1. Truth: Healing always takes longer than I think it will. This is linked to the habitual way I rush in and try to fix it when anything is wrong. I try to hurry past the discomfort, and I get anxious when I can’t make things right. Like with Sam, I want him to be better as soon as possible, because it’s so hard for me to see him in pain and to deny him some of his favorite things, but his particular injury can take anywhere from two to six months to resolve. And if for some reason he tweaks his muscle again before he’s completely healed, we will have to start all over.

2. Truth: One essential ingredient for healing is rest. In this case, there is nothing to do. It’s all about not doing, being still. I don’t allow enough of it for myself, and that’s part of why I struggle so much — physically, emotionally, and mentally. Even when I’m exhausted, I push myself to keep going, sometimes until the only option is collapse.

3. Truth: We are all living under the shadow of death. When we were sitting on the floor with Sam last night, giving him his cold lazer treatment, Eric remarked that it reminded him of when we had Obi and Dexter put to sleep. We were in similar positions, in almost the same spot where it happened, and I totally understood what he meant. This came right after I was telling Sam we needed to get him better so he could live to be an old dog, and that eight wasn’t old. The whole thing made me think about how death is always right there, for all of us. It doesn’t care what we want, doesn’t concern itself with our schedule or plans.

One wish: May we be patient and gentle and spacious with our healing, allowing the time and effort (or non effort) it takes. And when the time comes, may we have an easy death.

1. Truth: As a highly sensitive person, it can be hard for me to focus or stay calm. ALL of the information that is floating around in the environment, all the ideas and conversations and emotions and heat (or cold) sticks to me. Rather than being in my own bubble safe from the rest of the world, I’m covered in tiny holes, porous and without clear boundaries, and like a sponge I soak it all in. When I’ve had a day with too much stimulus, I lose my sense of what’s mine and what’s yours. It’s so extreme that if I read a book or watch a TV show where something bad happens, even to a fictional character, I feel it floating just at the edge of my consciousness like a memory of a lived trauma. Let me repeat that — I embody the trauma of others, even when they aren’t real!

2. Truth: This makes service and social justice work incredibly uncomfortable. I can’t easily detach from the suffering of others, and it’s difficult for me to relax or rest when I know someone is hurting, especially if it’s something I could help or even fix. I remind myself of the conventional wisdom of putting your oxygen mask on before helping someone else with theirs, or of that saying “you don’t have to set yourself on fire in order to keep others warm,” but the discomfort doesn’t really go away.

3. Truth: And yet, I don’t shut down, I don’t give up. In fact, I actively do the opposite, continually and regularly practicing to keep my heart soft and open, stay with the discomfort, allow whatever is arising, and cultivate a sense of vulnerability, a willingness to be hurt. I purposefully practice compassion, which is nothing more than being with someone else and their pain, letting it touch you, experiencing it with them. I’d rather be uncomfortable and connected. I’d rather be of some help than none at all. I’d rather make mistakes than not even try.

One wish: May the merit of our practice ease suffering, in ourselves and the world.