Show Notes
My husband told me that if I post this, I’m going to lose some of my audience. It seems I just can’t help myself. If you don’t want to read the word “butthole” one more time, I’d advise you not to continue. You have been warned. If you skip the main article and scroll to the bottom, you’ll find a couple upcoming events, one for parents and one for young adults and you’ll still avoid all the buttholes (except the three I’ve somehow managed to fit in in the first few sentences of this post). My almost 3-year-old son was sitting on his little potty recently and, mid-poop, exclaimed “Oh no, I can’t do it!” and wanted to hold my hand. This kind of thing happens to everyone, except as adults, instead of asking for help during our most vulnerable moments, we get all embarrassed and we try to make sure no one finds out. When I was in my early 20’s I tried to attack all my fears. Every time I noticed that I was afraid of something, I would just do it. This meant that I did things like run marathons barefoot, ride my bicycle across the country, and polar plunges every day in the New England winter. I was living near Boston at the time, and I got a job at an outdoor education center in the Catskills. So naturally, I decided to ride my bicycle there. Without a cell phone, with all my stuff packed on my bike, in February. There was a website at the time (which apparently still exists) called couchsurfing.com. So I planned to stay on the couches of strangers for a couple of the nights on my trip to my new job. I trained throughout the month of January, taking long rides through the snowy, grey landscape of Massachusetts. It was very, very lonely. Your generosity makes a huge difference. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
I planned to depart before dawn one cold February morning, and the night before I left, my dad asked me if I was scared. I realized that I was, and at the same time, I began to have the realization that all the confrontation of my fears I had been doing was really an attempt to avoid my biggest fear: vulnerability. I thought about that quite a bit on my lonesome bike ride, which in my memory was quiet, grey, and relatively uneventful. I arrived unscathed, but with a plan. Like all my other fears, I confronted this one head on. After a few weeks of getting to know my co-workers, I started playing a game called Naked Surprise. It’s what it sounds like. You get naked, and you surprise people. Most people were down for it, so we all started naked surprising each other in a glorious expression of vulnerability. It wasn’t long before naked surprise wasn’t enough for me, and so naturally, I started “butthole surprise.” Again, pretty much what it sounds like. As you might imagine, it wasn’t as popular as naked surprise. So if that weirds you out, you’re not alone. But like it or not, everyone has a butthole, we just don’t like to talk about it (let alone look at it). The truth is that we’re all, essentially, s**t-shows. We just get better at hiding it as we grow up. What if it was ok to be kind of a disaster, or at the very least to not be perfect? This liberatory practice is calling for us to stop trying to hide the wild, uncivilized naked toddler within all of us that we so badly wish expose. The one who wants to have a real reaction, to cry, to have a tantrum, and to hold someone’s hand while they poop. Perhaps the suggestion of letting yourself go sounds confusing at a time when the world seems to be going to s**t. But when we get more real about the mess we truly are, the resulting humility is what allows us to see the humanity in each other. To acknowledge that it is fear that is driving the hateful acts in the world. And ultimately, the effort to hide our vulnerabilities does little to benefit us, other than save face. When we’re expending all of our energy trying to contain or hide ourselves, we have nothing left to give, and we stop being real. If we could all just be a
More from Meditate Your Face Off
The above meditation is meant to be listened to when you’re having a hard time sleeping. I initially recorded it for 10% with Dan Harris. If you don’t know about that app, I highly recommend it. Below is me reading the essay that follows: It’s 3am, and you can’t fall back asleep. The longer you’re awake, the more stressed you get about it, and the harder it is to fall asleep. Millions, maybe billions of people have this problem on a nightly basis. We go to great lengths to find our way back to sleep, from medications to sound machines to sleep specialists. I never used to be one of those people who struggled with sleep, which changed when I got a chronic illness. That, followed by having two kids, and I haven’t slept through the night in approximately five years. Lately I’ve been night-weaning our baby Rumi. That means James is with her all night, and I’m sleeping with her brother in his twin-sized floor mattress so she can’t smell the intoxicating scent of my liquid ambrosia. Normally, Rumi will wake up 4-5 times a night, and for the entire thirteen months she’s been alive, I’ve been tasked with responding and nursing her. But for the first time since she was born, I have the opportunity to sleep through the night. And naturally, I can’t. I’m awake between 1 and 4am, which seems to be the time when many people with insomnia can’t sleep. If you find yourself awake at that time, you’re not alone. According to historian Roger Ekirch, before the industrial revolution and artificial lighting, many people in Western Europe slept in two chunks: one before midnight, and one after. But then, with the rise of the 9-5 workday, that had to change. So, maybe this rhythm is natural. Sometimes, this information is enough to release some of the resistance to the fact that you’re awake in the middle of the night thinking about your car payments or your test results. Then you can lean into the fullness of whatever experience you’re having, in mind and body. It’s not a YOU problem anymore, it’s a natural cycle. Often when I’m awake at this hour, my mind is either racing or chewing on some issue that I haven’t been able to deal with during the busyness of the day. Sometimes it’s mainly a physical experience: there’s some tension or discomfort in my body that makes it hard to get comfortable. Leaning into the experience means that I turn it into a formal practice. I either sit up, or I get into lying down meditation mode— it’s not just lying there, it’s a real commitment to practice. Either way, I meditate properly, without the intention of falling back asleep (though if that happens, it’s not a bad thing). I make a point of turning directly towards whatever I’m grappling with, and look for the resistance. I try to surrender to it. I always have insight. I never regret it. And I’ve stopped feeling upset about being awake in the middle of the night. In fact, I kind of love it. It’s when I remember what matters most, and when I feel myself actually making strides in that direction. I like to think (and here comes the mysticism) that 3am is an ethereal time, a time when you can’t really run away or distract as easily from your feelings, and a deeper presence can emerge. You’re a bit more stuck in the present moment. There’s nowhere to run. That’s when they get you (says my exceptionally gifted seer, Caryn Benevento). Who’s they? I dunno; the Buddha, the devas, the gods— whoever’s out there in this wild spiritual universe that’s got your back. And maybe that’s the whole reason that you’re awake, so they can finally get you. Because at night, you’re more vulnerable. In this semi-awake state when you’re in a soft, cozy bed, it’s easier to surrender to things you habitually fend off or distract from. Loving awareness has been standing at the door all day with its coat on, ready for a hug. At 3:33, you finally let it in. It might be easy to believe that what happens during the daytime is the most important part of your life, but ever since taking on the
This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit caralai.substack.com
Here’s a guided meditation on generosity. It’s not a bribe. Meditate Your Face Off is not a cult that’s trying to brainwash you into giving me money, calling it Dharma. But I know it looks bad given the essay that follows. (TLDR: price for new subscribers is going up October 4th, current subscribers aren't affected, more on why below.) Hi! This is a slightly different post, because I’m sort of gonna ask for money, but it’ll hopefully be different from that time where you put your business card in a fishbowl at a restaurant and won a free lunch for everyone in your office, and then had to sit through that poor soul’s pitch to sell you their business software while you quietly ate your free deep dish pizza and smiled politely. Instead: here’s a little context, followed by a small change. The Dāna Model: In the Buddhist tradition I teach from, teachings are offered freely. You can’t put a price on the truth, and the Buddha wanted everyone to have access to the teachings, to liberation. He also wanted people to learn about dāna (the Pāli word for generosity), because generosity is an intrinsic part of the path to freedom. So he set up a system where the teachers, who were monastics, were basically helpless— they couldn’t have possessions, they couldn’t grow food: they depended entirely on laypeople to meet their basic needs. In return, the monastics would share the dharma, teach people how to meditate, teach people about kindness and compassion. There was a constant flow of generosity. The dāna model as it was brought to Western culture means that we teachers don’t usually get paid for our work. We rely on the generosity of the people we teach to support us. It means that I have no idea how much money will come from the time and resources I put into teaching each retreat. This is truly gratifying. Because I know that people are, more often than not, offering me money for the joy of giving and the love of the dharma, not out of obligation. A dollar that comes from a place of real generosity is worth far more than an obligatory dollar. With this newsletter, everything of substance is free, and the paid tier exists so the people who get something out of it and can afford to contribute, do — which is what keeps the whole thing running for everyone, including the people who can’t pay right now. If you can’t afford a paid subscription (now, or ever) you don’t have to. Message me and I’ll give you full access, no questions asked. That’s the way the dāna model works. The teachings were never supposed to have a paywall around them in the first place; the paid tier exists so the people who can pay, do, which is what makes it possible for the people who can’t to get the same thing for free. That’s the whole arrangement. It only works if people actually use it. Also: you practicing, reading, even just having interest in this work is its own act of generosity. Not to be too sappy, but it’s true. And sharing it is another way of offering dāna: The small change: Meditate Your Face Off has been a tremendous joy for me to craft. I love the community that’s been growing around it, I love how it keeps my practice alive, and I love how weird I can get and still have readership. I want it to feel more sustainable financially, so that I can keep pouring my heart and soul into it. So, starting October 4th, new paid subscriptions move from $8/month to $11/month (or $80/year to $110/year) If you’re already a paying subscriber, this doesn’t touch you — your rate stays exactly what it is, for as long as you stay subscribed. I promise it’s not one of those promotional windows closing on you. If you’ve been meaning to upgrade or you’re currently free and thinking about it, October 3rd is your last chance to lock in $8/month instead of $11. If Meditate Your Face Off has been worth more to you than what you’re currently paying: You don’t have to cancel and resubscribe if you want to offer more. Bump up to the Pay it Forward tier (or just pay more than the stan
This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit caralai.substack.com
Above is a guided meditation to find emotional freedom through eating. Below is me reading the essay that follows: Most of us have a rather complicated relationship with food. We want it, it soothes us deeply, but it also makes us feel out of control. Most mindful eating instructions tell us to eat slowly, carefully, and just to notice the sensations of eating. Chew a single raisin 100 times before swallowing, simply noticing all the textures and tastes. This guidance can sometimes lead us to believe that eating mindfully requires us to feel no emotion when we eat. Rather than behaving like a starving, rabid jackal— we try to turn ourselves into a proper Victorian lady being stared down by a governess. It’s a high bar. Giving up, we go back to eating while standing in front of the fridge. The common approach to eating meditation treats eating like it’s emotionally neutral, when in fact, most people are experiencing some degree of anxiety, shame, or dissociation while eating. Why else would we compulsively distract ourselves from the pleasure of eating with reading, scrolling, working, or planning what we’ll do after the meal? We can trace this all the way back to being in the womb, when we were completely enveloped by another person’s body, which kept us safe and nourished. And when we were separated, our life could only continue through nourishment in the form of mother’s milk, or something that mimicked it. Warm food from our caregivers was what kept that sense of safety, belonging, nourishment, and love flowing through us, reassuring us that we were protected in this life. A nursing newborn can easily melt into a deep state of ecstatic serenity. So naturally, when we’re feeling lonely as adults, we reach for a cookie. But what we really want is a hug. On some level, we’re all just longing to crawl back up into the womb. But on top of that primal link, there’s social baggage. Our bodies are scrutinized by societal standards of beauty, and our ability to sculpt our bodies into perfection becomes a symbol of our worth. Body regulation becomes a public performance of control, which makes eating meditation feel exposing rather than calming. So we're stuck: food promises the safety we've always wanted, but so does having control and a hot bod. We can't have both. When we eat, we’re simultaneously feeling deeply comforted, and totally out of control and gross. We’re desperate for something, but feeling very conflicted about it. Eating is not just a pleasurable or neutral act, it’s loaded with all kinds of baggage and associations with our lovableness from as far back as we can recall. Of course we try to distract ourselves while we eat. You can’t just selectively feel only the good without the bad, so checking out becomes the workaround. Meditate Your Face Off is made possible because of you! To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.