Waking Up

January 1999 - Negril, Jamaica

Mark and I had been married for 5 years. We traveled to Negril, Jamaica, on what I would call the “marriage saver” vacation, one last-ditch effort to reignite a lost connection. I had attempted to leave him twice before, but Mark’s guilt-inducing pleas and my deep, empathic nature pulled me back in. We stayed at an oceanfront resort on a high cliff in a private hut approximately 35 ft above sea level. Outside, the ocean was still churning from a ferocious storm that had passed through the night before. The waves had been so strong that they crashed through the glass doors of a neighboring hut. Luckily, it wasn’t occupied.

I was just about to hop in the shower when I heard Mark calling my name. I was immediately irritated. The storm kept us up most of the night before, and instead of agreeing to accompany me to breakfast, Mark insisted on going outside to check out the scene. I just wanted coffee! It seemed to me we could never align, and I was constantly frustrated. Also, I didn’t think that was a bright idea.

The storm that occurred the evening before had not yet settled. Hearing him call out my name again, I reluctantly threw on a robe to see what he wanted. Instead of finding him standing outside as expected, I came out to find him swimming in the ocean and then noticed his shoe floating close by. I was still annoyed and trying to understand what was happening. I wondered out loud, “What! Tell me you did not go in after your shoe!” As I watched him swim past the shoe, I suddenly realized that he was struggling and fighting for his life.

What I would soon learn was that he was pulled off the side of a cliff by the angry ocean. Terrified, he tried to hang on, but the ocean’s force sucked him back in, leaving his fingertips stuck to the rocks he was hanging on to for dear life. The waves continued to beat his body against the shale rocks as he fought against the turbulent force of the ocean.

Seeing him swim toward a ladder, I began to approach him. As soon as he grabbed on, he was again pulled back into the ocean. His body flapped like a flag in the wind as he hung on for his life. The muscles in his arm were pulsing as he continued to fight the force of being pulled back in.

Mark, my husband of five years, emerged from the ocean, attempted to take a few steps towards me, stumbled, and fell to his knees. His body was shaking, the skin on his fingertips was gone, and he was bleeding from the cuts caused by the ocean, throwing him back and forth against the shale cliff.

I stood in front of him, horrified, not at what I saw in front of me, but at what I noticed arising inside me: not care, empathy, or compassion, but anger, deep, surging anger. All at once, I began to awaken.

January 27, 1998 - Buffalo State University

One year prior, I had embarked on a semester-long independent study with my philosophy professor, Dr. George Hole. After taking his class in Buddhism, I was intrigued and curious to dive deeper into the practice of Zen. I wasn’t sure why then, but something deep inside called me to learn more about the practice. Dr. Hole suggested we study the therapeutic side of Zen practice. We named the study Zen Therapy. Eager to get started, I walked into his office prepared with a collection of articles and books on Zen and Zen Therapy. Proud of my preparation and ready to dig in, I plopped my materials on his desk. George quickly sifted through them, looked interested, and then placed the pile on the side of his desk. He then instructed me to do three things.

Number one: Pick two tasks that you usually do every day without thinking about them, for example, brushing your teeth, driving, taking a shower, or eating, and begin to practice doing each task mindfully. George explained, focus on the task, then notice when your mind wanders away. When you see this occurring, bring your attention back to the task. Stick to these same two tasks for the week.

Number two: Meditate for at least fifteen minutes daily using a counting method. Count your breaths from one to ten. When you get to ten, go back to one. If you lose count, start again and go back to one.

Number three: Keep a journal of your practice to hand in every week.

“That’s all. Nothing else. See you next week,” George said.

I gathered my belongings and exited his office. As I closed the door behind me, I suddenly stopped and fully committed to doing those things 100%, including writing in my journals uncensored, even though I knew he would be reading everything I wrote.

This is where my mindfulness practice began.