Almost 20 years ago, during one of my own such struggles, I escaped into nature and sat on the bank of a mountain stream near Bozeman, Montana. As I watched the water and sat with my suffering, I began to notice something. Like us, water also faces obstacles, but water does not react the way humans do.

The mountain stream does not anticipate or dwell upon the rocks, drops, and debris in its path. It remains perfectly smooth until the moment of conflict, and once the obstacle passes, it quickly returns to a state of calm. Water does not look ahead or back. It does not anticipate or cling to adversity. It simply remains in the present and moves forward. Water also does not fantasize about other paths or realities. It remains firmly grounded in the reality of what is, free of expectations about how things “should” be.

During the moment of conflict, water always seeks the path of least resistance. It can get stirred up, but it does not do any unnecessary work. It never flows uphill, and it never resists or becomes rigid. It flows around and through all barriers, exerting its own kind of dynamic power in the process. When the barrier has passed, water immediately settles back into a state of easy flow.

As humans, we can learn a lot from water. We can learn to stay more present, minimizing our time dwelling on the past and future. Certainly, the human mind has amazing talents for learning, through reflection on the past, and for planning, through imagining possible futures. However, we must remember that we cannot live in the past or future. We can only live here in the present moment. Of course, struggles and conflicts also occur in the present, but not so much as we might think, and it is a great tragedy to spoil perfectly ordinary and comfortable moments by paying too much attention to the fantastic dramas of the past and future.

We can also learn to trust, which allows us to let go of our desire for prediction and control. To be clear, I am not suggesting we trust that everything will be alright. It won’t be. Life is hard. Each and every one of us will face sickness, injury, danger, insecurity, heartbreak, and death. That is the truth, but it is not the whole truth. It is also true that beauty is happening all the time. Unfortunately, we are often too distracted by the real and potential hardships of life to pay full attention to the incredible beauty of it. This creates a negative bias in our perception and leads us to seek out prediction, control, and other defensive reactions.

I suggest that we actively challenge this negative bias. Specifically, I suggest that we learn to trust four simple truths:

1. Life is a rich tapestry of experiences, including all forms of hardship and delight.
2. These experiences can be meaningful, worthwhile, and satisfying.
3. Hypervigilance, worry, and defensiveness rarely help and usually make things worse.
4. We can handle these experiences.

This last point speaks to an extremely common crisis of confidence among humans, which once again leads to defensive reactions. To use another water image, we act as if life is a violent and dangerous rapids, failing to realize that we are actually the fish in this metaphor. We may never be entirely safe, but we are much better equipped for this life than we give ourselves credit for.

At this point, I must admit that my original mountain stream comparison is not quite fair. Water has it easy. Water cheats. Water has no mind to run amok with doubts, fears, and longings; and so it has no need for trust. It can behave with perfect and effortless elegance in the face of adversity. Meanwhile, humans have the most unruly minds imaginable, which lead us into endless struggles and suffering.

Nevertheless, we can aspire to let go of defensive reactions. For us, that means learning and practicing some degree of trust, in life and in ourselves. There is no real disadvantage to trust, since mistrust does little to minimize the impacts of adversity. Doubts, fears, and worries simply do not offer much protection. Instead, they mostly make us tired and anxious. Better to let go, to trust, and to meet whatever challenges arise in a state of well-rested calm.

Through these practices, we can learn to cultivate beauty in our lives, as much as may be possible. Life is hard enough without us making a mess of the precious and delightful moments. If we can be more present and trust, even just a little, we may begin to see the world differently. We may notice that our human reality is a rich tapestry of emotional experiences, including everything from overwhelming joy to the darkest suffering. We may also come to realize and accept that this tapestry, when cleared of our ruminations and expectations, can be a great source of meaning and satisfaction.

If all of this can be learned from a mountain stream passing over a few rocks, how many other lessons are out there for us, waiting to be realized? It boggles the mind, which is good, and it makes me smile.

Why focus on THIS? First of all, the present moment is where we actually live our lives. THIS is where everything happens. To place our attention elsewhere is to miss out on life itself. Second, the present moment is usually pretty okay. This may not seem true, but consider how much of our moment-to-moment suffering is based on paying attention to the past or future rather than THIS. If you are involved in a car accident, the event itself lasts only a few seconds. The moments that follow, where you exchange insurance and contact information with the other driver, might be completely fine, even mundane, if it weren’t for your preoccupation and judgments about what just happened (the past) and your worries about what comes next (the future). If we can resist the urge to be elsewhere, if we can stop our minds from polluting the present moment, we often find that THIS is not nearly as a bad as we thought.

Unfortunately, THIS can be tricky to focus on. Here’s why…

Imagine sitting on the bank of a stream and trying to watch only a small patch of water directly in front of you. The water within this area is always moving and changing. Your eyes, which prefer to focus on specific things, have trouble staying on task. They want to watch the random leaf, twig, bug, or ripple. They want to follow it and see where it goes or what it does next. As soon as your eyes start tracking something, your attention wanders and you lose your focus.

Focusing on the present moment is much the same. The present moment is ever-changing, as the future becomes the present and recedes into the past. Meanwhile, our minds are quick to latch onto things and drag our attention away from THIS. We can’t help it, at least not at first. The mind sees THIS and starts working. It compares the present experience to our past, looking for patterns and similarities. It also extrapolates forward to create plans, expectations, fantasies, and worries for the future. Being truly focused on THIS means denying all of these mental impulses. It can be exceptionally hard to do, even if you really want to.

During the most intense moments of our lives, like the car accident, we generally cannot help but be present. We get irrevocably drawn into THIS. It requires no effort. However, most of our moments are not intense, as I suggested earlier. Most moments are rather mundane or ordinary. We might even call them boring. Even people who seem to have extraordinary, adventurous, or traumatic lives spend most of their time in ordinary moments. They sleep. They eat. They wait in lines or sit in traffic. They sit on the toilet. For most of us, the present moment is benign most of the time. These observations lead me to two conclusions: (1) being mindful is hard for just about everybody, and (2) just about everybody has access to a benign reality most of the time. I’m not saying that life isn’t scary and hard for lots of people. It is. I’m simply pointing out that our natural preoccupation with the past and future can obscure present moments that might otherwise feel okay.

Fortunately, we can train ourselves to focus more effectively on THIS. We can learn to set aside the unnecessary suffering that our minds create by obsessing over the past and future, and we can learn to exist more fully in the often-benign reality of the present moment. To move closer to this goal, we must practice. That’s it. That’s the trick to mindfulness. Sure, we can also read books, watch videos, listen to podcasts, and go to therapy; and all of these things will likely help. But there is no substitute for the practice of paying more attention to THIS, right here and right now.

As we progress, we will face challenges. The mind will rebel against THIS, because lounging around in THIS doesn’t feel safe to the mind. It wants to create safety by ruminating on the past and anticipating the future, but as I have said before, these efforts can also contaminate our reality and prevent us from experiencing THIS. Yes, we can and should learn from the past, but we can’t live there. And yes, we can and should have some plans and aspirations for the future, but we can’t live there either. And yet, most of us spend most of our time in those unreal places. We live in the sometimes dark and sometimes fanciful corners of our own minds, and we miss THIS. That doesn’t sound like safety to me.

Perhaps pursuing safety is part of the problem. Perhaps safety is not a reasonable or productive life goal. Instead of dedicating so many of our moments to figuring out how to avoid risk and danger, perhaps we should dedicate ourselves to exposing and understanding a different truth, that THIS is mostly okay most of the time. Imagine what it would be like, not being consumed with doubts, fears, insecurities, and judgments about the past and future. Imagine being free to experience life as it happens with the whole of your attention, and imagine doing so with openness, acceptance, trust, and vulnerability.

Some amount of learning and planning will always be important, of course. Pondering the past and future are unique and highly valuable human talents, but they should be used intentionally and not by default. That analytical part of our minds, no matter how amazing, is still only a tool, and a tool should never replace THIS as the center of our experiences. In other words, don’t get lost in your thoughts and forget to live. Regardless of whether your thoughts are a blessing or a curse, they are no substitute for lived moments. In the immortal words of Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Once again, I am not suggesting that life is easy or safe. It isn’t. Life can be soul-crushingly hard, and life is definitely not safe. But one of the most powerful and meaningful skills we can learn is to face THIS, even when it’s difficult, with our whole awareness and attention. To me, that’s living. To me, that’s a worthy and attainable life goal. We will never be able to do it perfectly, and that’s okay. The goal is simply to have the skill, to have the option of THIS, and not be forever stuck in ruminations and anxieties.

“Appreciation and apology, not obligation, are the currency of healthy relationships.”

When people in a relationship become focused on score-keeping and equity, the relationship dynamic can become adversarial or imbalanced. One person might do the dishes more and start feeling resentful. The other person might feel judged and unappreciated, leading to mutual resentment and indignation. In another relationship, one person might always feel indebted to the other, whether fairly or unfairly.

Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream.

Having a two-year-old at home, I have been revisiting a vast array of children’s nursery rhymes, song, stories, and fairy tales. Most carry no real weight as vehicles of philosophy, but “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” caught me by surprise. As simple as the words may sound, each line could also be interpreted as a message about how to live life.

Here’s how I read it…

“Row, row, row your boat” = Participate and be active in your life (row). Don’t just sit there passively (row). Don’t let others call the shots (row). It’s your life (your boat).

“Gently down the stream” = But resist the urge to over-control, push, or force an agenda (row gently). Go with the flow of your life (down the stream), not against it. Be in the currents, but don’t spend all your energy fighting them.

“Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily” = Remember that how you experience your life has everything to do with perception, perspective, and interpretation. We each have our own core values, beliefs, assumptions, biases, and expectations that shape how we see the world, other people, and ourselves. We may not always realize it, but in this way, reality itself is highly personal and subjective. And with some effort, reality can also become a matter of choice. It can be miserable, even if you have it all; or it can be joyful (merry), even if you have nothing.

“Life is but a dream” = We take things so seriously, and we suffer so much, because we are committed to our struggles. We would do well to meditate on subjective reality and realize just how many of our struggles are actually illusions with no substance or solidity. The life we see is largely a fabrication of our minds (but a dream), for better or worse. The sooner we can see through these dreams, the sooner we can unravel suffering.

After years of going round and round with this topic, my conclusion is that both points of view are correct. There is a self, and there is not a self. I exist, and I do not exist. Both statements are true at the same time, and there is no paradox. Allow me to explain…

When Buddhist teachings say “there is no self,” I believe that they are being clever but unclear. They jump ahead without showing their work, which makes it hard for anyone else to see how they got there. If I taught math this way, by showing problems and answers without any steps in between, I wouldn’t be a very effective teacher, and my students would be rightly frustrated. The same is true for teaching Buddhism. A good teacher needs to help students move along the path to understanding.

The statement “there is no self” is elegant in its simplicity, but I believe a less concise statement would be far more useful. Based on my own forays into Buddhism, I suggest the following alternative:

ULTIMATELY, there is no FIXED OR SEPARATE self.

This statement is perhaps less elegant than “there is no self”, but it is also more clear. It means that, from the widest-possible perspective (i.e. ultimately), what we think of as the self has no existence that is concrete (i.e. fixed) or individually identifiable (i.e. separate).

Not being “fixed” means that we are dynamic and ever-changing, both physically and mentally. The person I am today is not the same as the person I was yesterday or will be tomorrow. My atoms are different, and my personality is different. Like a river, I have an identity, but that identity points to something that is never the same from one moment to the next. We can point at the self, just like we can point at the river, but we are never pointing at exactly the same thing twice. Both refer to a process more than a stable thing. The river is not static, and neither are we. When we really look at it, there is no fixed self.

Not being “separate” means that we are infinitely interconnected and interdependent with the rest of reality. Once again, this is true both physically and mentally. We may feel separate, but at a microscopic level, the physical boundary between my self and my surroundings is not so clear. Through the food we eat and the air we breathe, the cells of our bodies are renewed. Every atom comes from the world around us, and those atoms are constantly moving between us and the world.

At a mental level, we are equally permeable. Our senses take in information about the world, and that information changes us. Our personalities are built on our cumulative experiences with the world, and it is our personalities then determine how we respond to the world. The world shapes us, and we shape the world. We are infinitely interconnected, like drops of water in the ocean. When we really look at it, there is no separate self.

So, from this broadest of all perspectives, we have no individual identity called “self” that is fixed or separate. Rather, we are all one infinitely interconnected and interdependent process, and there is no distinction between any of us on this level. There is just the one event that is existence or reality. It is everything, and we are in it. We are it. There is no identifiable self. There are no things (plural) at all, only the one big thing that is everything. There is no individuality, no independence, no separateness, no choice, and no will. There is nothing apart from the one event.

I believe that this is what Buddhist teachings are trying to say, and I agree wholeheartedly. However, I also believe that this is not the end of truth. It is “merely” the ultimate truth, the ultimate reality, the biggest of all pictures. I sometimes compare this perspective to standing on a mountain, because it takes a lot of work to get there, but the view is amazing.

On a much smaller level, we do experience ourselves as individuals with bodies and minds that are relatively stable and separate. We experience ourselves as being independent and having the ability to make our own choices. This is reality as it appears, as it seems to be, and I would argue that it is not wrong. It is simply the “apparent reality” that we all live in most of the time. Building on our previous statement, I now suggest the following addition:

Ultimately, there is no fixed or separate self, BUT APPARENTLY, THERE IS A SELF.

This sounds contradictory, but it’s not. The critical point is in the distinction between ultimate and apparent reality. Ultimate reality is what is seen from that broadest of all perspectives, as described above. It is the highest truth, and it encompasses all other truths. Nevertheless, apparent reality seems more true in daily life, and sometimes, it may be more important and useful than ultimate reality. If ultimate reality is like standing on a mountain, then apparent reality is like living in a village far below.

Apparent reality is where we get to learn, grow up, make mistakes, fall in love, suffer loss, be afraid, and feel joy. The village can be horrible, but it can also be wonderful. Ultimate reality has almost none of that. Well, I should say that it has ALL of it, which is true, but ultimate reality lacks the same intensity. We can’t fully experience the horrors and wonders of village life while standing up on the mountain. We have to allow ourselves to settle back into apparent reality and become consumed by the experiences of the self.

If you are going to do something exciting or fun, you want to experience it as a self in apparent reality. It’s just better that way. Who wants to be emotionally detached from the intense thrill of falling in love or of watching your favorite team win the big game? I might even argue that the same is true for negative experiences. They hurt like hell, but nothing shapes us or teaches us more profoundly than suffering, and it would be unfortunate to deprive ourselves of those powerful experiences.

Ultimately, apparent reality may be an illusion, but it is also where we live. It is where consciousness exists. Ultimately, we may all be one infinitely interconnected and interdependent process, but perhaps that process can only experience itself fully through our consciousness down in the village. I’ve heard a very similar idea in the context of theology, with God creating humanity as a means to experience God. Regardless of which language you use, I think this idea can help us appreciate the value of apparent reality. Perhaps it is not our task in life to escape apparent reality and discover ultimate reality. Perhaps we exist to fully experience life in the village; to think, feel, learn, suffer, and grow. Perhaps we are built to be consciousness, not to escape it.

If awareness of ultimate reality limits our experience of life’s horrors and wonders, and perhaps even violates our basic purpose in living, then you might wonder why anyone would want to pursue it. Well, to answer this question, you only have to look at someone who is lost in the suffering of apparent reality.

We may be born into apparent reality. We may even be designed to live there. But life in the village is hard, precisely because we feel so fixed and separate. We can feel isolated, alone, small, powerless, insignificant, incomplete, and very mortal. We can feel like something is missing from our lives or from within ourselves. Nevertheless, most of us cling to the idea of a fixed and separate self. We want to believe that we are solid and autonomous. We fear the non-existence of the self just like we fear death, and through our fear and clinging, we suffer.

Awareness of ultimate reality removes the sharp edge from our suffering. It helps us to understand that there is nothing missing. We are not alone, because we are not separate. We are not powerless, because we are everything. We are exactly who we should be, and we are doing fine. There is nothing to be afraid of.

In the end, I believe it is good to seek ultimate reality, because it offers peace of mind, but you shouldn’t try to live there all the time. There’s just too much amazing stuff going on down in the village! If having one eye on the mountain allows you to be less afraid, then maybe that’s a good balance for getting the most out of life. Live in the village, but at some point, take the time to climb the mountain. Then, even when you’re back in the turmoil of the village, you can remember that mountain view and let go of fear.

Ultimately, there is no fixed or separate ANYTHING, but apparently, there is… And maybe it is good, even when it hurts.

Deconstructionists can be found in any population, since all it requires is a reason to question reality. Teenagers and young adults do this all the time, but so do other people who have their realities shaken. Imagine the doubts and questions that must accompany any great trauma, loss, or upheaval; and you will see how anyone can slip into deconstructionism under the right conditions.

What deconstructionists often fail to realize is that deconstructionism itself can also be deconstructed. It too is merely a belief system, a subjective reality, and as such, it can be dismantled. “There is no truth or meaning” becomes the one truth that many deconstructionists fail to deconstruct. If they did, they might discover an important distinction between the idea of “no truth or meaning” and “no absolute truth or meaning.”

Just because there may be no absolute (i.e. objective or universal) truth or meaning in the world, that doesn’t mean the world is devoid of all truth and meaning. It just means that truth and meaning aren’t fixed. I believe the world is overflowing with truth and meaning, but such things are subjective and very personal. In other words, we each get to choose what is true and meaningful to us.

If deconstructionists can make this leap of awareness, if they can deconstruct that last absolute truth, they might find themselves not in a world of oblivion and meaninglessness, but rather in a subjective world full of unformed potentials. To me, this is the ultimate insight and saving grace available to the deconstructionist. It is also the prize available to anyone who is willing to walk this path.

I would argue that deconstructionism is very valuable, as long as it is used as a tool for growth rather than an end in itself. As an end in itself, deconstructionism leads only to nihilism; but as a tool for growth, it has the potential to liberate us from beliefs that are absolute, rigid, ineffective, or toxic. However, due to its many potential pitfalls, the journey of deconstructionism should not be made impulsively or halfheartedly. I am reminded of a quote:

“Better never begin; once begun, better finish.” -Dan Millman, Way of the Peaceful Warrior

Going only part-way on the journey of deconstructionism is no good. You end up in a dark place. In therapy, I often use a mountain range metaphor to illustrate the nature of such journeys. If you stand on the summit of a low mountain but see a higher summit off in the distance, one that you would like to reach, you need to understand that there are no shortcuts. The only way to reach another summit is to climb down the mountain you are on, hack your way through the briars and brambles of the valley, and then work your way up to that other peak. It is hard work, and there is little joy to be found in going only part way, because the view along the way is often worse than where you started. This is what happens to deconstructionists. They come to believe that the valley is the destination, and they abandon their journey at its most critical moment, just before the path forward (and upward) is revealed.

What does the rest of the journey look like? If deconstruction tears everything down, then the second half of the journey must involve building something from the rubble. This is the beginning of reconstruction and the climb to a new summit with a new belief system. Like deconstruction, reconstruction is a hard journey with many challenges and pitfalls. Most common is the tendency to take shortcuts by quickly adopting new external beliefs. Such behavior is unfortunate but also understandable. After all, ambiguity is uncomfortable, and it is hard to figure out what YOU believe. It is hard just to figure out who YOU are. In some ways, deconstruction is the easy part, especially once you get the knack of it. Reconstruction requires a whole different set of skills, and it starts with some questions that are simple but not easy:

• What seems real or true to you?
• What matters or has meaning to you?

Your answers to these questions establish a basic subjective framework, a foundation, on which your personal belief system can be built. However, there is a danger here, because it is difficult to know when you’ve done enough deconstruction to avoid accidentally building the same old beliefs in a slightly different form. In other words, if your answers to these questions still reflect old biases, you will probably end up right back where you started, on top of that same old summit you were trying to escape.

I like to think of deconstructionism/reconstructionism as a transitional belief system. It is something we can adopt to help us move from a given belief system to a chosen belief system, from one summit to another summit. As such, it represents a potentially important part of individuation and maturation. However, as I have demonstrated, there are several ways that this transition can get corrupted. If we start reconstructing before we’ve done enough deconstruction, we can end up right back on our old summit. If we take shortcuts during reconstruction, we can end up on someone else’s summit. And if we never reconstruct, we can end up lost in the valley, believing in nothing.

Another one of my favorite metaphors for illustrating the process of deconstruction and reconstruction involves LEGO building blocks. If I were to put you in a room and give you a collection of pre-assembled LEGO objects to play with (a car, a house, a boat, a spaceship, etc.), you might never notice that you were actually playing with blocks. You would simply see a bunch of colorful toys. This is what happens to us as children when we are given beliefs by family, friends, and culture. We receive a collection of pre-assembled ideas, and we use those ideas without really understanding them. This is a good thing, because as young children, we are not capable of inventing an entire belief system from scratch, just as we are not capable of building our own toys.

Over time, however, it is also good for us to learn to ask questions and think for ourselves, because critical thinking can reveal the true nature of the toys/beliefs we have been given and open the doorway to deconstructionism. Some people are taught to be critical thinkers, which is like having someone show you the blocks and how they fit together. Other people develop critical thinking through trauma and adversity, which is like having your toys break and discovering the component blocks for yourself.

Regardless of how we gain awareness, once we realize that our toys/beliefs can be taken apart, we discover a deeper reality. Instead of a car, a house, a boat, and a spaceship; we start to see the blocks. Instead of rigid beliefs, we start to see the experiences and influences that led to those beliefs. With persistence, we can learn how to disassemble all of our toys/beliefs, leaving nothing but a pile of rubble. For the dedicated deconstructionist, this is ultimate goal and stopping point; but as I have shown, there is another perspective. Where the deconstructionist sees only chaos and rubble, the reconstructionist sees a room full of blocks, and blocks can be used to build almost anything.

It doesn’t matter if what we build can be taken apart. That’s fine. What matters is that we get to build things for ourselves. We get to assemble, disassemble, and reassemble. We get to experiment. We get to figure out what we like and what works for us individually. One person’s creations are not worthless just because someone else could deconstruct them or build something different. That’s actually the beauty of it all. We each get to build, and nobody gets to claim that their creation is the right one, although many people will certainly try.

The journey of the deconstructionist doesn’t have to end in nihilism, anxiety, and depression. It can continue forward and upward along the path of the reconstructionist and into the infinite possibilities of a subjective world, a world of blocks.

All three types of stories are important, because they shape the very world we live in. The stories we take in and tell ourselves shape how we see ourselves, other people, life, relationships, and the world around us (i.e. our perceptions). Meanwhile, the stories we tell others can have a profound effect on their perceptions. If we accept the idea that perceptions shape reality (see Believing is Seeing), then there is a lot of power in the stories that we encounter, and we would be wise to take them seriously by choosing our stories carefully and taking responsibility for their effects.

It is rare that a single story has the power to radically reshape our perceptions, especially once we reach adulthood. We are exposed to thousands of stories every day, and most of them have only slight impacts on us. It stands to reason that a lifetime of experiences don’t go out the window just because of one little story. However, with repetition and/or intensity, stories really do start to have an effect. [Other relevant factors include the age and receptivity of the audience; as well as the relevance of the story.]

For example, a single deodorant commercial may seem insignificant, but if you see enough commercials over a long enough time, you may actually start to worry that you smell bad. Advertising really works, and it works because of the power of stories and repetition.

Intensity can also increase the power of a story, even with only a single exposure. If you see enough news stories about car accidents, the repetition may eventually lead you to see cars as dangerous, but if you are actually involved in a bad car accident, that one exposure might be enough to dramatically change your perceptions.

Of course, stories have varying degrees of intensity. Watching a single scary movie can keep you up at night, even if you are never in real danger, and watching a lot of scary movies (or reading a lot of scary books) can trigger fears that last a lifetime. Eventually, whether through repetition or intensity or a combination of the two, stories can get under our skin and take root in our psyches, where we repeat them to ourselves over and over.

Now, let’s not forget the positive side of all this. Having the power to shape the world through stories is an amazing gift. If you like the way a story makes you think and feel, you can make those ideas more real for you by exposing yourself to other stories with the same ideas. You can also repeat those stories to yourself, as well as share them with others. We are all doing this all the time anyway, so we might as well learn to be more intentional about it. Being intentional also allows us to be more responsible for the effects our stories have on others.

Most of us are unaware of the true power that stories hold. We let them flow over us and through us, shaping our perceptions and defining our reality. Ideally, perhaps this would be fine, but with so many stories coming from questionable or manipulative sources (corporations, consumer culture, etc.), it seems dangerous to not have any filters in place, like antivirus software on a computer. If we aren’t careful in such an environment, we may inadvertently promote suffering by allowing harmful stories to become part of our internal dialogue and by sharing harmful stories with others.

Personally, I believe that we each have a responsibility, both to ourselves and others, to be aware of (1) the power of stories and (2) our own power to choose those stories, both the ones we let in and the ones we put out. This awareness allows us to harness the power of stories and create better lives for ourselves and a better world for all of us (see Stepping Through Illusions).

I don’t always remember, but I try to ask myself, “What am I really seeing and hearing? What is the story here? How are my internal stories affecting my perceptions? And what stories am I telling others through my words and actions?” This story about stories is one of my stories. I repeat it to myself often, and I share it with clients and friends, in the hope that it will reduce suffering.

Water neither seeks nor resists conflict.
Flowing with simplicity and efficiency,
It suffers not the present
And reflects beauty in turbulence.

Water dwells not on drama or regret.
Resuming the original condition,
It suffers not the past
And reflects beauty in equilibrium.

Water approaches obstacles without doubt, fear, hesitation, expectation, or anticipation. It simply remains calm and clear until it reaches an obstacle. One might think that this would leave it ill prepared to handle obstacles, but water needs no preparation. By knowing itself perfectly, staying true to its nature, and maintaining composure in the moment, nothing can surprise it.

Water meets obstacles without resistance or eagerness. It simply flows around and through, following the path of least resistance. It may become wild and turbulent during the encounter, but only as much as the obstacle requires.

When obstacles have passed, water quickly returns to a state of calm and clarity. It does not cling or dwell. It does not suffer guilt or regret. It does not seek further drama. It simply moves on with poise, composure, and equanimity. This is the balance it maintains as it moves from obstacle to obstacle.

These strategies apply equally well to the lives of human beings.

By offering such profound lessons, for those willing to see them, water also provides further evidence of the emergent beauty of nature (Li). There are parallel processes all around us, and therefore, we can look to nature’s other manifestations for advice, assistance, inspiration, clues, and strategies on how to negotiate the rapids and challenges in our own lives. This is the gift of Li. We need only accept it, trust it, and have faith in it.

Think of self-care as a table with five legs, one for each area. If all five legs are strong, then you can use the table for almost anything. You can set heavy boxes on it. You can build a house of cards on it. You can even stand on it. Of course, nobody’s table is perfectly solid all the time, because we all face limits (time, money, motivation, sickness, etc.) that make self-care difficult. Fortunately, even with a couple wobbly legs, your table can still do its job. However, there are limits.

The less solid your table becomes (i.e. the more areas of self-care that are weak), the greater the chance that it will become unstable at a critical moment. Imagine trying to build a house of cards on a table with shaky legs. Imagine the frustration of having the cards fall, not because of your unsteady hands, but because of your wobbly table. Now, imagine your frustration if that house of cards was actually a new relationship or a new career. If only you had taken the time to tighten up the legs of your table, perhaps your efforts would have been rewarded! This is why making time for self-care is so critical. Any improvement might make the difference between the cards standing and falling.

Let’s take a moment to look more closely at each leg of the table:

1. Nutrition – This leg includes anything that you take into your body: food, beverages, vitamins, supplements, medicine, alcohol, drugs, and so forth. All of these have a direct impact on body functioning and brain chemistry. Without the proper building blocks, the body and mind can’t maintain themselves effectively; and with excessive toxins, functioning can be impaired or damaged.
2. Sleep – This leg is about the amount, quality, and consistency of sleep. Unfortunately, sleep is not always under our control, as with insomnia or nightmares. Like the canary in the coal mine, sleep issues can serve as an early warning sign for other problems (e.g. anxiety or depression). Also, sleep patterns are often hard to correct once they get disrupted, so it is important to catch problems early.
3. Exercise – This leg is about physical activity, which impacts not only your physical fitness, but also your mental health. Exercise is one of the best ways to manage the physical symptoms of stress and anxiety. Ironically, exercise is also typically one of the first activities to be dropped during times of stress!
4. Pleasurable Activities – This leg includes activities that are fun and/or meaningful to you in some way. They can be social or solitary, and they can take almost any form (interests, hobbies, escapes, passions, creative outlets, connections to nature, etc.). They can also overlap with the activities of the other four legs. I think of pleasurable activities as being the most direct source of stress reduction, because they have such a profound impact on quality of life.
5. Supports – This last leg is about connections with individuals, groups, or communities. Human beings (introverts and extroverts alike) generally don’t function very well in prolonged isolation, and good supports provide the critical bonds that keep us grounded and balanced. However, in order to qualify as a good supports, we must actually use these people as supports! It is not enough to merely have people available to you.

After years of addressing self-care with clients, I have come to realize that all five areas have something to do with connectedness. Nutrition, sleep, and exercise involve connectedness with yourself (your health, your body, etc.), while supports involve connectedness with other people. Depending on the individual, pleasurable activities might involve connectedness with self, others, nature, or a sense of meaning, purpose, or spirituality. As each area of self-care is given more attention, connectedness deepens and health improves. Taken together, these areas of self-care seem to suggest that our foundation of health is really a foundation of connectedness… or interconnectedness. The longer I do this work, the more right that sounds.

When a smoke detector goes off, the first thing you do is look around to see what set it off. Maybe the battery is low. Maybe your dinner is making too much steam or smoke on the stove. Or maybe there is actually a fire. If is it a false alarm (i.e. no fire), you push the button to silence the alarm and move on with your day. If there is a fire, you either grab a fire extinguisher or call 911. You do something about the problem. What you don’t do is carry the blaring smoke detector around with you all day! That would obviously be pointless and stressful; and yet, that is essentially what many of us do with our guilt or worry.

A more effective approach would be to treat your guilt or worry like the smoke detector. When it goes off, the first thing you do is look around to see what set it off. In the case of guilt, you might ask, “What’s going on? Did I really screw up? Did I hurt someone in some way? Can I do anything about it?” In the case of worry, you might ask, “What’s going on? What am I worried about? Is the problem real? Is it certain or even likely? Do I have any control over it? Can I do anything about it?”

If you decide that the problem is real, the next thing you do is look for possible interventions. With guilt, you might apologize, make amends, or fix the situation in some way. With worry, you might take steps to minimize the possible dangers or negative outcomes. You heed the alarm and respond accordingly. That’s what alarms are for. Once you’ve taken all reasonable steps to address the problem, the alarm should stop, because it no longer serves any purpose.

If, on the other hand, you decide that the guilt or worry is a false alarm, or if the alarm has not stopped after you’ve intervened, then you run into a small problem. Unlike smoke detectors, your guilt and worry do not have a reset button. You can’t just turn them off by getting a broom and whacking a little box on the ceiling. You also can’t simply leave the room, because unlike smoke detectors, you carry your guilt and worry around with you. The only way to escape is to turn off the alarm, and the only way to do that is to clear the air. Like waving a towel in front of a blaring smoke detector, you have to look at the situation, remind yourself why you believe it is a false alarm, and be patient. At first, it may seem like an impossible task, but there is a skill to it, and you can get better.

Ideally, we can learn to avoid false alarms by training our guilt and worry to be more discriminating. This means challenging any guilt or worry that fails to serve a useful purpose. We can also learn to minimize actual problems by refining or disciplining our behaviors. This might mean being more careful with our comments or judgments, treating people with greater respect or compassion, or avoiding unnecessary risks. If we learn to reduce both false alarms and actual problems, we unlock the potential for a life that minimizes guilt and worry. The alarms are still there to protect us in an emergency, but they do not go off unless absolutely necessary.

As a final note, I should point out that living a life with less guilt and worry may lead to the perception by others that you don’t care enough. Some people wear their guilt and worry like badges of honor, as a sign of just how much they care. However, this seems dangerous to me, because it links being a good and caring person with carrying around lots of guilt and worry. That reality may be fine and good for some people, but I don’t want it for myself. It puts suffering on a pedestal, and there’s enough suffering in the world already.