Satya writes: Yesterday I said sorry for something I’d done that was horrible.

I’d put off this apology because it involved confessing to being jealous – something I’d rather not have known about myself or admitted to anyone else.

It’s been a bit of a week for finding new awful parts of me. A few days ago I had a heated discussion with Kaspa. It was that kind of discussion where you keep getting back around to the same place and clashing against each other. Ouch! Ouch!

I finally realised that I was trying to avoid acknowledging that I’d been mean to someone. And that I am sometimes mean, in a particular way, because of reasons I can guess at but am yet to work out. It was a new realisation, and it came accompanied by shame and regret and sadness.

There’s a line in our morning liturgy which goes like this:

Saving grace, as was made clear by Shan Tao’s dream and advice to Tao Cho, only comes through the sange-mon. 

Don’t worry about those chaps Shan Tao & Tao Cho. All you need to know is that ‘sange’ means contrition and ‘mon’ means gate.

As I was feeling the shame of being someone-who-is-mean, I remembered this line. Saving grace. What does that mean? Could I have some?

The way I experienced it, feeling contrite meant that I was able to open myself up to knowing that I was loved anyway, just as I was. As a Buddhist, I conceptualise of this love as the grace of Amida Buddha. You might feel it is as coming from another part of your own self, or God, or Gaia, or something ineffable that you can’t put into words.

This doesn’t cancel the contrition out, or let me off the hook. I still feel the shame, and that is appropriate. It isn’t a beat-myself-around-the-head indulgent kind of shame, which we sometimes become attached to. It doesn’t linger. But it is this shame which will motivate me to say sorry where appropriate. It is this shame which shows me I have been affected by how I have treated others, because I care about them.

But I do feel that I did step through the gate of contrition, and that there was something on the other side. It transformed me. I became someone slightly different. I survived knowing this about myself, and knowing that I’ll go on to be mean again and again. I became (I hope) more able to feel compassion for others, and more able to love. I became more whole.

What do you need to acknowledge about yourself? Is there anyone you’d like to say sorry to? Can you feel yourself moving through the gate of contrition, and coming out onto the other side? Can you feel the golden glow?

Just as you are -
Really
Just as you are.

~Inagaki

We’re off on retreat to France soon and so won’t be around so much – see you in July! In the meantime you can start one of our ’31 Days’ (of joy, gratitude, mindful writing or positive action) at any time and pay what you choose. Let us accompany you…

Satya writes: As I write, the little vase of sweet peas on my desk are exuding a rich pink scent. A blackbird is singing.

After a client and a lunch appointment, I have a very rare thing – space.

One of my tendencies is to fill space. Throughout my life I’ve yearned for empty days in my diary and as soon as I get one I have no idea what to do with myself.

Some of my reasons for keeping busy are dysfunctional ones – a fear of the feelings waiting for me, a fear of the world falling apart if I don’t keep my eye on it. Some of the keeping busy is because I love my work, and I want to do something meaningful with the time I have.

But anyway, back to the space.

I’ve been pondering what I should do with it. Should I read a novel in the sunshine? Should I catch up with that boring administrative task? Should I do some weeding? Should I listen to a Dharma talk?

I listened to my gut, and my gut quoted Ferris Bueller to me (from the film Ferris Bueller’s Day Off). Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

None of us stop & look around very often. This is why we encourage people to write small stones - which force you to pause for at least a few seconds a day. This is why Kaspa is teaching a mindfulness meditation class tonight. This is why I am writing this blog post.

I decided that today’s stopping and looking around would involve me, a cafe, and a list of questions. I’ll buy myself a cup of tea & do some reflective writing & muse on where I am and where I’ve been & where I’d like to go. The questions that feel important to me are something like these ones…

What do I want to offer the world? How can I best do that? How can I keep myself nourished? What is holding me back? How did I do last year? What is important next year? How is the balance between work and play? What have I learnt about myself and about the world this year? What do I want to learn more about? What am I clinging to? Where can I let go or at least loosen my grip?

I’ll do some free writing about these questions and see where they take me. I’ll stare out of the window. I’ll order another cup of tea. I’ll do some more writing. I’ll reflect on the quote at the bottom of this post, which is speaking to me today. Then I’ll probably get bored and come home and do some more busy things.

What are your important questions? They might be specific, like ‘should I stay in this job/relationship or leave?’ or ‘how will I tackle my debt problem?’. They might be more general like mine. You might want to come up with a list of goals for next year, or a list of anti-goals (e.g. an intention to be less driven and enjoy the journey more).

When could you make yourself the time to focus on them? Will you do this with a friend or in a group or by yourself on a long walk or by writing in your diary? Do let us know what you decide in the comments!

Talking of offerings-to-the-world, my latest is ’31 Days of Joy’. You can register whenever you like and pay whatever you choose to pay, here. And if you’d like to have this conversation with me or Kaspa, read more about working with us 1:1 here.

“In today’s rush we all think too much – seek too much – want too much – and forget about the joy of just being.” ~ Eckhart Tolle 

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Sweetpeas by Karen Christine Hibbard

A post from the archive. Satya writes: This afternoon we ate chocolate cake on a bench in the middle of Ledbury for Anna’s birthday.

It didn’t look quite as fancy as this one, but it was home-baked with chestnut and almond flour, & lots of chocolate. It was GOOD.

The sun shone warmly down, convincing us that it really was Spring. We ate cake and licked chocolate from our fingers and laughed.

Afterwards we mosied home along the west side of Malvern, driving a narrow road that hugs the hills on one side and drops away on the other to a mosaic of fields far below. These views still knock me sideways. Do I really live here?

This sunshiney story could end here. But I haven’t told you about the manure.

As we left Ledbury it was hot in the car, and as we drove we wound down the windows. They had been spreading manure on the fields outside. The stink filled the car – sweet, sickly, with an edge of death. It lingered as we rose up onto the hills.

I sometimes forget to mention the manure, and the other forms of s*** that I encounter every day (like every other human being). This might lead you to believe that I have a blessed life, swanning off to eat chocolate cake in picturesque towns most sunny afternoons. My life is not like that all the time.

But really, my life is perfect with the manure. Manure might not smell as good as chocolate cake, but it helps things grow. Sometimes the other s*** in our lives does this too. (And sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, s*** just happens.)

Either way, I want to live a life (and write about a life) that includes everything. Uncensored. Diverse. Colourful. Unpredictable. Disappointing. Joyous. Not-always-feeling-happy. Not-always-keeping-everyone-else-happy. Chocolate cake AND manure.

To further investigate the chocolate & manure in your own life, try my brand-new-as-of-yesterday 31 Days of Joy email package – start whenever you like & pay whatever you want.

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‘cake for andy goldsworthy’ by distopiandreamgirl via Creative Commons, with thanks.

Kaspa writes: As I write this Satya is upstairs looking for a photo that perfectly illustrates ‘joy’ to put on the page of her new 31 Days of Joy course.

What is joy? I looked it up in the Oxford English Dictionary and they trace its roots to the Latin gaudere, to rejoice.

One the precepts I took when I became ordained was ‘to rejoice’.

“To rejoice? What’s that all about?” I thought when I first saw it. By the time it came to the ceremony I still wasn’t sure. Or rather I knew that it was one of the precepts I would struggle with. There are all sorts of precepts around ethical behavior that are impossible to keep perfectly in this world – and yet it was this precept about joy that troubled me the most. Nonetheless, in the ceremony when I was asked if it was my intention to keep that precept or not, I said “It is.”

What was it that I was struggling with?

To be joyful, you have to be in touch with the world. To delight in spring-time you have to be able to notice the new growth and not be wrapped up in your own world. To rejoice in the company of others you have to let your guard down and trust. To be joyful you have to leave the security of your irrational beliefs about the world.

Even at the time of my ordination I held the world at a distance. The world was breaking through my delusions every now and again, otherwise it would have been impossible for me to go through with the ceremony, but I was still holding myself back.

Us humans develop strategies for dealing with pain. One of the most common strategies for dealing with emotional pain is to withdraw: we (unconsciously) reason that if we avoid getting close to people, for example, we’ll avoid the pain of being rejected…

Often these strategies make sense at the time. If you fall in love with someone and it’s not reciprocated, continually being around that person and trying to reel them in will end up in your being rejected over and over again. So you withdraw – it makes sense.

The danger is that we over use the strategy and it ends up making things worse. We stay withdrawn in order to avoid being rejected, but the very nature of our withdrawal puts people off spending time with us… the strategy to avoid rejection results in even more rejection. And so it goes on.

I don’t know what the roots of my own withdrawal were, and it almost doesn’t matter… what mattered was coming back into the world.

How did that happen? My experience of other people’s faith in two things: in me and in the world.

Enough people kept caring about me that my self-limiting beliefs had to be disrupted. There was evidence in the world that people actually liked me!

Other people’s faith in the world also made a big difference. The people around me trusted other people, they celebrated when things went well, and they were warm to each other even through the most difficult of times. They were able to rejoice in all sorts of things.

There are plenty of good things in the world, all worth celebrating.  When you start looking for them the world is full of things to rejoice in. When I started looking for them I started to find them.

What can you celebrate right now?

Would you like support finding your own joyous moments?

Satya found that photo she was looking for and has just launched the course. An essay to help you discover joy, four daily practices so you can start making a difference in your own life right now, and 31 daily emails helping you to find joy.

This is part of our 31 Days series, and has bendy pricing. You choose what to pay. Register here: 31 days of Joy.

Photo:  Some rights reserved by © 2006-2013 Pink Sherbet Photography

Satya writes: Yesterday I had a busy day full of clients and Skypes and emails and errands and all those things that organise themselves into great long lists and make us anxious and knotty in our stomachs.

I had one free hour. I sat down with a cup of chai tea and two ginger biscuits dipped in dark chocolate. I listened to a Dharma talk by my teacher. I wrote notes about Honen and looked out into the garden where there was blackbird-song and apple blossom and a sprinkling of golden buttercups on the lawn.

I felt very grateful during this hour. The tea was fragrant and the talk was nourishing. The garden looked lush and green after a long day of rain. The buttercups were radiating golden light. Everything was perfect.

Feeling gratitude for the upturned faces of golden buttercups is easy.

But what about the rest? What about finding out about a huge tax bill, after we already committed to  pay for converting our garage to a therapy room for Kaspa? What about the interminable queues at the Post Office? What about the slugs eating my baby courgette plants?

Do I just write all this inconvenient or disappointing or terrible stuff down on the negative side of the ledger, and hope that my gratitude-for-the-good-stuff cancels it out?

The tax bill is showing me something about myself which still needs attention – a rush-to-buy, a lack of patience which has been getting me into minor trouble for many years. The money we will pay the government in taxes (some of it, at least) will pay for the roads I drive on and the friends who are getting financial support and all the other things we’re lucky enough to have access to in this country. We owe the tax in the first place because my book sold so well.

All those people in front of me in the queue at the Post Office got served before me – I had plenty of time, I wasn’t in a hurry. I can feel grateful that we have such a thing as a Post Office – in return for a fiver, they’ll take this book all the way to Venezuela for me. Pretty amazing!

The slugs. Hmm. Those slugs… Ah – phew. I’ve already written about the grace of slugs here.

On good days, I can feel grateful for all of the ‘awful’ things (even slugs) as well as the lovely things. Of course, I shouldn’t need to remind you that I am a human being, and I have as many failures-in-gratitude as anyone else. But when I can feel grateful, for all the slug-slime as well as for the ginger biscuits, then I feel happy.

Being happy makes it easier for me to be a nicer person. I can find compassion for others, I can be kinder to myself and to the world around me. I stroke my cats more. I’m more patient in the Post Office queue. I’m a less-critical wife.

But whether all that extra gratitude makes me a better person or not, it feels nice. It really does. And that’s good enough for me.

If you’d like to start strengthening your gratitude muscles (maybe you’ll even get some of the *happy* that I’m feeling right now), you can pay whatever you choose for our ’31 Days of Gratitude’ e-course.

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Buttercup by mclcbooks

A blog from the archive…

Satya writes: I stepped onto the train platform and felt for the strap of my handbag.

My rucksack was there. The present for my friend Heather was there. My tube ticket was there. Where was my handbag?

My handbag was gone.

I’d travelled early that morning from Malvern to Paddington, and taken the tube to Charing Cross on the way to my psychotherapy supervision training. I was half an hour away from the Tibetan Buddhist centre where the training would take place. Without my handbag.

I went into action mode. I ran after the disappearing tube to see if I’d left it on my seat – nothing. I walked quickly to find a tube employee – who sent me to the mainline station, who sent me to lost luggage, who said I’d have to call Paddington lost luggage. As I walked I racked my brains. Could I remember taking my handbag from the first train? I would rather it had been stolen, to save my embarrassment, but I had a horrible feeling…

As I walked from place to place, I was counting the loss. £160 in cash. My phone & all those numbers. My Kindle. My iPod. My bank cards, driving license, all the cards in my wallet. My £70 train ticket home & travelcards for the weekend. My house keys. My filofax, which contained my entire life – all my client appointments, all my addresses, my schedule for the year. Gone.

I asked the train staff if they could call Paddington for me – I had no money and no phone. My eyes pleaded with them. They said they couldn’t help me. At this point, I realised that I had a choice. I was feeling more and more panicky. I could either burst into tears, schlep back to Paddington, cancel the weekend’s training & go home with my tail between my legs. Or I could take one step at a time and go forwards. I went forwards. I carried on to my destination.

I arrived at my training (late) and announced to the group that I’d had a disaster. They were all wonderful. The centre director looked up numbers for me on his computer (Paddington lost property, my bank to cancel cards…), the course leader leant me money for lunch, my husband got in contact with Heather to warn her I was uncontactable, I hogged the phone during the breaks and during lunch.

It wasn’t a great day. I felt waves of panic, anger, feeling utterly stupid, fear of the unknown, despair. People kept saying I was dealing with it all ultra-calmly, and I wondered if I was in shock.

I guess a Buddhist centre is a good place to practice non-attachment, and here was my big opportunity…

I kept working with the feelings as they arose. I thought ‘one step at a time’ or ‘it’s only money and inconvenience, nobody is ill’ or simply ‘let go’. My gaze kept returning to the huge shrine in the room we were working in, and the three big golden Buddhas. I allowed myself to feel supported by the universe. I’d be looked after, one way or another. I had faith.

By the time I stood under the clock at Waterloo station, waiting for my friend Heather, I felt better than okay. I felt good. I had truly given up on getting back the contents of my handbag. I thought they might recover my filofax, if I was lucky. I had let go.

As I waited, a man approached me.

“Are you Satya?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Pete. We’ve got your bag.”

They’d travelled from Malvern that morning. They’d seen my bag left behind on my seat, and watched people walk past. They thought, ‘we have to do something’. They took it to lost property, who told them they’d charge for me to collect it. And so they found my text message to Heather on my phone, arranging when and where we were meeting. They’d been trying to get in touch with her all day to let her know that they had my bag. And then they’d COME TO MEET ME.

For the first time that day, I burst into tears. I hugged them both. I’d let go of it all – my Kindle, my filofax, my phone, my iPod, all that much-needed cash. And here it all was. Returned to me – delivered to me on the other side of London – by strangers who wanted to do the right thing. I could hardly believe it.

On my way back from London yesterday, I read this:

“When we are forced to attend to the places where we are most stuck, such as when faced with our anger and fear, we have the perfect opportunity to go to the roots of our attachments. This is why we repeatedly emphasise the need to welcome such experiences, to invite them in, to see them as our path. Normally we may only feel welcoming towards our pleasant experiences, but Buddhist practice asks us to welcome whatever comes up, including the unpleasant and the unwanted, because we understand that only by facing these experiences directly can we become free of their domination. In this way, they no longer dictate who we are.” (Ezra Bayda, from ‘Beyond Happiness‘)

I know this to be true.

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‘the tube’ by Matthias Rhomberg

Satya writes: This is a vegan blackberry cupcake.

Twenty years ago, I was vegan for several months. Ever since then I have been telling anyone who cares to listen how much I enjoy the taste of butter, and milk chocolate, and stringy melted mozzarella on pizza, and rich cauliflower cheese…

Three weeks ago we decided to cut out eggs and dairy as an experiment. At the moment I can’t imagine eating them again. And it feels great.

This is a surprise to me. I had no intention of becoming vegan four weeks ago. Although…

In retrospect, I have been aware of feeling slightly defensive around a vegan friend. I have noticed my body not being so keen on dairy as I’d like it to be. I have been buying more dark chocolate. There have been clues…

My guess is that an urge to become vegan has been growing in me quietly for years, without me being very aware of it. I’ve been going along with my life, observing the example of the vegans I know, and reflecting on the Buddhist precepts I took when I became ordained last year, and slowly letting go of some selfish desires to have whatever I want on my plate. 

I have known for a long time that in order for me to enjoy eggs, all the baby male chicks have to be killed. If you’d offered me a veggie breakfast and shown me the baby male chick that would have to die in order for me to enjoy a fried egg, it would be a ridiculously simple decision. I’ll pass on the egg, thank you.

And yet I have been enjoying the taste of eggs, for twenty years. How is this so?

I think that we are all in a lot of denial about the impact of the decisions we make every day. It would be hard for us to live with ourselves if we weren’t. This denial allows me to take less exercise without thinking about my future ill health, or spend money on something I don’t actually need when I really should be paying into a pension plan. I don’t like exercising. I like buying things-I-don’t-need.

If we are able to face up to this denial, then we find ourselves in pain – a guilty dissonance between who we’d like to be and who we really are. We have to acknowledge our foolishness. We have to either live with this guilt, or do something about it, which usually means giving up something that we want (fudge) or doing something we don’t want to do (doing more exercise).

Here’s the good news.

One of the biggest surprises about my new vegan diet is that rather than feeling I’m missing out on all the foods I can’t eat, I have actually been enjoying my food more. Every meal is reaching new peaks of scrumptiousness.

We’ve been cooking with more delicious fresh food rather than relying on convenience foods, and we’ve been experimenting with new ingredients. My body is happier now. But most of all, I think that some of my unconscious guilt is gone, and this means I can enjoy my food more fully.

I’m not saying that everyone should be vegan. We each need to find our own way through the ethical minefields of our ordinary lives. It is impossible to live a perfectly ethical life. Whenever I walk out into the garden, I start killing tiny creatures under my feet. And we are all failing to live up to our ideals in a multitude of ways. I’m still engaged in lots of unnecessary activities that are unethical – gossiping, not being honest, buying more than I need, etc.

We do the best we can. And we are all carrying unconscious guilt about the gaps between how we would like to live and how we actually living. I’d suggest that if we can begin to become gently aware of these gaps, feel the guilt, and take small actions, then the world will be a better place. And as a happy by-product, we’ll feel better too.

What could you do to gently lessen the gap between who you are and how you’d like to be? Take some action as an experiment. See if you feel better.

“There’s no greater foolishness than to spend one’s lifetime acknowledging that one is deluded and yet doing nothing whatsoever about it.” ~ Chökyi Nyima Rinpoche

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Blackberry cupcake by sharyn morrow

Satya writes: This week Kaspa wrote about our unusual courtship and about learning to trust. We decided to ask people to pay whatever they wanted to pay for our e-courses this month.

I am also going to trust you now by being honest about how our e-courses have been selling and by telling you how our experiment went.

When we first set up Writing Our Way Home, our courses got filled up, quickly and easily.

Over the past two years, we’ve noticed numbers gradually dropping. We keep looking at the materials and asking for feedback and we remain convinced of the quality of what we’re offering. People tell us that our e-courses change how they experience their lives. And so what was happening?

It’s impossible to be sure but we guess it’s a mixture of more competition (many more people offering e-courses) and people having less money swishing around. Our courses are also in the category of ‘things that are crucially important but easy to not spend money on’ – like learning or therapy or keeping our bodies healthy. When we’re anxious about money, these ‘extra’ things are usually the first things to go. That’s understandable.

And so we thought we’d experiment with trusting the universe even more than we do now. How would it be for people to pay whatever they chose for what we offered? How would it be to trust you? We made some pay-what-you-like buttons and we waited…

The courses start today. Writing and Spiritual Practice is now completely full, and Finding Your Way Home has just a few spaces left. We suggested that people pay £50 / $80 for the month –  they actually paid between $10 / $13 and £50 / $80. The average of what people paid was about 65% of the suggested course fee. The extra number of participants means that we got the same money as usual. We’ve been able offer our e-courses to more people, including those who wouldn’t have been able to afford the usual price. Win win!

So yes, I think it was a very good decision to trust you : )

What does this have to do with valuing yourself?

When we leave the price up to you, you have a choice about paying what you can afford (or a tiny bit more), or paying as little as you think you can get away with.

It’s tempting in life to pay whatever we can ‘get away with’. I am very familiar with that impulse. ‘If I give her less money for petrol, then I can buy myself some ‘free’ cake on the way home’.

I think that this temptation to pay less often comes from a fear of scarcity, and an undervaluing of ourselves and of other people. More and more, I’m choosing to hire the more expensive builder who comes highly recommended, or to buy a high quality toaster, and feeling good about spending the extra money as it’s bringing me extra value, and also rewarding the builder for the care they take with their work. The builder gets more money to spend on his own life and family. I can feel good about supporting them and supporting the value of them ‘doing good work’. I can feel good about my nicely-built-converted-garage.

I’m not denying the reality of tight finances. Sometimes we simply can’t afford to shop at the ethical supermarket and so we do our shopping elsewhere. Sometimes there really is no spare cash.

But what I’m talking about isn’t really about the figures. It’s more about our priorities, and about being conscious of where we put the money (and time and energy) that we do have. It’s about valuing others and ourselves, and trusting that the universe will provide us with what we need (maybe not what we want, but what we need!)

When people pay what they can afford, rather than less, they are making themselves and their learning and wellbeing a priority. I’ve seen this valuing-of-self rippling outwards and changing people’s relationship with money and with abundance. It’s pretty powerful stuff.

I guess that most or all of the people doing our e-courses will be paying as much as they feel comfortable paying. When people have finished the course, I’ll ask them if they thought it was worth what they paid, and whether they’d like to pay anything more. I’ll ask them how it felt to pay what they wanted to. It’ll be interesting to see what emerges.

We’ll probably repeat the experiment with Eastern Therapeutic Writing & Writing Ourselves Alive starting in July, so you can either pay the usual price now or come back when we’ve made the new buttons. Or if you’re quick you could still sneak into Finding Your Way Home starting today.

Thank you.

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‘Thistledown’ by Jo Starkey

Kaspa writes: Some of you know that I was a celibate monk when I met Satya… 

This week I’m writing about learning to trust. I started thinking about this because for the first time we are offering our e-courses with bendy pricing – you pay whatever amount you would like to for the courses. We’re trusting that you will pay an amount that values both us and you, but we have no way of knowing what the results will be. That said – I do trust that it’s a good way for us to move forward. Click here to learn more & register for Writing as Spiritual Practice or Finding Your Way Home, and read on to hear about a time when my trust was really tested.

Not long after we realised that there was a spark between us I flew to India to help with a project in Delhi. Satya and I emailed each other every day. As my return flight drew closer the conversation moved towards trying to figure out if there was a way we could be in relationship that worked for both us.

This was a time when my ability to trust was really tested. I tried to figure out if Satya was ‘the one’. If I was going to leave monastic life I wanted it to be for something worthwhile, and not fleeting. By the time I returned to the UK from India I had a pretty good sense that there was something serious going on; something that I wanted to make a go of.

The next challenge was talking to the people I cared about in the Buddhist community, whilst having a suspicion that some of them would think I was being rash. I didn’t think that I was being rash, but I placed a lot of importance on how I was seen by other people and I was worried about their reaction. Would it be supportive, and if it wasn’t would I be able to withstand it?

I could either let them know, or let Satya know that I wasn’t going to go through with it.

In a way I was forced into trusting. There was no way that I was going to let Satya down, so I had to face my fears of other people’s reactions. I remember sending a few emails and not being able to do anything at all until I received their replies.

The reactions were mixed. Some people were supportive, even happy for me, some were confused, and some were supportive until I told them I was going to move out.

Being in the midst of all of this was difficult. I wanted to do the right thing by my Buddhist tradition, and by Satya, and most of all I wanted everyone to accept me just as I was.

Some people took a while to come around to the idea. It was a struggle for me to live with their worries. They had to see that Satya and I were serious about each other, and that I was serious about being committed to my practice once I had left the community. Everyone did come around eventually, and it’s great that the story has a happy ending, but that’s not the most important thing for me.

The important part is that I was forced to trust other people and that even when I didn’t get the reaction I was hoping for I could still withstand that reaction.

Usually when we trust someone and are disappointed, we learn not to trust again – we protect ourselves against future disappointment.

I’d done that in the past, which was why it was so difficult for me to share my feelings about Satya with the community. But I’m glad not everyone reacted as I’d hoped straight away, because it taught me that I could trust in something greater…  I’m not sure what I’d call that – something like ‘it’s possible to be okay even when everything feels upside-down.’

I’m talking about trust because this month we have decided to take a leap of faith and trust all of you. Our e-courses starting on Friday are now with bendy pricing – you pay whatever amount you would like to, and we’ll accept it. We tried this with our email-package 31 Days of Positive Action, and the results were promising. I think that email package is worth around £15 – and on average that is what you have paid.

The two courses starting on Friday are Writing and Spiritual Practice and Finding Your Way Home. If you want to explore this idea of trust further, sign up to Writing and Spiritual Practice - the first week is all about faith (or in other words, what do you trust?)

In Finding Our Way Home we’ll use a series of writing exercises and reflections to think about our place in the world, we’ll use our journals to get to know ourselves better and to uncover our dreams.

We look forward to welcoming you.

“All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” ~ Julian of Norwich

Kaspa writes: Do you want to slow down and settle into the world? Do you want to find some clarity in the middle of confusion?  Or are you just looking for a richer, more fulfilled and more content life?

I’d like to offer you a brand new article about mindfulness practice, which can lead us to a more settled place in life: What is Mindfulness (pdf). Do feel free to share it. 

I’ve also written a one page instruction sheet on Mindfulness of Breathing so you can get a taste of the practice straight away: Mindfulness of Breathing (pdf).

Mindfulness is a word that is in vogue at the moment – it means something like conscious awareness or attention. We make a choice about what to give our attention to in order to bring a particular benefit or insight – in just the same way that the small stones we write encourage you to put your attention onto the world.

If you’d like to learn more about mindfulness – perhaps you want to establish a meditation practice, or have support for an existing practice – think about signing up for a Mindfulness Session with me.

We’ll work together (in person or via Skype) on your practice. I’ll lead a guided meditation to ground you in the session, and then we’ll have time to talk. We might talk about ways of managing anxiety using mindfulness, supporting mindfulness in your daily life, or about anything that comes up during the session.

“Kaspa is a kind, compassionate and interested practitioner.”  

Deborah Herbert MSc (Psych); RGN, RMN

You can find out more and book a session here: Mindfulness Sessions.

Lotus flower image by My aim is true under a creative commons licence.