Portland: Year One

One year ago I left my home, my family, my friends, and my job. I went West with little more than some books, some camping equipment, and the prospect of opportunity.

 I arrived in Portland in time to enjoy the second half of summer, a beautiful autumn, and a terrible winter. The first six months were challenging. I had moved to a place where I did not know anyone and couldn’t depend on the traditional networks of family, school, or work. Adding to the strain, the expectations and the reality of the job position that encouraged me to move never quite matched up.

 By the end of 2016, I knew a choice needed to be made. I could abandon the safety net and assume the risk I had always been reluctant to take, or I could concede defeat and return to the sandy beaches and the pine barrens of the Jersey shore. I stayed for two reasons.

 The first was a growing sense that the main thing preventing me from doing what I knew was necessary was Fear. As McCoy might say, I’m a doctor, not a businessman! I had up until this point worked under the umbrella of other people. I was beginning to not only understand, but to know, that the practice and the experience I wanted to offer was not something I could obtain from someone else. It was something I had to create.   

 The second reason I stayed was the same reason I was drawn to Portland. In early 2015, I was in Denver, CO. I had been revisiting a question I had asked myself since I was 14 years old: “where do I want to be?” I had grown to hate that question. The answer was never apparent and although I have been fortunate to explore some good places, at no point had I ever felt I was where I was supposed to be. While in Colorado I was turned on to the idea and the practice of asking better questions - better as in questions with more energy, more complexity, and more depth. “Where do I want to be?” is inherently a simple, selfish, vague, and rather uninteresting question. Why should I expect a profound answer? As I was watching the sunset over the Rockies, I revised my question:

 “Where am I called to  facilitate the advancement of the human condition in myself and others?”

 I had a dream that night in which I saw a tall, white, angled peak rising from a sea of green trees. I had a suspicion it was Mt. Hood, but wasn’t sure. The next day I began planning a trip to visit the Pacific Northwest.

 Mt. Hood has been and continues to serve as my anchor. There is a groundedness and a certainty that this place, at least for now, is where I am called to be.

 It has been five months since I cast aside the safety net, opened my own practice, and started to create the opportunity to do the work I am meant to do. Stay tuned.   

Let The Gavel Go

One of the first and perhaps most important things I learned in Psychology 101 my freshman year of college was something called the fundamental attribution error. It is an observation that states we are more likely to judge a person on what we perceive to be their character rather than some external factor affecting them in the moment. This is most obvious when we encounter someone who is stressed out and they are showing it.

There is a tendency to jump to the conclusion that this is a mean person instead of considering some basic questions, such as:

 Is this person hungry?
Is this person tired?
Is this person in pain?

I find it helpful to remember that what is often interpreted as meanness or hostility is usually some variation of anxiety. How do you feel when you’re hungry or tired or in pain? How do you act? Is it fair for others to judge who you are based on a temporary low energy state?

At one time or another everyone works through an internal struggle that folks on the outside know nothing about. Before dropping the gavel on someone, just ask: could some major stressor be affecting this person’s ability to mindfully communicate in this moment?

Chop Wood, Listen to Water

The are few things more satisfying than chopping wood. The swing of the axe, the feel of the strike, the sound and smell of the split. It is an ancient task, and one that requires presence. Considerations of bodily safety, the accuracy and force of the strike, the surrounding environment, and how much wood of what size is needed demand clarity of focus.

There are few things more insightful than taking the time to listen to a mountain stream. In cultivating a stillness, quieting the mind, and allowing the ears to open, we can start to hear what the natural world is saying. This is one way that Nature can teach patience and presence, and remind us that we are not separate from, but a part of the world.

There is a well-known Zen proverb that acknowledges that both before and after Enlightenment we must “chop wood and carry water.” I believe it is meant as a metaphor, reminding us that the true practice comes in performing daily tasks with mindfulness.

I also believe it is essential to sometimes literally go out and chop wood and to take the time to listen to water. In this way, we can cultivate presence in both action and stillness, and remind ourselves of the need for both.