Embracing Wild: Life and Work as Process

Today I will attend the final monthly mentoring session in an 11-month applied compassion training (ACT) program through the Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education (CCARE) at Stanford University.

Grateful and a bit frantic—that’s how I’d describe my feelings about finishing the program. I am full—full of memories and ideas and resources. Yet I feel a bit frantic because the program is ending and I have not met all my goals. There is a bit of FOMO (fear of missing out) creeping in; or perhaps FOMiU (is this a thing?), fear of messing it up.

My capstone project for the ACT program was developing a course on compassion and wholeness. Phase I of this project was teaching a graduate level class on this topic over the summer. Now I am in the process of working on phases II and III of the project, which involve adapting the material for a general audience and creating beautiful workbooks and simple video recordings. Sometimes the difficulty of what I’m trying to do barrels me over and leaves me feeling squished and breathless. Recently this feeling became overwhelming and I found myself lost in a jumble of lighting (preferably lighting that doesn’t leave me looking half dead), video editing (YouTube videos are not proving helpful), designing Powerpoint slides that are functional (check out “How to avoid Death by Powerpoint”), and translating neurobiology of human relationships into succinct, everyday language.

Over the weekend I got into one of my “Well, I might as well give up now” moods. And then on Sunday morning as the sun rays were starting to peek in the window at my heavy, dejected self, a beautiful reflection from one of my favorite songwriters popped into my email inbox. In it Carrie Newcomer confessed that she struggles with change and with patiently embracing the process involved in reaching goals. And she recalled with tenderness and joy an experience she had in a knitting class:

 The knitting teacher, she explained, “abruptly told us all to stop. When we looked up for instruction, she told us all to lay our knitting down on the table and to gently smooth it out and admire our work. She invited us to notice the emerging pattern and texture, to love the color we’d chosen, to think fondly of the person who might receive the gift of this piece. She encouraged us to love and admire what can only happen one knit or purl stitch at a time. She said the world is all about end product, but so much of our lives are in process. Take time to admire how far you’ve come, rest in the beauty of what you’re currently creating. Stop often, take stock, remind yourself of what you love.” 

As I paused to take stock, my mind flooded with memories: giggling with Lisa in between exchanging neuroscience nuggets, sage and timely advice from Cynthia, listening with Lori, catching the contagious joy that Hendrik conveys (even through the Zoom screen!), sharing celebratory tears in a breakout room conversation, receiving affirmation and encouragement when I lost confidence in my ideas, finding emails from fellow participants in my inbox right when I was feeling alone and unmoored. 

And as I stopped to slowly spread out my project in my mind, I was amazed to recall the many meaningful conversations with students, the joy of working with the artist who created visuals for me (shoutout to Autumn @afaithu), the web of interconnectedness this project has made visible to me. 

One of the remarkable things about this applied compassion journey is that many of us in the cohort not only gained knowledge and skills, but also found healing and the courage to try new things and relate to ourselves and those around us in ways we haven’t been able to before. For me, this feels truly miraculous.

There are still times of tremendous frustration. Last night the frantic feeling was so strong, I found myself texting a friend who generously listens to my venting. She said “making it right now is going to look wild.” That would make a wonderful slogan, I thought, “Embrace Wild.” Recognizing life as a process and not a product is simultaneously messy and meaningful. Into every encounter I carry healing and hurt, wounds and willingness, fear and longing. Today I pause with a heart full of gratitude, while simultaneously holding space for the frantic feeling.