spend most of my days reading and writing, one of the ways I de-stress is to watch something on a screen. After some experimentation, I’ve come up with a pretty reliable guide for what to watch depending on what non-joyful state has come up for me:

• When I’m feeling enraged at the state of the world and politics in general, I watch a gardening show (anything by Monty Don will do, but his specials on gardens from around the world are particularly good). The lovely thing about these shows, is that because they are essentially documentaries, I can start and stop depending on my time constraints without the feeling compelled to find out what happens next. After I’ve read about the latest horrific thing that has happened in this world and find myself spiraling, just a few minutes of looking at beautiful landscapes and plants brings me back into the understanding that all things pass and there is always beauty in life.

• When I’m feeling a sense of dread or despair, I watch a show in a foreign language so that I have to pay attention to sub-titles and must be absorbed. I’m a suspense writer, so I gravitate toward murder mysteries. Highly recommend Astrid if you want something in Paris, Achstsam Morden if your feeling Berlin, Agathe Koltès if you want to spend some time in Brittany, and Extraordinary Attorney Woo for a little taste of South Korea. Falling into the rhythm of a story with a beginning, middle, and end is helpful for pulling me out of feeling overwhelmed by Weltschmerz. (I have no illusion that I can entirely not feel some pain for the world right now, I’m aiming to manage a good middle path.)

• When I’m feeling sad, I watch something funny or life-affirming. Anything will do. It just has to make me laugh or cry happy tears. How to Get to Heaven from Belfast was a wonderful combination of thriller and humor (both dark and light). Queer Eye almost always makes me cry, but those tears are cathartic and remind me that we can all make our lives better. There is so much good content out there, that I can always find something: comedy specials, cartoons, old sitcoms (Seinfeld, anyone?)

(4) Create. Move. Sleep. When I feel myself pulled entirely out of joy, creating something never fails to bring me back into a state of equilibrium. I’m not talking about painting a masterpiece, I’m talking about making dinner. You can arrange flowers, draw, write, play the guitar, sing. The other sure fire way to restore is to move. When I’m feeling overwhelmed by sadness, movement can seem like a challenge, but I’ve practiced this for so long that I know the answer to the question, “Will I feel better after I’ve gone for a walk/gotten on my mat/ridden my bike?” is always “Yes.” And then, there are times when I’m grasping or pushing away from certain things in my life and it all feels worse because I’m tired. Take a nap. It’s remarkable how much more peaceful and content you feel when you’re not exhausted.

(5) Remember: Every moment is a new chance to come back into a space of joy. Forgive yourself when you get pulled back into habitual ways of being. Forgive yourself over and over. Then come back and try again. This is a practice, not a task to be completed. Every day, every moment, is another chance to try again.

That’s it for this week! I hope that something here landed for you. Next week, I’m on to a three-month exploration of equanimity.

with love, as always,

alison

dear friends,

It’s been a week.

I’m sure it has been for you, too. In my case, on top of living through these very dark times, I’m also on an emergency trip to care for an elderly relative who is suffering greatly. As all of you who have cared for or are currently caring for a loved one in emotional and physical distress, the challenges are physical, logistical, psychological, and emotional. It is hard. It is exhausting. And it is part of being human.

I made a commitment to write about joy for the first three months of this year. Believe me, there are weeks when I wonder what on earth I was thinking. There are days when I contemplate abandoning this project as the only sane way to respond to life on planet earth right now. Then, I remember that people have handled far harder things than this. The human beings I admire most in this world have cultivated joy under unimaginably difficult circumstances: war, concentration camps, apartheid, grinding poverty, famine, psychological and physical abuse. The list, sadly, goes on.

So, as I’m helping care for a loved one who is going through a very dark period and am feeling much of that despair myself, I’m discovering that when things are at their blackest is also when the tiniest joys sparkle most brightly. Like stars when the moon is a sliver of a crescent. It’s easy for me not to see those stars when my life is sunny and bright. It’s easy for me to take everyday gifts for granted. But right now, I’m a thousand miles away from my apartment in New York City, and I am taking joy in those everyday sparkles of joy. Next week, I’ll walk to one of my favorite grocery stores — with my Cold Spring shopping bag — where I buy salmon. John, the fishmonger, always has a kind word. He tells me stories about his family trips to Puerto Rico and that his daughter only started eating fish when she was 16. I’ll drop off some clothes at our dry cleaner where one of the best and happiest seamstresses on the Upper East Side alters everything from my blazers to cocktail dresses. She listens to the radio in French and indulges me, with much patience, when I try out my very bad French.

As I write, I’m realizing that I have a whole laundry list of little things that make life beautiful. This morning, as I got up well before dawn to prepare all the little details one has to think of when traveling with someone who can’t take care of all those things themselves, I looked down at my clear Lucite toothbrush and realized how pretty it is. It’s a silly thing, I know, but I also have some Marvis travel toothpaste in a lovely silver tube as only the French can do. Quite frankly, the entire process of brushing my teeth was rather a delight.

I’m not saying that any of this alters very real suffering. I’m not saying that we can close our eyes to the darkness that surrounds us in this world. I’m also not saying that we all must do what we can to make life better for all human beings and the creatures, plants, and everything with whom we share our planet home. What I’m discovering, though, is that when there is darkness, there is always light. And it can come from the most unlikely places. This week, I’m adding to my daily meditation practice the commitment to savor each of those tiny glimmers of light against the darkness: a smile from a stranger, hand cream that smells nice, a text from a friend that makes me laugh, Arthur who helped with my father-in-law’s wheelchair at the airport in Florida.

That’s it for this week! I hope you all can find stars in a dark sky. And, if you have the emotional energy, pass on some light to someone who needs it. Because, really, we all do.

with love, as always,

alison