About six weeks ago, I declared my left wrist unusable. The left side of my hand felt strangely numb. Typing was hard, unless I elevated my left elbow with a pillow so my wrist could droop down so I could press on keys like I was playing a piano. I couldn’t bear any weight on my left side, either.
I’m not sure exactly how I injured it, but all the early warning signs were there. Leading up to the so-called breaking point, I noticed myself having to shake out my wrists more frequently than usual during yoga, but only before hopping into a handstand — perhaps against my better judgment, but turning myself upside down from time to time keeps things interesting. Sometimes doing pushups and planks felt funky, but I felt stable enough, so I kept on keeping on.
So when I finally conceded to the limitations of my physical body, I banned myself from doing anything that involved bending my wrist at 90 degrees — which also meant not going to yoga — so my wrist could heal. I was vigilant about icing and wrapping and elevating it for all of 10 days. Coping with this injury forced me to be more mindful in other ways, too. Not only did I start paying attention to the overwhelming amount of sensations in my left hand, but I also started noticing the subtle sensations in the rest of my body. In my head. In my heart. I became more aware of how imbalanced my body and mind were. I noticed my cravings as much as I did my aversions.
And every time I noticed something I didn’t like, I immediately detested how judgmental I was of myself.
Dealing with my wrist for the last month or so made me notice how little I actually examine my mental landscape. My ego likes to think that the body it controls can transition readily from point A to B. My body has no problem in these motions. But it seems like my mind is constantly playing catch-up with it. And my heart is floundering, lagging behind.
Perhaps the little amount of time I spend inspecting myself arises from the fact that I am often focusing so much of my energy outwards. On my day to day, I spend infinitely more time on issues, stories, and people who are not myself. I think I now prefer to focus on other people’s problems more than I do with my own; it even takes less energy for me to do the former over the latter. So does that mean I avoid dealing with myself? Maybe. Maybe it means it requires more energy for me to look inwards. But at the very least, all of this definitely means that I’m being lazy by not being more introspective.
The last time I fully examined my mental landscape was in October, during Vipassana. That was because, well, I committed to sitting in silence for ten hours every day for ten days, so I might as well do it up. Since then, I spent an entire month traveling, the next month seeing friends upon arriving back in the states, before moving to a new city and getting all my bearings together. So much of my energy continues to be directed outwards.
So then when I press pause and actually sit still, I notice my mind is pretty disorganized.
For a really, really long time I thought I had defined happiness for myself and I believed I was happy. More likely than not, that was my “I’m-an-adult-and-I’ve-figured-it-out” ego yapping away. But for me, being introspective means that I shove my ego aside and examine the reality of it all. Now, my idea of happiness seems a lot more muddled and less defined. This lack of definition concerns me. It makes me wonder: what’s missing? I find my work fulfilling. I find my relationships meaningful. In my spare time, I do things I enjoy. And yet… at the end of the day, my mind is unsettled and I find myself wanting more. The problem is, I can’t seem to identify what that ‘more’ is.
There’s been a lot of buzz in my recent life around effort. I started going to weekly meditation sessions in my neighborhood, and in recent weeks the group had been discussing the ten paramis, the good qualities that meditation can help strengthen: generosity, virtue, renunciation, discernment, equanimity, patience, persistence, truth, determination, and goodwill.
I had first heard of the paramis during Vipassana, but since we spent ten days in silence, we didn’t exactly get to discuss how these manifest in daily life, and the challenges of fully embodying each quality.
Last week, we talked about persistence, and how moving forward — or creating change — requires constant effort. One important thing, however, is that in order to move forward, you need to know what direction you’re moving towards. In other words, your intention and goals have to be clear so you can expend your [limited] energy in a worthwhile manner. You might fall or even fail on your way to reaching your goals, but you have the courage to persist even in the face of failure and vulnerability.
Then, on Saturday, during my birthday-yoga class, the teacher opened up with a quote by Sally Kempton, a meditation instructor: “The very heart of yoga practice is abhyasa — steady effort in the direction you want to go.”
These discussions feel particularly relevant for me now because I notice that, with so many distractions in my day-to-day, I’m not even intentional about wanting to spend more energy on myself. And if that’s not something I’m prioritizing, how can I figure out what intentions I want to manifest? Instead, my mind goes elsewhere: I’m thinking about my daily 10-item to-do list, whether or not I should work out of a different city for a week or two in April, my travel plans starting in late May, writing another pitch, finding another story. I’ve stopped writing for myself even though I’ve found solace in writing since I was 10; my bookshelf at my parents’ home has journals of mine dating way, way back. Lately, the numbers of words I write for someone else far exceed the ones I produce for my own well-being. But the compensation that I receive when I do look inward and put words to my thoughts is far greater than any one publication can do for me. It’s in these words that I find peace, liberation, and a deeper understanding of myself.*
Setting an intention is difficult because you have to be super clear about what it is you want. Whenever a yoga teacher says, “close your eyes and set your intention,” at the beginning of a class, I always find myself thinking, “uh… well, I just want to use this time to not look at my computer and breathe and have fun.” That is a shitty intention. It serves me for the hour or so I’m in the room, but it’s immediately lost after the magic of savasana and the ohm-shanti-shanti is broken. Good intentions that lead to productive results are not and can not be lofty. Lofty intentions are often half-assed. So maybe I’ve been half-assing my yoga practice for some time. You could half-ass an intention, but you’re also likely to end up with a half-assed result.
Then, after you establish your intention, you’ve got to manifest it through consistent effort and persistence. But, most things are out of my control. I can pitch a story that I think is interesting and no editor will be interested. I can have the goal of traveling from say, Seattle to Toronto, but my flight is the last one out for the day and the plane’s engine failed at the gate. I can have the persistence to stay in a romantic relationship, but my partner might think otherwise. In the face of all these setbacks, I need to practice the other paramis: I need to demonstrate more patience with the process, generosity towards myself, awareness with the truth, and equanimity towards the thoughts buzzing through my mind.
There is, however, a fine balance between being persistent and recognizing your limit. With my wrist, I muscled through the discomfort for the short-term gain of whatever my wrist is generally used for — until there was a very clear, non-negotiable breaking point. But what if I was more gentle to myself as I reached that breaking point? What if I exercised awareness, patience and compassion earlier on? Could I have prevented the injury?
Friendships and relationships have backfired in this way for me, too, when tension, expectation, and pressure from both parties compress and wind the connecting spring so tight that it ricochets endlessly off the walls, and — after what feels like forever — ends up in a tangled heap on the ground. When it’s all said and done, I wonder what the outcome could look like if things were done more mindfully and compassionately.
I’m not one to typically set goals or resolutions, but this year, I strive to spend more time getting curious with myself. Gaining clarity with myself — as I learned during ten days of silence — is exceptionally challenging. It’s really scary to constantly confront yourself, and to revisit that confrontation from time to time. But I think that’s the only way I can set a more clear intention. And if living out that intention feels fulfilling for me, then I would say that the path there is a worthwhile challenge.
*This, by the way, is the reason why I will never write a personal essay for money. This also means I won’t be writing a memoir.
