The StoryField

An economy of relationships

2012-06-07T13:51:17-07:00

Relationships grow out of shared experience. These relationships form a kind of economy, one that supports us and nourishes us and that is worth valuing as much as we value the cash economy of free-market capitalism.

Years ago when I lived in the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island, I was inspired to get involved in my community. Near my home, a river-front property known as the Quan Chow Lands was slated for development on what was essentially flood-plain. I and others joined up to see if there was another alternative to building seniors’ housing on this fertile patch of land, at one time the site of a successful vegetable farm. Though there was a lot of energy to save the land, the developers won the day and the project, Canterbury Place, went ahead. Ironically, the land flooded even as the foundations of the new houses were being laid.

Returning to Victoria from the Comox Valley this week, I met former co-conspirator Michael Linton, who told me about his work in Vancouver setting up a number of local currencies. “A community currency,” he said, “is an ongoing story, a record of giving and getting. It’s also a patterning.” In the cash economy, he explained, once a transaction for a product or service is complete there is no further relationship between the two parties. The money essentially disappears. In the gift economy (as described by Lewis Hyde in The Gift: Imagination and the Erotic Life of Property) the gift forges connections, bonds of friendship, as well as bonds of responsibility and obligation. The energy and intention of the gift initiates a flow that continues to be expressed and sustained as it moves through the community. As Michael described it, in the community currency economy, relationships are also continually being developed and renewed through the cycling of the local currency in a limited field.

As a teacher of meditation, in the majority of settings where I offer instruction, I do not charge a fee. This would certainly pose a problem if I relied on donations to pay the rent and basic living expenses, but I don't. However, there are many teachers who do. Over the years of attending meditation retreats, most of them in the Vipassana or Insight tradition of Theravada Buddhism, I continue to learn a lot about the practice of dana, the Pali word for generosity. What does it mean to give freely, without regrets? Does that mean I give only according to my means or does it mean that I equate the value of the instruction I've received with other types of institutional learning and contribute an equivalent amount to what I would be charged in those settings? Also, from the receiving end, what does it mean to receive freely what is offered, whatever it is?

At the beginning of June, I was on Denman Island at the Hermitage for five days, co-teaching with my friend and fellow meditator, Jane Fawkes. We had designed a fairly simple structure for the retreat, which we called "Meditation and Mandalas: Doorways to the Soul." In the mornings, I gave instructions in the temple, which is housed in a yurt filled with Tibetan thangkas and photographs of teachers in the Kagyu lineage. From 9:00 to 12 noon, we practiced in silence. In the afternoons we took out our coloured pencils, wax crayons, felt pens and watercolours, and worked on our mandalas. Before dinner we met again in the temple and shared our work, not as artists, but as fellow wayfarers seeking to understand our own journeys. In the evening I played my drum and told stories. Moving in and out of silence, it felt like we had discovered a new way of integrating practice with daily life, one that is inclusive of many ways of experiencing the world.

On the closing morning we gathered pine cones, daisies, bits of bark and shell, stones and bones, sticks, leaves and bright blossoms to make a community mandala on a raised wooden platform near the yurt. Stepping onto the platform in silence we placed our various finds in a circle of pine cones. The result was a glorious hodge-podge of colour, texture and shape, with one live element – a large snail, slowly making his way off a disc of cedar and heading for the perimeter of the circle.

Following the retreat I met up with my father in Courtenay. The first question he asked me was, “Did they pay you?” My response was, “No.” Then I explained that the participants had made donations and I would likely receive something in the mail in the next week. In thinking about the question, I realized two things: First, the question itself triggers a feeling of confusion. It presupposes a view that any service I might offer is only valuable in monetary terms. If I didn’t get paid then whatever I was doing at the retreat had no value. And yet I know it did have value. Many of those who attended the retreat made an effort to tell me they found it valuable. Hence the confusion: What does it mean to receive no clear financial compensation for something of inestimable worth?

The second insight I had was related to my own attitude. Because there was no set fee for the retreat, either for the teachers or for the accommodation and meals, I felt extraordinarily free to be intuitive about how to do it. I didn’t choose the stories I would tell ahead of time, but allowed my sense of what was happening in the group to guide my choice. Also, I didn’t have a lot of anxiety about making sure people “got their money’s worth.” Instead, I felt that we were co-creating the experience and it was simply my role to provide some guidance.

For me, the retreat was a reminder of the value of relationships--how they are nurtured in the reflective stillness of silent meditation but also in the precarious but exhilarating space of creative expression and community sharing.

Tracking the mind

2012-02-15T10:29:33-08:00

Last week I spent an hour and a half having my brain scanned in a Functional MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) device at the Cognitive Neuroscience of Thought Lab at UBC. I had agreed to participate in a study of long-term meditators in the Mahasi style of Buddhist meditation. While lying there, with my skull wrapped in a pillow and encased in a kind of helmet, I was asked to meditate, or simulate a meditative attitude anyway, observing the rising and falling of the abdomen and noticing what kinds of thoughts, or "events," were occurring in the mind.

I was directed to press a key with the index finger of my right hand as soon as I became aware of a sensation or a thought--something other than the breath, or the loud sounds of the scanner. The first stroke on the key indicated the event. The second stroke, on the appropriate key (index, middle, ring finger, or little finger), was supposed to indicate what kind of event had taken place: an image, a story (that is, something involving words), an emotion, or a sensation. Sometimes words flashed on the screen, visible in a mirror positioned above my head. "Heat," "itch," "memory," "future," and I was directed to press whichever key seemed to match.

What I noticed in the practice session on the previous day was the desire to demonstrate that I was a "good" meditator and could therefore perform the tasks well. Initially, I was confused about whether admitting that my attention moved from the sensations of the breath to other phenomena (and quite frequently too) would indicate poor concentration and reveal me as a failure in the realm of meditation. I decided, however, that the definition of mindfulness is knowing what is happening in the present moment. Whether the mind is steady on one object, or moves from object to object doesn't matter. The purpose of the study was to track what happened within a discreet period of meditation. What "events" were taking place?

Sensations were the easiest for me to be aware of, emotions most difficult. Images were pretty rare, and stories popped up fairly often. Watching where the mind goes is actually a very useful skill. It reveals the composite, shifting nature of human consciousness, moving between present-moment sensory experience to thoughts of the past or the future and then to vague or more distinct emotional states and sometimes to images, close-up, or wide-angle, of parts of my physical self. Seeing this flow is both humbling and liberating. It invites a whole new set of inquiries: Am I my mind? Am I my body? Is my body in my mind, or my mind in my body?

I thought I might be claustrophobic in the machine, but my curiosity about the experience outweighed my fear of claustrophobia, demonstrating that old stories and old habits are never as firmly lodged in my psyche as I think they are. They are not who I am. In other words, as one of my teachers says, "When the mind is still, myriad phenomena come forward to experience themselves." There is no need to identify with the contents of the mind, which arise and dissolve according to conditions. At the same time, however, seeing the random, impulsive nature of thought provides great impetus to generate wholesome states, like loving-kindness, mindfulness and investigation, so that the field out of which thought arises becomes increasingly and naturally one that reflects my deepest values.

Whose mindfulness is it anyway?

2011-09-29T17:11:34-07:00

In this photo, taken in Ireland in the 1930's, my father (in the foreground) is fishing with a group of children. Each of them is attending to his or her own experience. Each is directing his or her attention in a particular way, either to the act of fishing or to preparing the bait. If these children could call up the memory of the moment when the photograph was taken, would they remember being aware of the temperature of the air, the sound of the water, or the smells of the river-bank? Would they be able to tell a story of that day?

As professor of psychiatry Daniel Siegel writes in Mindsight, integrating the different parts of the brain is what allows perceptual and emotional memory to be woven into recollections: "This uniquely human storytelling ability also depends upon the development of the highest part of the brain, the cortex." (Mindsight, p. 21)

The prefrontal cortex is the locus and source of what neuro-scientists call "The Executive Function," the ability to organize one's thoughts and focus. The practice of mindfulness activates the prefrontal cortex, developing a long list of attributes of well-being including emotional balance or regulation, bodily regulation, empathy, intuition, morality, and attuned communication with others.

In late September, I traveled to Santa Cruz where I attended a three-day training with Mindful Schools, a non-profit based in Berkeley. The founders of Mindful Schools acknowledge their debt to Jon Kabat-Zinn, who pioneered the application of mindfulness in the field of medicine. His Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction programs are now used to teach pain management and alleviate stress-related symptoms across the U.S. and Canada. In MBSR and in the work of Mindful Schools, mindfulness is seen as a skill, and there is no attempt to present the historical context in which the practice of mindfulness developed. (See the end of this article for some background on mindfulness.) While some might view this approach as short-sighted or limited, since it extracts one specific teaching from the beauty and the fullness of the Buddha's wisdom, it has a practical purpose--to ensure that the introduction of this very practical skill is not obstructed by any fear or concern that schools are introducing some form of religious practice.

Mindful Schools has introduced mindfulness to more than 11,000 children in Oakland and the Bay area of California, 71% of whom attend schools in low-income neighbourhoods. There's no doubt in my mind that mindfulness is making a huge difference in the lives of these children. Their own comments and reflections are evidence enough for me, though several studies have also shown the value of introducing this practice to children. We watched two videos over the course of the weekend, in which Mindful Schools’ instructors gave a lesson.

“How have you used your mindfulness?” the Mindful Schools’ teacher asks the children. Some of them share their stories. Though the teacher is only in the classroom for fifteen minutes, this is an important part of the lesson. It reminds the children that mindfulness is a skill they can practice anywhere. Often, they describe using their mindfulness when they make a decision not to react with anger, not to hit back, but to walk away from a quarrel with a sibling or a friend. Or they use their mindfulness of the body to help them sleep at night. Maybe they use their mindfulness of gratitude to help them feel happy.

What is the value of seeing mindfulness as something that belongs to us, rather than simply a state of presence? Taking ownership of awareness can be seen as another way of reinforcing a sense of self, but I think the decision to speak of “your” mindfulness and “my” mindfulness is important. The child is being given the opportunity to claim her awareness as uniquely hers. While the world around her may feel chaotic and out of control, she has something of her very own, this skill of tuning into herself, of calling on her mindfulness to help her make good choices. The language used by Mindful Schools reinforces this sense, and in doing so empowers children.

It also builds respect and empathy. The opportunity for children to share their experience following the short practice sessions allows them to see that each of their classmates is describing what happened from their own vantage point, which will be different for every child. There may be similarities: “I heard the clock ticking.” “I heard the clock and I never knew it was so loud.” But hearing each other share what their experience of listening to sounds was, or of paying attention to the breath, not only validates their own experience, but demonstrates in an immediate way that each child’s perception is both unique and acceptable. Mindfulness is the skill of paying attention to what is happening right now, in the external environment and in the internal world of sensations, emotions, and thoughts. As soon as children understand that this skill of attending is theirs to practice and develop, they begin to apply it.

Mindful Schools has developed a series of fifteen short lessons, which take place over five or eight weeks. Each lesson is followed by five minutes of journal writing in a special journal. The journal writing offers a further opportunity for children to take ownership of their experience. By keeping track of what they observed and how they felt, they are learning to value this ability to pay attention to their own life of perception.

I look forward to doing my own research as I begin offering this curriculum in local schools in British Columbia.

* * *

More about mindfulness: Mindfulness is one translation of the Pali word “sati” which appears in one of the key discourses of the Buddha – The Satipatthana Sutta. The title of this sutta (teaching or discourse) is often translated as the Discourse on the Four Foundations of Mindfulness. More recently, scholars and Dharma teachers have come up with an alternative translation, one that highlights the dynamic quality of the word “patthana” which literally means “setting forth” or “putting forward.” Rather than supply a noun—“foundation”—which conjures up something solid and enduring, they use “abiding”, thus we get the Discourse on Mindful Abiding. In other words, being with what’s happening right now, in the mind, in the body, in the realm of emotion and thought, and being here in a way that is open, receptive and non-judgmental.

Mindfulness is for Kids too!

2011-09-16T14:12:32-07:00

As both a long-time student of meditation and an elementary school teacher I've followed the development of mindfulness in education with great interest. In my own classroom I've experimented with mindful listening exercises, mindful eating, and class discussions of kindness and respect, which I view as mindfulness in action. Though I was encouraging my students to be mindful, I never used the word “mindfulness.” I briefly introduced my Grade Three students to current theories in neuroscience which describe the role of the various parts of the brain in regulating emotion and processing information. Since I was teaching in French I was delighted to find a French language website at McGill which includes diagrams of the brain. (http://lecerveau.mcgill.ca)

Despite my best intentions, however, I don't think I succeeded in teaching my students how they could practice mindfulness themselves and how it could benefit them in many ways. My attempts to introduce simple mindfulness practices were sporadic and didn't link up with the regular curriculum. What I've discovered is that any learning (whether it's about mindfulness or about the correct use of the passé composé) requires regular and sustained practice over time. So I've been curious to see how curriculum designers might put together a sequence of lessons that introduce mindfulness into the classroom setting and offer teachers a way of reinforcing and practicing the learning throughout the school year.

Two different programs are being implemented on the West Coast and in other parts of Canada and the U.S. One is called Mindful Schools and is based in the Bay area of California. I will be attending a Mindful Schools training later this fall. The other is the MindUp program, developed by the Hawn Foundation. At the end of August I attended a MindUp workshop at the Vancouver School Board. MindUp can be described as a curriculum for social and emotional learning that gives children the skills to develop awareness of themselves and the world around them. After six years of implementation in the Lower Mainland, over 600 teachers have received the training and other school districts are also getting interested.

What surprised and delighted me most at the MindUp training was the number of stories of children taking ownership of this simple practice – listening to a chime, then bringing the attention to the breath. Patricia Morris, the Vancouver teacher who facilitated the workshop, used the expression “listening to the breath” as a way of introducing the idea of paying attention. She described how a student of hers, after only three days of learning the MindUp core practice of following the breath, was excited to discover that noticing his breathing helped him remember the facts he had been about to present to the class but had forgotten. Patricia teaches kindergarten. She describes herself as a “good” teacher, but not a great one. Yet, she is seeing improved academic performance in her students, which she directly attributes to their increased ability to focus. The three minutes of core practice three times a day in no way take away time from her regular teaching. In fact, she feels like she has more time, since she has less “fires to put out” (i.e. less disruptive behaviour). Though the curriculum includes a sequence of fifteen lessons, these can be repeated and extended throughout the year.

The other part of the presentation that caught my attention was hearing how curious and excited the children are to learn about the brain, using words like “pre-frontal cortex” and “amygdala” as if they were naturally part of a five-year old’s vocabulary. Helping children learn about the body and demystifying the natural processes of life are key to empowering these young people as learners.

Teaching children simple skills for calming themselves and focusing seems like common sense. When daily interludes of mindfulness practice naturally lead to increased awareness of others and of the environment, it is more than common sense, it’s essential that children have access to these kind of programs.

Thinking with Stories

2011-08-25T12:50:59-07:00

This summer I’ve been asking myself how oral storytelling works in the classroom setting. Why is it important that children hear stories, not just from their parents and grandparents, but in a context where they are listening with their classmates? From my reading and reflection, I believe the experience offers:

1) Immediacy, intimacy, vulnerability. As a group, the children witness the spontaneity and authenticity of the teller. This captures the children’s interest on many levels. The storyteller makes direct eye contact with her listeners. She isn’t holding a book. She doesn’t need to turn a page. Also, she isn’t relying on any text to tell her story. She is remembering and therefore “re-living” the story as she tells it. This gives children evidence that stories live in people, not just in texts, and therefore, they too can be storytellers.

2) Co-creation. The storyteller involves the listening audience. Together they co-create the event. Unlike the experience of watching a video, every storytelling session is unique. The teller may pause and make a comment about the weather or the environment or she may refer to some current event. Also, if she is familiar with the children’s lives, she may include her knowledge of a particular child’s situation (For example, if the story involves death, she might say, “This story makes me think of Sylvie because her grandfather died last month). Gestures, chants, repeated phrases, and whole body movements involve the listening child and allow her to “enter” the story herself, so that the story is remembered in the body as well as in the mind and heart.

3) Community building. The children, having heard a story together, now have a shared experience and a shared language. In the discussion that follows the storytelling, the children can build on each other’s ideas and find out what aspect of the story was meaningful to their classmates.

4) Learning other world views. Stories come out of specific cultural contexts, and the elements of stories therefore suggest a variety of ways of viewing experience. By hearing the story in a group, the children have an opportunity to share with their classmates their knowledge of the culture or customs reflected in the story.

One book I’ve been reading is Life Lessons through Storytelling: Children’s Exploration of Ethics by Donna Eder with Regina Holyan.1 The authors designed their study as a way to show how storytelling can serve an important role in children’s social and ethical education. They write:

Oral stories entail a set of powerful and effective mental strategies to fix patterns of meaning in the memory. These stories carry a charge of emotion that greatly enhances the likelihood of retaining the meanings, since memorable events tend to be those associated with strong emotions. Thus, whatever messages children choose to receive will likely stay with them longer than if the messages were received through written stories.2

An unexpected discovery was how stories offer children ways to think about their lives. One group of children heard a Swahili story about the trickster Hare. Hare receives permission from the Sultan to leave his cow with the Sultan’s bull, but then the Sultan claims ownership of the calf that results from the union of the bull and the cow, saying that the calf came from the bull. Hare shows how ridiculous it is to think that male animals can give birth and the Sultan is forced to let him take both the cow and the calf. When Donna asked the children, “Who would you be in the story?” two of the children chose the calf, which is only mentioned and has no agency in the narrative. However, the children, placing themselves in the story, assigned agency to the calf and said that they would decide which parent they wanted to stay with. By asking, “Who would you be?” Donna gave the children a way of imagining other outcomes to their own life circumstances, one in which children have the right to choose which parent they will live with after a divorce.

This is a beautiful example of how meaning is constructed out of each individual’s own story and how folk tales, especially when there is space for discussion and reflection in a small group, offer children real tools to think about their own lives.

1. Donna Eder is a professor of Sociology at Indiana University in Bloomington. Regina Holyan is a senior staff attorney with the Navajo Nation Department of Justice and a former Assistant Professor in the School of Education at the same university.

2. Eder, Donna with Regina Holyan, Life Lessons through Storytelling: Children’s Exploration of Ethics (Bloomington, Indiana University Press, 2010), p. 16.