But seriously, folks

Pure nine-year-old altruism is
powerful stuff.

It's hard to fathom why bad things happen to good people. We grapple with this in Buddhist study, just as Christians wrestle with this inequity. The difference in Buddhism is that there is no God, no ultimate deity, to look to for answers. Buddha is not omnipotent, but he did strive to end suffering in the world through his enlightenment and teachings. Now the question comes down to us all—Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Jew, etc.—what can we do to help alleviate the suffering in the world?

Today many are faced with incredible hardships, and none more difficult than the circumstances right now in Japan. We've all seen the images from the devastation in the aftermath of the tsunami. The death count at present is upwards of 10,000. Thousands are homeless and millions without water, power, heat or transportation, according to this morning's New York Times. These people certainly didn't deserve this horror anymore than the people of Haiti deserved the sorrows they faced after last year's earthquake; or the residents of New Orleans deserved the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Buddhist principle points to karma, but who's karma delivers such sorrow upon the world?

Yesterday at the Losel Maitri Buddhist Center, we prayed, just as Christians and Jews and Muslims and all people of faith prayed yesterday for the living and the dead in Japan. And those of us who can, will send money via Red Cross or other charitable organizations, which aid in disasters. But will that end the suffering? No. Not at once, at least. When we pray or when we open our wallets, are we trying to alleviate the suffering of others, or, are we trying to make ourselves feel better for not suffering? Surely a bit of both is in play. Even the most altruistic among us must feel a sense of there but by the grace of God go I. Natural disaster is random and nonjudgemental, but helping those in need should be universal and constant. Perhaps, just maybe, it is through these devastations that we learn about our true nature. If not me, then who? If not now, when? Everyday is opportunity to reach out and help our neighbors, our friends, our family, our colleagues, but how often do we step up and come across?

Today I took a break from work and I stopped by the house to see what Jack was doing. It was a fine spring day, the first day of his Spring Break. As I drove up our street, I saw him conversing with a neighbor. I thought he was playing with the children there, but then he rushed off to another house. "Jack," I called, "What are you doing?"  "I'm raising money for Japan!"he shouted.

Jack created cards, providing our neighbors information on where they could send donations to help the people in Japan. We had talked about the tsunami yesterday and I explained to him how important it was that we all do whatever we could to help the people there. I wasn't sure he was really paying attention, or understood the gravity of the matter. I didn't preach to him, just laid out the plainest of circumstances. Apparently, that was enough. Maybe there is hope in this world.

Darlin' You Put the D in Friend

Damn! I just realized I missed out on National FaceBook DeFriend Day. Apparently, it was March 4, and I only know this because I decided to DeFriend someone on Facebook and wondered what the etiquette might be for going about this delicate process of detachment. Of course, there was a story on the Huffington Post about the very thing! It's zeitgeist I tell you.

Ah, for the good-old-days
when a Friend was a friend...

   DeFriend Day Founder Mark Dice wrote a treatise on the matter (click his name to read and see his video online) and speaks specifically about how a lot of people end up sending Friend requests for nefarious purposes—virtual stalking, if you will. Why you might accept the Friend request of someone you don't know is beyond me, but I'm old fashioned and apparently, this happens a lot.
   I'm more concerned about DeFriending someone I do know, or did know, whom I no longer care to share details of my life. After a break-up or the loss of a job, I think it's healthy to DeFriend those who you no longer associate with if he/she a source of anxiety for you—or if you just want to move on without being reminded of the person's penchant for posting old Ziggy cartoons, or what not. And you may be doing a kindness to the DeFriended Friend as well—an act of Facebook Friend Compassion as it were. After a break-up, for example, the breakee may not want to receive constant reminders that the life he  previously had with you still exists without him.
   I was never one to Friend others willy nilly. In fact, I was rather a reluctant FaceBook conformist, a late-adaptor. In the fall of 2009, after my sisters (older sisters, no less) coerced me into signing up so I could see their photos and share mine, did I finally take the plunge. For a long time, I had about 25 friends and I'm sure I appeared to be an enormous loser. Maybe I was/still am. Now, of course, I'm on Facebook with regularity, posting my blogs and photos of Jack and checking in with friends and family. And now that I'm (almost) single, Facebook has taken on a new role in my life, too. Let's face it, a lot of people meet or re-meet on Facebook. Facebook itself sites a "limited study" in which 20% of divorces sited Facebook as one of the causes. And let me be clear, Facebook DID NOT cause my divorce! I did DeFriended my ex for a while when things were a bit contentious between us. (I've since ReFriended him, though.) But when a recent "person of interest"  became a person no longer interested, I thought it in our mutual interest to DeFriend, go our separate cyber ways, move on. I think I'm justified in severing this tie.
   For better and for worse, Facebook allows access to people who you might never be able to access otherwise, and I'm still getting used to that idea after my 15-year hiatus from the dating scene. Perhaps we extend our Friendship too blithely these days. I will certainly give more thought to Friending henceforth, and I reserve the right to DeFriend without feeling guilty for severing the virtual friendship after the real friendship is gone. Today the final blow may be waking up one morning to find you've been DeFriended, but in our world—where a relationship can be sustained virtually via jpeg, email and ichat—DeFriending, or being DeFriended, may be the ultimate act of kindness, or at least, of letting go.

Missive to My GameStop Romeo

Dearest GameStop Guy:

I don't know your name, but I want to thank you for making my night last night. Your boldness and chivalry truly moved me. I felt you were interested in more than the Afterglow AW.2 Nunchuk I was eyeing in the novelty section when I looked up and arrested your gaze. But please, please know that when you asked me, "Are you single?" I was completely caught off guard. I hope you didn't take personal offense at my hesitance. You could not have possibly known how complicated the answer.

You see, I haven't been asked that question in a very long time, being not-single for the last last fifteen years. And, legally, I'm not single yet, but technically, I am. Regardless, GameStop is hardly the place to go into the nuances surrounding the delicacies of divorce. So when I answered, "Yes...I mean no..." that was the God's honest truth. My ambiguity had nothing to do with you, or the fact that I wasn't remotely attracted to you. Nothing personal, really. I'm sure you're a very kind, compassionate man, and I probably made a mistake I'll long regret by passing up a lifetime of playing Dungeons & Dragons until we turn old and gray and can no longer gracefully wield a nunchuk to defend the fifteen level of Hades, or whatever...But truly, thank you for making my night, because it was so very flattering to have a man show interest in me when I looked like death warmed over. And it was especially reaffirming to know you were inspired to such gallantry after overhearing my conversation with Jack—discussing the merits of saving one's money to buy Madden 11 for Wii, rather than splurging on a cheap, used $4 GameBoy game. If that turned you on, well, buddy, maybe I am the girl for you.

And many thanks, too, for the conversation-starter you provided Jack and me after we drove away. Because of you, I was able to broach a very sensitive topic that I didn't think I'd have to discuss with my nine-year-old son for a quite a while. He thought it ever-so amusing that Mommy was hit on at GameStop and made obnoxious smoochy noises all the way home. But your boldness prompted a serious talk about how "Mommy could date now." When asked how he would feel if I had a boyfriend, Jack responded "It'd be cool!" so promptly and enthusiastically it made me wonder if was just telling me what he thought I wanted to hear.
"So, really, Jack," I said, digging deep. "It wouldn't bother you if I went out on a date? It's okay, you know. I don't have to go on dates."
"Mom," he said, earnestly. "It's okay. Really. I mean, you haven't been on a date in, like, fifty years! C'mon, it's about time!"

So although I shall probably never see you again, I wanted you to know that I will never forget you, my GameStop Romeo.  And I wish you well, really I do. I hope someday you meet your match in that very GameStop and live happily ever after, playing D & D together for the rest of your days.

XO- B

Hearing Voices

Last month I went to see Ira Glass at the Alys Stephens Center. As the host and creator of NPR's This American Life, Ira is nothing short of a god in my book. My attachment to him is not ill-placed. The weekly series is the epitome of storytelling, and remarkable—in our age of visual cues—that the portraits painted on that show are exclusively created via audio. Appropriately, Ira opened his performance with the theatre pitch black, save for the exit signs. And then...there was Ira's voice, that distinct, slightly-nasal midwestern twang, saying, Radio is the comforting voice in the dark. And for a few moments, guided only by Ira's voice, the audience was transported to a place where we could settle in for the next two hours and be entertained. (And yes, he did eventually turn the lights back on.)

   Ira's observation was astute. For generations, radio has been that voice calling out from the abyss to confirm that we were not alone in this world. In decades past of course, radio was THE medium for conveying solidarity. One of the most vivid examples, is Franklin D. Roosevelt's inaugural address in which he spoke the ultimate words of comfort to a nation rapt in uncertainty: There's nothing to fear but fear itself.  Not having lived through the Great Depression or a World War, the greatest fear I can conjure is the sense of being utterly alone—and in the dark.

   In August, at the pinnacle of my Crisis, I reached out to a voice in the dark as I wrestled with the onset of divorce. With Jack slumbering upstairs, I sat down at my computer and tried to write out the emotions, to no avail. I began to cry and what issued forth was a jag of Holly Hunter in Broadcast News proportions. I could not stop sobbing. The feelings of anxiety and despair were overwhelming. I couldn't even think of sleep. It was after midnight and, although I have many good friends who would have answered my call, I could not bear to admit to anyone I knew that I was in this state of emotional turmoil. Still, I knew I needed to talk to someone. Fortunately, my therapist had provided me the number of the local Crisis Center—just in case. Sniveling and inconsolable, I dialed the number, and a volunteer promptly picked up. "I'm having a really hard time," I said. "I'm just overwhelmed and I just need to talk."
   I have no idea who this Woman was, or why she decided to answer the calls of desolate, lonely people in the wee hours of the morning, but she became my voice in the dark, listening to me pour out my woes. My litany of sorrows—from the loss of my job and my father's death, to the demise of my marriage and my fear that divorce would cause my son irrevocable harm—tumbled out. Having been raised a good Catholic, I'm accustomed to spilling my guts to a faceless authority, and the Crisis Hotline Woman became my confessor. She could not absolve me of my sins, nor take away the problems I faced, but like a good priest, she listened and doled out her secular absolution. The Woman listened intently. "My goodness, it's no wonder you feel overwhelmed," she said, when I finally took a breath. She became the Voice of Reason. We talked for a least an hour, and when I hung up the phone I had exhausted my fears—at least for that night—and was able to rest.
   These days, I'm often Jack's Voice of Reason. At nine, he's fairly fearless, but children like to be scared every now and then if only to find that sense of comfort. When he frets in his sleep, all I have to do is say, "Jack, it's all right, I'm here." (When I was younger than Jack is now, I shared a room with two of my sisters. The twin beds were situated so that my head was at my sister Mary's feet. On occasion when I grew scared in the night, all I had to do was reach out and grasp her big toe. Not exactly the source from which one typically attains comfort, but it worked. In fact, just knowing she was there made everything right.)
   I believe we all need that source of reassurance, at least from time to time. Not someone to solve our problems or make everything better, but someone just to hear us and—equally as important—to respond with compassion. We all need that voice in the dark, reassuring us that we are not alone, and everything will—eventually—be all right.

  

It's a Trip!

Whoever coined the term "falling in love" got it right. The sense of letting down one's guard and pitching forward (or backward as the case may be) into a relationship is certainly a sense of release and abandonment—as well as a leap of faith. We usually tumble into romantic relationships heart first, not giving thought to the realities of the situation. And when you fall, well, you often get hurt, right? Or at least skin your knee, or bruise your ego. 

   As it turns out, falling in love is a neurological process. It's even been documented by scientists. The act of falling in love prompts the production of the neurotransmitter dopamine and the chemical, serotonin. A scientist at Rutgers, Helen Fisher, studied the brains of love-struck couples and found increased levels of dopamine in their brains similar to reactions of a person snorting cocaine. Yes, love is a drug. And maybe that's not such a bad thing. If not for this heady sensation, many humans might not pair off long enough to procreate.

   Another study showed that infatuated couples had levels of serotonin coursing through their brains similar to levels in people afflicted with obessive-compuslive disorders. So that feeling of being "obsessed" with the object of your desire, is real—even if the attachment you've built around them is fantasy. And once you have sex, well, there are a host of chemical reactions going off in the brain that help solidify the bond and convince you to stick around.

   Usually, all these reactions occur without much thought to the biology and neurology involved. It's not exactly sexy to tell your lover, "Honey, you're really making my dopamine levels surge!" but that's pretty much what's happening. Understanding those phenomena is helpful when you are, a-hem, of a certain age and entering the world of romance and dating again after more than a decade of monogamy.
   When I was younger, I thought of love as something no less than magical (thank you very much, Walt Disney.) One minute I'm talking to a guy about my work, the next thing I know I'm imaging what it would be like to kiss him, and before long, I'm picking out the perfect china pattern for us in my head. I thought there was no real rhyme or reason for these feelings. I thought I was just swept up in the moment. Now I know better. It's all biochemistry. (Damn, I knew I should have paid more attention in that prerequisite Baby Bio course I took in college. If only I hadn't majored in English Lit. perhaps I would have figured this out sooner!) But alas, after all this time, I realize it wasn't fairy dust at all, but good old bio-chemicals coursing through my brain.
   Turns out, Arthur Arun, a NY psychologist, even came up for a formula for falling in love. It goes like this: Boy meets Girl + Boy & Girl talk intimately for 30 minutes + Boy & Girl stop talking and stare into each other's eyes for four minutes = Boy and Girl fall in love. (If you happen to be gay, just substitute genders as necessary.) That's IT.  It's that simple. Other studies have shown that it doesn't matter so much what you say, but how you say it. In other words, the tone of a person's voice, their meter and tone and speed, resonates more than the profoundness or profaneness that issues forth. (So that's why I'm not attracted to men with thick Southern accents!) And, of course, body language—that which is unspoken—is central to attraction too. In fact, non-verbal nuance the most significant means of attraction.
   Thinking back on my romantic liaisons past, I'm hard pressed to recall one relationship that did not begin with intense conversation, followed by that all-important moment or two (or four) of meaningful silence when eyes met eyes and I knew something was about to happen.
   Alas, in the past,  my verbosity has gotten me into some disastrous relationships. But armed with this new knowledge of the mechanics of falling in love, I feel a bit like Lex Luther discovering Superman's weakness for kryptonite. I realize was born with the gift of gab (my Dad used to say I was "vaccinated with a phonograph needle,") and can strike up meaningful dialogue with just about anyone. That's a valuable talent for a reporter to own, but now that I'm almost-single, I must exert my Buddhist mindfulness when unleashing this super-power on the world—lest I trip, and fall.

Wonderful Life

I was destined to be a member of the Pep Squad,
never a Cheerleader.
But hey, I still got to carry pom poms!

I love the scene in Frank Capra's holiday classic when Jimmy Stewart is walking home with Donna Reed, and he's talking about his future. He tells her he knows exactly what he's going to do for the rest of his life. "I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that.... I'm shakin' the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world. Italy, Greece, the Parthenon, the Colosseum. Then, I'm comin' back here to go to college and see what they know. And then I'm gonna build things. I'm gonna build airfields, I'm gonna build skyscrapers a hundred stories high, I'm gonna build bridges a mile long..."
   Of course, anyone who has seen It's a Wonderful Life once—let alone a hundred times, as I have—knows that George Bailey (Stewart) doesn't shake off the dust of Bedford Falls, but instead ends up staying there, marrying Mary (Reed) and even forgoes his honeymoon travels to rescue his father's failing savings and loan when there's a run on the bank. George Bailey seemingly sacrifices everything for others, and only when he is at the end of his rope—when all hope is lost and it seems that he will end up on the shortest end of a short stick for all his compassion and good deeds—does he realize (with the help of a hapless angel name Clarence) that his life is richer and more accomplished than he could ever have imagined.
   The first fifty times or so I watched that movie, I thought about how important it is to recognize that our lives are all so interconnected. There is not one person whose life we touch in this world—for better or ill—that is not transformed in one way or another. It's a good lesson in mindfulness, really, and that in its self is a beautiful teaching to swallow and allow the beams to shoot out of your fingertips and toes. Yet, there's more, so much more to this film.
   Today, what brings me back to IAWL even on this bright, sunny, warm February afternoon—far from the holiday re-run cycle—is the sense that we often do not appreciate our accomplishments because they may not be the achievements for which we grasp. Accepting the George Bailey Life can be difficult, but the rewards are amazing. Let me explain.
   When I was in junior high school, I tried out for cheerleader along with every other girl in the seventh grade. I was about 5'2", 70 pounds, woefully flat-chested and painfully uncoordinated. The previous summer, while other girls were entertaining their new-found figures in bikinis, I was still playing with Barbies. I was a late bloomer, and late bloomers don't fare well when there are girls who have emerged full-blown as women, overnight. With my juvenile body, came renewed awkwardness. Yet, I thought I was worthy to wear the too-short skirt and dance about with pom-poms. No one could tell me anything different. So you can imagine my disappointment when my name was not on the roll-call of those fortunate few who were selected as cheerleaders. These buoyant girls were plucked from the masses and set down in a stratosphere quite beyond my reckoning. I was reduced to the heavy sobs and snotty sniffles of the inconsolable. 
   My sister, Mary, anticipated this disappointment (no doubt having watched my pathetic jumpings-around before try-outs) and plied me with the one treat that was a sure-fire way to end the doldrums: a McDonald's cheeseburger and fries. Placated by the rarity of fast-food (and yes, it's funny to think of this now since a turn about the drive-through is a regular course in Jack's life) I somehow made it past the grief and pain of my lost dream, but I can still remember how that rejection felt, its a palatable sensation of utter loss—heartbreak—but I also know that had  I achieved this dream back then, I would not be the person I am today. Truly. Had I become a Cheerleader, I might would not have gone on to run for student office in high school, and I would not have been accepted into the college I attended, gained my bachelors degree in English and set off of a career in advertising and marketing. Moreover, this simple slight yielded in me a sense of resilience that has served me well throughout my life. 
   How often do we think we know what is best for us—what would bring up joy or riches or security—only to have that dream derailed? The ability to see that there is much more in life, many paths that can be taken, is an ability beyond value. Why is it that we as humans, so greatly limited in our capacity to perceive the truth or even to use a portion of the brain-width that we possess, blithely convince ourselves that we can imagine our futures? Like George Bailey, we like to think we have it all figured out. We want to have A Plan. We want to feel that we are in control of the very thing that we will never—can never—possess: The Future. (And think of it, you can never lasso The Future, because once it is in your presence, it is gone, and a new Future looms. It's a bit like trying to catch your own shadow.) So in as much as we do try to plan and dream and scheme and make all the dominos fall in the right sequence to affect some ends, quite frequently we are limiting ourselves to entertain the the idea that there is one goal that is right at any given time. Like George Bailey, hindsight does provide insight. I can look back and clearly know that becoming a cheerleader was not my right path. But I had to try, I had to have that dream and lose it in order to clear the way for what was to come.
   I truly admire those who, in their 40s, say they have their futures all planned out. They are going to work hard until they're 50-something, build their 401Ks daily and then move to Hawaii and grow pineapples or whatever, with their 2.5 children, and pen novels on the side. Perhaps this will come to pass. Perhaps it will not. Perhaps in that time between now and then, their parents will age and grow ill, their children will make plans of their own, their jobs will be eliminated and unforeseen marital problems will arise. All those plans will take them someplace, but perhaps not anywhere near Hawaii. 
   Dreams are fine. But like George Bailey, we can't attach ourselves to them, because they are illusion. The best we can do is to live our lives genuinely and make decisions in keeping with our convictions. I believe when we accomplish these goals, we are always on the path that will take us exactly where we are supposed to be. 
   Am I destined to become a great reporter and raconteur for NPR? Will I achieve some modicum of success as a writer? All that remains to be seen. But is leaving behind the managerial duties of corporate life to focus on writing and reporting leading me to a happier life? Yes. And am I open to the possibility that my life might be more wonderful than I could ever imagine with my limited pea brain? Absolutely.
   Here's one last thing to consider: According to Wikipedia, Philip Van Doren Stern, the author of the short-story The Greatest Gift on which It's A Wonderful Life was based, "worked in advertising before switching to a career as a designer and editor in publishing." His now-famous 4000-word work of short fiction was inspired by a dream in the late-1930s. He tried to get it published for years, but the story was repeatedly rejected, so in 1943 he sent it out to 200 friends as his Christmas card that year. Somehow, the card made it into the hands of a producer at RKO Pictures, who, in turn, shared it with Cary Grant, who wanted to play the lead. Later RKO sold the rights to Frank Capra and the rest, as they say, is history. In 1942, could Van Doren Stern dreamed of such a future for his rejected work of fiction? Doubtful. Still, he must have had a wonderful life.

Lessons in Heartbreak

Last weekend I attended a mediation workshop lead by best-selling author and Dharma practitioner, Susan Piver. The retreat centered around her book The Wisdom of A Broken Heart. I stumbled onto Susan's Website while looking online for a good, easy-to-do meditation practice. As it turned out, she was leading this workshop in Atlanta and I was scheduled to be there on business the same week. This was definitely a happy coincidence, and I signed up before I could give too much thought about what I was getting myself into.
   Walking up to the Shambhala Center on Friday night, I steeled myself for the possibility that I might just be in for 36-hours of all-out kookiness. I had read some—not all—of Susan's book and found her approach to coping with the pain and disappointment of love gone array practical and comforting. But did I really want to spend an entire weekend "leaning into the pain of heartbreak"with thirty other participants who were bruised and fragile with grief? Am I really one of those people? Well, yes, I probably am. No way to back out now. The center director sounded the gong for us to file into the meditation room and take our seats on the bright blue mats. I followed the crowd like a good Kool-Aide-drinking devotee. The weekend would be an interesting experience no matter what, right? Right.
   After we were seated, Susan entered the room and took her place in front of the shrine. Susan is tall and thin and she wore a long dark skirt and a creamy shawl draped over her shoulders. She has great posture from years of good meditation practice. Her face was solemn but expressive. With her pixie 'do, she had the look of a noble elf. The room grew quiet with reverent anticipation. Many of the participants—mostly women—were long-time Susan Piver fans. Piver's first book entitled The Hard Questions: 100 Essential Questions to Ask Before You Say "I Do" was a New York Times best seller. (It came out in 2002—too late to help me.) Then Susan smiled before breaking the silence with the hallmark statement voiced in her Heartbreak book: Every relationship ends in heartbreak. 
  She said this to make us feel better, to let us know we were not losers and cast-offs, but you could feel the ripple of emotional twinges zing through the bright, tranquil room. Piver went onto explain that all relationships—with friends, lovers, family, children—must end at some point in time, either by departure or death, and within those endings, someone will bear the grief of loss. End is inevitable. End is part of life. In a way, this knowledge does make you feel better about the feelings of grief and loss, because you can take comfort in knowing what you are experiencing is a natural occurrence, not some supernatural voodoo being visited upon you and only you.
  Essentially, what Piver teaches is impermanence, and it's a big part of Buddhist practice. Excepting that all things change and that death is inevitable is a core teaching of Buddha. For most of us mortals, excepting physical death is easier than excepting the person you love with all your heart no longer returns the sentiment. Why? Because of that little thing called attachment, which is the perception that you cannot possibly draw breath without that special person in your life. So, in a way, having one's heart broken is very much akin to death. Like death, the end of a relationship is the end of the future life you thought you had with the person you loved. Ah! And now we are truly getting to the heart of the matter.
   Whether a friendship or romantic liaison, when the relationship runs its natural course and comes to an end—by death, change or disengagement—it no longer holds the expectation of the perceived future. When we part ways with a person, never to be intimate again (and I'm not just talking physical intimacy here), that shared future ends, or becomes something altogether different. In that way, a relationship becomes a third-party in the mix. There's me. There's you. And there's our relationship.
   Think of it this way: A relationship is like a joint checking account where love and caring are the currencies. I put my love for you into the account. You deposit your affection for me into the account. The account remains distinct from us. The account is our relationship. When that relationship ceases, the account is bankrupt.
   Making this distinction between self and relationship is significant because it allows you to step back and look at The Relationship objectively. The relationship is not me and/or you. It's a life unto itself, and as such, bears its own fragility and substance. That's why you sometimes discover that you're in a completely different relationship than your lover, or friend, even though you thought he/she was in the same relationship with you. To endure, you must both recognize the relationship as a separate entity, and that your part in it is not you, but an outpouring of you. So problems arise when you fall in love with the relationship and attach expectations to it—ie:  We will buy a house, have 2.5 children, summer in the south of France and remind each other to take our meds when we're 90 years old— instead of loving the other person as they are right now without attachment or expectation.
   I befriended a lot of heartbroken people over the weekend. Most I will never see again. My relationship to them lasted exactly 36 hours. It was good. I loved them, and they might have even felt love for me. (I was the wise-cracker in the group, of course.) Now we will move out into the world and continue to shape our lives with Buddhist practice, or whatever means gets us from this place of disappointment and sorrow to a better, happier existence.
   On Sunday, I meditated.  (Yes! I really did meditate! It's like riding a bicycle: No one can really show you how to do it. You can only receive instruction, accept a gentle push and lift your metaphoric feet off the ground. You only know you're doing it right when you feel yourself balanced and are impossibly propelling yourself forward—even if doing so is a little wobbly.) As I held my attention on my breath, thoughts of my past heart breaks bubbled into my mind and I held each one up for just a moment, examining it before gently brushing it aside. Here's what I learned: If I didn't know love—that truly happy, blissful sensation of completion—I could not have had my heart broken. But knowing love is worth the pain, just as learning to meditate is worth having my foot fall asleep, because that feeling of bliss is the same feeling you get when you are filled with selfless compassion for all the world, including yourself—and that's a step toward Enlightenment.