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Those Awful Little Monks

Jan16
Monks of the Drepung Loseling monastery visit our valley occasionally. Here is the opening ceremony of a sand mandala ritual from many years ago.

Aloka the Peace Dog, recovering well from surgery to repair an old injury from when he was a stray in India, was able to join his pack today for awhile before returning to rehab. I was grateful to see video of this joyful, tail-wagging, tearful reunion this morning, and also grateful to see that the Walk for Peace is finally showing up here and there on national newscasts.

The sand mandala begins with a string line…

Speaking of monks, let me tell you the story of the “awful little monks.” This happened about twenty-six and a half years ago. There’s a wealthy man here who sponsors semi-regular visits by a group of Buddhist monks from the Drepung Loseling monastery. Every few years since I moved here they come to the valley and offer teachings, home blessings, the occasional butter sculpture demonstration, or a sand mandala ritual for the wellbeing of the community.

Each year there are different monks in the touring group, who travel the country as cultural and spiritual ambassadors, similar to the Walk for Peace monks though not on foot. In each town they are fed and housed by community members and offer teachings and blessings. So the monks in this series of photographs are not the “awful little monks,” a judgy nickname I gave a different group, and maybe you’ll forgive me after you hear the story.

The sand mandala ritual takes days or even weeks to complete. I’ve had the good fortune to attend a few over the years, and dug up some photos today from one ritual where I attended the opening ceremony and initial laying out of the table, then came again a few days later, and also made it to the closing ceremony.

On the year in question the monks did something a little different. They offered personal consultations with either a Tibetan medicine group, or a Tibetan astrology group. Ever since my early twenties I’ve longed for the opportunity to consult with a Tibetan medical practitioner, after a friend told his tale of the little yellow pills that saved his life. Right before leaving Nepal he felt ill, and a Tibetan doctor gave him a packet of little yellow pills. Take one three times a day and you will be fine. He was pretty sure he could make it home and see a real doctor, so he tucked them in a pocket and didn’t take any. By the time he arrived in London he was delirious, was taken off the plane to hospital, and diagnosed with yellow fever. He heard them say it was touch and go. Somehow he managed to find the yellow pills in his clothes and he started taking them. He improved immediately. “You’ve made a miracle recovery,” the doctors said. 

I wanted some medical magic like that. But on an impulse I regret to this day, I chose to meet the astrology group. I don’t recall exactly what means they used, but after getting my birth date and perhaps location, and consulting something somehow, they placidly announced in broken English, “Lifespan twenty-seven.”

“WHAT?!” I screeched. “Twenty-seven years to live?!”

“Present lifestyle,” they calmly replied. I instantly wished I could leave the table and go upstairs where the Tibetan medicine group was, but I was too polite, or too shocked, to move. After that they told me a bunch of other things, including that Tuesday was my auspicious day for spiritual practice, but I didn’t retain much more.

As I walked to my car I met Liz who was glowing from her reading. I just couldn’t. “They told me I have twenty-seven years left to live!” I whined. “Oh they told me that too!” she said cheerfully. “Yeah, but you’re already, what, sixty-four?” I was forty. Liz celebrated her ninetieth birthday last year. I’ll be watching her…

So today I celebrated sixty-seven. It’s true that I’ve turned my lifestyle around about a hundred and eighty degrees, and that a Ute shaman had told me years before the monks’ prognostication that I will live to be eighty-eight, so I’m not terribly worried. But for the past twenty-seven years the words of those awful little monks have wormed their way into my psyche like a brain-eating parasite.

A few years ago, I finally mentioned this nagging anxiety to someone involved in facilitating that visit. She was tremendously reassuring. “Oh they said that to everyone!” she laughed. “A lot of people have complained about that.”

So what was their point? Were they just messing with us for fun? Or were they trying to scare us into a healthy transformation? Or… did they tell everyone that because this is the year that the End Times truly come, through divine intervention, collective karma, or the tantrums of a madman, and we’ll all be dead by January 15, 2027? That’s feeling more and more possible. Any which way, I don’t like it, I don’t feel it was appropriate, and it’s haunted me for nearly a third of my life. Yes, I am highly sensitive and tragically susceptible. Oh well. I share this story with you so that if I survive until my sixty-eighth birthday you’ll better understand my glee, and if I do not live through this year you may rethink your world view and your lifestyle.

The sand mandala is an exquisite and ephemeral art form. The images vary according to the particular intention of the blessing or lesson it invokes, but the process is always this meditative creation of a potent symbol from vibrantly colored sand, meticulously laid down a few grains at a time. The act of its creation is sacred. The necessary concentration and cooperation cultivate a meditative focus. It is absolutely mesmerizing to watch. Its overarching lesson is Impermanence.

On the Buddhist path, we are invited to learn something from everything that happens in our life. (Yes, Marion, everything always IS a lesson.) Because everything contains the opportunity to learn, we are encouraged to be grateful for everything that happens, so that we may grow in understanding and progress in our journey to awakening. I’ve learned the lesson of Impermanence over and over and over again, and no matter how many times I learn it in lessons big and small, it can still catch me off guard. It’s possible that I’m just now comprehending the gift those awful little monks gave me with their shocking pronouncement, just this minute finding gratitude for their influence in turning my life around, just this second letting go of that regret.

On the final day of the ceremony, the sand mandala is reverently swept to the center of the circle. Some of the sand is gathered in tiny plastic envelopes and given to anyone there who wants one. The rest of the sand is returned to the earth. At this particular ceremony, the sand was carried in a small urn by the monks, followed in procession by many of us from the Creamery Arts Center several blocks through town to the bank of the North Fork River, where it was gently poured into the river.

All things arise, exist for a time, and cease to exist. This is the truth of Impermanence. Death is certain, time of death uncertain. If I should cease to exist in this my sixty-eighth turn around the sun, I will pass on with a grateful heart for all the gifts and all the lessons that filled this life, as light and vibrant as colored sand slipping back into the flow.

Balance

Apr28

It’s been an emotional week. I’m sad the benevolent pope died, adding one more layer of global uncertainty. I learned of the death of a significant ex and through his obituary of the prior deaths of two of his siblings I was fond of. The DOGE disaster continues to wreak havoc on the country. Friends are suffering various losses in ways I can’t ameliorate. The mental/emotional tension before, during and after a couple of fraught conversations with neighbors sapped more of my energy and attention than I would have wished—but certainly far less than it would have before developing mindfulness skills.

There’s a big stew of suffering swirling inside. Finding peace in the yarden has been extra important. Most mornings I’ve sat at the pond for coffee after meditation, and enjoyed the blossoming crabapple, the frogs, and the tiny dingo’s delight in following her nose and her whims around. Sitting quietly for awhile each day with water burbling and leopard frogs gurgling keeps things in perspective. There are at least six fat, happy frogs in the pond. I’m grateful for this sanctuary and all the conditions that allow me to savor moments of peace and joy.

I’m grateful for making time to finally cook this so simple, so delicious chicken florentine that came together in about half an hour.

I made myself eat only one portion last night so I can enjoy leftovers for three more meals, which I did for lunch today: In the next-to-last giant spinach tortilla, I rolled up lettuce, chicken florentine, avocado and mayo for a yummy wrap.

As I wrestle with my personal patriarchal demons, Mother Nature nurtures me. Is there a more feminine shrub than the lovely lilac? I think not. You’d think I’d have learnt by now to be comfortable with aggressively assertive men, having grown up under the Colonel’s temper. But maybe that’s why it’s still so hard. And the National Abusive Relationship we’re all in is a constant low-grade trigger that I keep trying to write about and shying away from. One of these days I’ll find the words…

Other good things that kept me in balance this week included some wonderful connections with old friends, being ready for the first hummingbird who arrived just after noon, and seeing the little cherry tree in full bloom. And satire:

ROME (The Borowitz Report)—A man who fell asleep during Pope Francis’s funeral was “already going to Hell,” God clarified on Sunday.

Although snoozing during the pontiff’s funeral was “beyond rude,” the Almighty said that the man clinched his place in the netherworld “decades ago.”

“If I hadn’t already made up My mind, the last hundred days would have made him a slam dunk for eternal damnation,” He said. “I mean, deporting a two-year-old? Come on.”

The Heavenly Father said the man’s decision to wear a blue suit at the funeral “wasn’t a factor” in his going to Hell, but was nevertheless “incredibly assholic.”

In another observation from the funeral, God noted, “Interestingly, Sleepy Joe Biden managed to stay awake.”

Meaningful Work

Dec16

I’m grateful that I get to do meaningful work that benefits others and keeps me on a healthy path. Mindfulness is for everyone. Though there can be spiritual aspects to it, they’re not necessary to reap rewards from a daily practice. The mission of the Mindful Life Program, which created the curriculum for this Mindfulness Foundations Course, is to make mindfulness practical, accessible, and universal. I’m grateful to teach this course quarterly, and by request on a custom schedule. Registration for the January course is open until December 28.

Lucid Dreaming

Feb10
Honey Badger’s orchid, which bloomed non-stop for almost five years until it quit last summer, is blooming again!

My new lucid dreaming practice got off to a great start last night! I read this article in Lion’s Roar before bed and, recognizing that I already had some of the preliminaries under my belt (or covers) already, I fell asleep after meditation with the refrain This is a dream fading in and out. I woke at five, way too early to get out of bed in a cold house, so I meditated again for half an hour. After that I rolled back to sleep. The next thing I knew…

I was puzzling with the Bad Dogs at a small table that I assumed was in my house. I toppled onto my side laughing hysterically at something, and how great it felt to have that long and hearty a laugh! Then I thought of Rocky dog and laughter softened into tears. I woke up and the room was unfamiliar. ‘Where am I?‘ I asked. I was at their house but of course it wasn’t, and I saw a huge patio outside the window with a dozen small cafe tables and chairs. I was the first outside, and there at the edge of the verandah was little Rocky! I called and as he ran over to me I thought It’s a dream so he won’t have any substance, but he was solid: I got to rub and squeeze and love on him. As I did, I saw him also at the edge of the verandah again, and then him again, and again, all around the patio, there were a dozen Rockys all at once.

Then he left and we sat at a table where there were three desserts at each of our place settings. A large bowl made of whipped cream and filled with a chocolate sundae caught my attention first, and partway through eating that I tried the rice pudding. Then the sundae had disappeared from the plate. Oh, that’s because this is a dream, I realized.

And so the dream went, my awareness that I was dreaming slipping in and out of the dream itself as I struggled to make my way home. First I couldn’t extricate my car from a parking space someone had blocked in, so I borrowed a scooter, but where to put Wren? So I imagined her on my lap since it was just a dream, and kept trying to adjust the handlebar height to an adult’s size. The scooter disappeared a couple of miles from home on top of a ridge, as did my phone. In the chaos of numerous other dead dogs (including Mocha, Brick, and some of the Florida catahoulas) appearing, disappearing, and romping around me, I found another phone. Despite insane difficulties with using it, I made a couple of calls to unlikely exes to ask for rescue, and here it was very helpful that I remembered it was a dream, as I could simply end one call and try another. All the calls ended after senseless smalltalk before I could make a rescue request. The last call was so frustrating that I laughed and said ‘This is just ridiculous!’ and I decided to walk the steep trail down and back up with all the dogs, and then I woke up.

Wren scoping out a possible future campsite at the state park where we walked this afternoon.

It may sound like a failure of a lucid dream because I really didn’t control anything in it; but to me, it was a shining success. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve experienced that ‘knowing it’s a dream’ lucidity. I never got invested in the frustrations of the dream, resting in the subtle awareness that it was just a dream, and I let go and allowed it to play out, until I had had enough. By then the sun was peeking over the mountains, and I woke with a light heart, a smiling face, and my little dog cuddled under my arm. Maybe not for others, but for me living well at this point is all about learning how to die well, without regret, fear, or clinging. Lucid dreaming, like every other aspect of mindful living, takes practice. I’m excited for whatever opportunity my sleep tonight brings.

My Big Project

Feb7

Learn something new every day! I’m not sure how to share this on WordPress, but here is a pdf of the big project that I’ve been working on this past week. It’s only half of the plan to grow my little mindfulness business, and the other half will be revealed in a couple of weeks. Please enjoy checking this out, and subscribe if you’d like to receive ‘Fruits of the Practice’ in your inbox monthly, with all the features below including a guided meditation and an awareness exercise.

Off

Dec11
Guess what?

I was heading up to get the mail this afternoon when a cowgirl rode her horse out of the woods and handed me part of the string of lights that disappeared from the tree outside my front door. She found it tangled in the barbed wire fence between my woods and the neighbor’s barn. I’m so grateful to know that it came off, and am telling myself the story that because she found part of it so far from the house it means the deer was able to escape all of it unharmed. I’m grateful for my good neighbor and her thoughtfulness in bringing me the evidence.

I’m also grateful that another neighbor braved the cold, clear day to come over and cut off some of my hair!

I’m also grateful for the OFF button on the TV remote. I let myself get sucked into the first season of ‘The White Lotus’ a month ago. I found it oddly compelling, and so watched the second season also, just catching up tonight with the penultimate episode, which took a very dark turn. I can read and watch all kinds of things, but one of the things that really disturbs me is certain kinds of betrayal. I turned the TV off and found myself shaking and jittery. I had to do a vagal nerve meditation to calm myself. Obviously, though, I’ll watch the season finale which airs tomorrow, but maybe not for a few days, and only because I hold out hope for a particular character’s unlikely deliverance. And also because of a grudging respect for the show’s virtuoso storytelling.

It’s been time for pizza for awhile now, so I made a simple sourdough crust this morning that was ready by evening, topped it with half a garden onion, some Blot peppers out of the freezer, homemade marinara, sliced olives, and mozzarella. Instead of a pan, I baked it in the iron skillet like the ‘crispy cheesy pan pizza’ recipe calls for, and see no need to ever cook pizza any other way.

Courage

Oct27

I hear the Cowardly Lion sputtering it. It takes courage to live this life, no matter what our challenges are. I’m grateful today for the courage to meet the challenges of my day, and for the lessons I learned about myself in doing so. They weren’t big, were basic first world challenges; challenges being relative, we all have some.

I had to drive 80 miles (in my car that I own though it’s 16 years old) after a snowy morning (an unexpected three inches) to see the dermatologist (which insurance pays for except a measly $2), and get a couple of centimeters frozen off my face as well as a biopsy sliced off the bridge of my nose which has precious little flesh to spare. I’m so grateful for the awareness to observe physical changes so I knew to go see the doctor, for his friendly efficiency (it took three times as long to numb my nose as it did to carve the biopsy), and for the financial assistance to get potential skin cancer identified and taken care of (thanks, Affordable Care Act); grateful for the long-lasting anesthetic he shot into my nose to get me that 80 miles back home painfree, and that I didn’t freak out driving home when I noticed that my nose was bleeding and in fact bled the whole way home. Even though I felt a little queasy after awhile.

I’m grateful for the gorgeous drive from here to there and back again, and grateful that I had other options though I decided to take little Wren with me. This was another act of courage, choosing to trust humanity not to mess with her while she waited in the car for me while I was under the knife (and freezer gun). I’m grateful for the opportunity to observe the extent of anxiety that rose in me because I know that she has separation anxiety when I leave her at home. How do I know? The way she greets me on my return panting like she’s run a marathon in summer and jumping to my shoulder. She was a perfect angel on the drive, waited quietly in the car (for all I know) and I know it wasn’t too hot today, and she slept the whole way home. Such a good little girl! She’s given plenty of gentle huggies since we got home, and is patiently waiting for bedtime.

“How are you?” asked the doctor when he entered the office. I’ve been seeing him a long time and he sort of knows me. “I’m anxious!” I replied a little too emphatically. As I told him about Wren in the car, I felt all these other anxieties bubbling up. “I’m anxious about a lot of other things, too!” I almost challenged him to ask, so I didn’t make him. “I’m anxious about politics,” I confessed, and about climate chaos, I thought, and in that moment I realized that I had channeled a lot of sublimated anxieties into the one I’d been focused on for days, What to do about Wren while I’m gone for four hours? I’ve been ignoring anxieties about the rabid right wing threat to democracy and the most basic rights of most Americans; I’ve been cultivating anxiety about Covid, long Covid, and living alone; and about this COPD diagnosis, and what the future will bring, and whether I’ll ever choose to spend time around people again. I could feel the seeds of agoraphobia taking root; I could feel empathy. I was able to recognize what was arising in me, and be with it with calm awareness even though it wasn’t comfortable, sit still for the procedures, and then follow the steps to get home to (relative) safety. My attachment to the outcome of this day was different than it would have been a dozen years ago. Instead of worrying about biopsy results, I only cared that I made it home safely with Wren, and once that happened I was able to relax again.

In mindfulness practice we consider relaxation to be a skill. It was only by pushing well beyond my comfort zone into overt psychological discomfort that I was able to recognize how far I’ve come in relaxing: It amazed me to realize that I used to spend much of every day enmeshed in this same level of anxiety that assailed me this afternoon. What a relief! It’s no longer a steady state for me, but only an occasional trait.

Right Livelihood

Aug21
I’m grateful for another relaxing day, and for being able to start it with a lovely latté.
I’m grateful for the ancient junipers and the clouds above…
…and for the little dog on the ground below.

How am I different from that girl who first walked these woods thirty years ago when I discovered the leading edge of peace? I don’t feel so different. I feel the same, but more subdued, less eager. I feel well within the bounds of peace now, though not yet at the center. How is the land different? How are these woods different? More limbs down, more trees down, more down trees decomposing. Far fewer birds, and bugs. The mosses still green, cactus still spiny. Three paths diverged in the woods and I, I chose to stay in shade. Sun climbing as morning rain dissipates. The scant scent of damp sage, juniper oils rising, soft wet dirt underfoot. I’m grateful for taking time to wander aimlessly until I find myself among unfamiliar trees; and the for finding my way home. This seems as fruitful a way as any to spend an hour this late August day.

I’m grateful for the copious eggplant harvest I’m getting from three little bushes. I sliced yesterday’s four, each about six inches long, into three-eighth inch thick slices, salted them for about an hour, patted dry, breaded, and baked them.

The recipe uses only melted butter instead of egg to dip them in before dredging in a breadcrumb/spice/parmesan mix, then calls for baking rather than frying. It was so simple! As they baked, I made a quick sauce with canned tomatoes from last year, red onion from yesterday, a tiny purple pepper, and fresh basil and oregano. I mix and matched a couple of eggplant parmesan recipes, and essentially made up my own.

Once the sauce was reduced and the eggplant disks baked, I layered them with fresh mozzarella and sauce, topped with parmesan and leftover breadcrumbs, and baked. It was perfect! And I cut it up into portions and froze every bit of it, only tasting the pan scrapings. There are so many eggplants ripening that I’ll make another panful in a couple of weeks and eat at least some of it right away. My strategy is to load up the freezer with plenty of ready to heat meals for when the garden is spent, so I can enjoy and be grateful for summer’s flavors all winter long.

Tonight I whipped up this simple olive oil poundcake, but can’t touch it for another half hour until it’s cooled enough to tip out of the pan. I’ve not seen this trick before: after spraying the pan, dusting it with sugar instead of flour.

I’m grateful for all the conditions, choices, and help along the way that have led me to a path of Right Livelihood. I’m grateful for the teachers, mentors, and students that have helped me to be able to make my living teaching meditation and mindfulness. I’m grateful for the practices that bring peace and contentment to my life in these troubled times. I’m grateful for the opportunity to share these skills with others as we navigate the accelerating personal, local, and global challenges of the Anthropocene; and grateful to be offering a four-part online course in Meditation Basics starting this Thursday. Email me if you’d like to participate, at dukkaqueen@skybeam.com, with ‘meditation’ in the subject line.

Breath

Jun22

I’ve expressed my gratitude for breath before: “Oxygen is the real drug; breathing, the ultimate high.” Quoting myself! I’ve thought about breath a lot over the past decades, more since I began meditating, which curiously coincided with the end of a couple year asthma phase. My precious teacher told me at the time that sometimes people with breathing difficulties do better meditating with a different anchor than the breath. Did I take that as a challenge, or was I simply drawn to the breath because I had been all along? Either way, I’m grateful for how the past twelve years of meditation have increased familiarity with my breath.

I had a grade school understanding of how our lungs work, but until today I didn’t really comprehend how blood gets oxygenated. I’m grateful my NP sent me for pulmonary functions tests today, and grateful for the kind and focused attention of the respiratory therapist Melissa who gave me a quick lesson on lung anatomy, asthma, oxygen saturation, and why altitude matters. Yes, I suffered second-hand smoke from in utero until I left for college at 18; yes, my alveoli are functioning ever so slightly below normal; yes, I have what could be described as mild bronchial obstruction (asthma) that did not improve with an inhaler; but, unfortunately, her tests didn’t seem to reveal the reason behind my chronically low oxygen saturation. We’ll know more after the pulmonologist reviews the results, but in the meantime she concurs with NP that the next step is to get me onto night oxygen. She doesn’t think I should move to the coast of Maine, as the pressure gradient in humid sea level climes often exacerbates breathing difficulty, so there goes that fantasy.

There are complications to be worked out with the night oxygen, primary being that living on solar power I simply don’t have the electricity to run an oxygen concentrator. Period. I’m researching options. More will be revealed. Meanwhile, this whole exploration reminds me how grateful I am for each breath, and for the impaired but nevertheless miraculous lungs that diffuse oxygen into my blood and pull carbon dioxide out.

And in that perfect timing sort of way, a new avenue of respiratory therapy has opened up synchronistically. My dear teacher at the Hotchkiss Yoga Tree now offers a Pranayama class that can be taken via Zoom. I joined for the first time yesterday, and am excited and grateful to add this Tuesday class to my calendar, and incorporate the magic of Pranayama into my daily practice. Wishing you all Happy Breathing!

Acceptance

Dec15
“Yacht Race off Boston Light” three days underway. This pink sky is one of the most challenging sections of any puzzle yet.

Yesterday was interesting. I was too tired to write about it last night, and probably won’t do it justice tonight, but want to express my gratitude to the imaging technicians at Delta Hospital. Everyone was so kind, from the receptionists on. There were some little glitches, at intake and with the MRIs, that would once have really frustrated me, but my growing capacity for accepting things as they are instead of thinking that they should be different served me well.

I may have never met a more tender, compassionate, and sweet tech than Toni, the woman who did the bone density scan. We were practically in tears of loving-kindness by the time she led me back to the waiting room. The MRI tech was very business-like, though also considerate and kind. I remembered Deb’s encouragement to ask for what I needed, so asked for extra pillows to support my knees to reduce sciatic strain; and when the classical music station wouldn’t play, I squeezed the ‘stop’ bulb. Remarkably, the only stations that would play were country, and something called ‘soft rock,’ which was horrible. I experienced extreme aversion during the first MRI as the DJ blithered on and on, and when there was ‘music’ its beat clashed with the machine noises inside my head until, despite a concerted effort to remain focused on my breath, I was completely rattled. I squeezed the ‘stop’ bulb again when anxiety rose to unbearable-verging-on-panic, and fortunately that was the end of the first session. I continued in blessed internal silence for the next three tests. It was a lengthy exercise in conscious relaxation, first my face, then abdomen, then shoulders, back to abdomen, back to face–as one area relaxed another tensed up, and I cycled through one after the other, consistently returning attention to the breath. Nothing like a long MRI to strengthen meditation practice.

During the whole second scan, there was a little lump in the pillow, which bored into my head. I breathed through that, but it got worse and worse. It was fascinating to watch my mind deal with all these sensational challenges. She wanted me to keep my head perfectly still when she pulled me out to inject the contrast dye, but I had to insist that she smooth the pillow. It wasn’t really a pillow, just a folded cloth. She was exasperated, and in a hurry. I said calmly, as she prepared my arm to stick a needle into it, “I need to not feel anxious, and I need to feel that you’re not in a hurry.” She softened instantly, apologized, and explained that there were two emergencies waiting and there was only this one machine, and one of her. This put things in a different perspective for me, and we both calmed way down. She thought to put a little lavender patch on my chest, which actually helped a lot. This experience, which was stressful and could have been really horrible, was transformed by my ability to accept things as they were each step of the way, do what I could to change them, and then accept again. And again, there was much tenderness and well-wishing between us as she walked me out.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I left the hospital, for the emotional skill with which I’d navigated the morning, and decided to treat myself to a deli sandwich. But there’s no deli near the hospital, so I stopped at Sonic to see what I could find. At the drive-up menu, I realized I couldn’t bring myself to order factory-farmed chicken or beef, so I left; but circled back and ordered three fried sides. I was glowing with acceptance when the little girl brought my limeade and a small bag, and was only mildly disappointed to find inside the bag just one little wrapped burger. I accepted the error with good cheer, and she said she’d be right back with my order. Way too long later, two more “Welcome to Sonic, may I take your order” queries, and finally my bag of sides, I almost lost it when I opened the bag to find they were small instead of medium, and there was no mayo. Acceptance out the window! Attachment in high gear: I wanted what I wanted and I wanted it NOW! But still, I managed not to be too grumpy. When the manager brought a double handful of condiments and apologized, she said “It’s just the two of us, people didn’t show up…” My perspective adjusted itself instantaneously, all frustration melted, and I assured her it was no problem. We smiled and laughed and wished each other happy holidays.

The food was a big disappointment. But I accepted that easily. Fast food is what it is. I drove home filled with compassion for the people who worked at the hospital, the patients who needed emergency MRIs, the harried staff at Sonic, and deeply grateful for the skill of acceptance.