Sleeping to dream
The unquestionable importance of self-love in life is a lesson I had to struggle to learn. As an overachiever, making to-do lists and breaking down big goals into smaller action plans, then ticking off items one by one, have become as natural as breathing.
Breathing. Inhale. Exhale. It’s the cycle that made life. When we were born into this world, the first thing we ever did was take an in-breath; on our death bed, the last thing we’ll ever do is make an out-breath. (These words are borrowed from artist Jason Mraz, by the way. He often mentions this in his concerts — I admire his practice of mindfulness and conscious breathing, deliberately incorporated in his music, though that’ll be for another story.)
This is perhaps why Buddhists center their practice on the awareness of one’s breath. In yoga, most teachers call it “finding your breath”. The breath connects birth and death, creating a full circle that knows no beginning and end.
In times of stress and anxiety, I have come to realize that our breathing becomes short and shallow. In moments of relaxation and calmness, our breathing becomes full and deep. The peace that comes with slower breaths is something I tend to take for granted.
During the past few weeks, my head was filled with worries: deadlines and deliverables at work, plans and inaction in my personal life. I bore pressure coming from both the external and the internal. Unconsciously, I became hyper-critical and demanding of my team and myself; it wasn’t healthy.
That’s when my immediate boss granted my long-running request for a furlough. “Find your Zen and be back,” she told me.
Finding Zen
“Finally,” I thought, “time for myself.” My team understood the urgency of and my need for this short break, and they took great caution to make sure I am not bothered — something I greatly appreciate.
I thought it would be easy to find Zen, if this were the case. I took effort to do activities I (used to) enjoy: yoga, meeting friends, watching movies, reading a book, looking at the sunset. To be sure, I also squeezed in some chores so I am productive: laundry (I finished ten batches in a week, and I finally saw the bottom of my laundry bins!) and tidying up my space a la Marie Kondo, basically.
Still, the days passed and I only proved myself wrong.
When my eight-day break came to an end, sure, I was happy and calmer — but I hadn’t found my Zen.
Losing grip
The days that followed were an uphill climb. From the outside, I looked “fresh” and upbeat, but the struggle all lied beneath the surface.
Every night, often past midnight, I’d go home from work more confused than ever, asking myself before succumbing to slumber: What is my purpose? What do I want to do? What is the meaning behind all that I’ve been doing?
Not too long ago, I can answer these questions without pause, with pure gusto, passionate idealism, and sure terms. Now, the clarity of thought has evaded me. If I recite my old credo — “to tell stories that has a head to make people think, a heart to make people feel, and hands to make people act” — all I hear is my own voice trying to convince me that I am still her. I know things have changed. I’ve changed.
All is not lost
In therapy, my psychologist Lala mentioned how I differ from most of her other clients: “When people come here, it’s usually because they don’t know what they want. But you know what you want. The question is how.”
Her words made me more confused.
“It’s not confusion but fear,” she continued. “You know what you have to do to get what you want, but you’re afraid to do it.”
After giving it much thought, I realized that what she said was true. I know which stories I would like to pursue as a journalist and a documentary producer, and I, at least, have an idea of how I intend to work on those projects — but I can’t leave where I am for fear of losing all the good things in my life now: some semblance of job security, a relatively high-paying job, a pleasant work relationship with my team.
Maybe I don’t have enough courage to go after the uncertainty that comes with chasing my dreams — after all, years of experience have taught me the stark contrast between the harsh reality and my youthful idealism. Unknowingly, I clipped my wings, and I am, oddly, fine with it. •
Breathing. Inhale. Exhale. It’s the cycle that made life. When we were born into this world, the first thing we ever did was take an in-breath; on our death bed, the last thing we’ll ever do is make an out-breath. (These words are borrowed from artist Jason Mraz, by the way. He often mentions this in his concerts — I admire his practice of mindfulness and conscious breathing, deliberately incorporated in his music, though that’ll be for another story.)
This is perhaps why Buddhists center their practice on the awareness of one’s breath. In yoga, most teachers call it “finding your breath”. The breath connects birth and death, creating a full circle that knows no beginning and end.
In times of stress and anxiety, I have come to realize that our breathing becomes short and shallow. In moments of relaxation and calmness, our breathing becomes full and deep. The peace that comes with slower breaths is something I tend to take for granted.
During the past few weeks, my head was filled with worries: deadlines and deliverables at work, plans and inaction in my personal life. I bore pressure coming from both the external and the internal. Unconsciously, I became hyper-critical and demanding of my team and myself; it wasn’t healthy.
That’s when my immediate boss granted my long-running request for a furlough. “Find your Zen and be back,” she told me.
Finding Zen
“Finally,” I thought, “time for myself.” My team understood the urgency of and my need for this short break, and they took great caution to make sure I am not bothered — something I greatly appreciate.
I thought it would be easy to find Zen, if this were the case. I took effort to do activities I (used to) enjoy: yoga, meeting friends, watching movies, reading a book, looking at the sunset. To be sure, I also squeezed in some chores so I am productive: laundry (I finished ten batches in a week, and I finally saw the bottom of my laundry bins!) and tidying up my space a la Marie Kondo, basically.
Still, the days passed and I only proved myself wrong.
When my eight-day break came to an end, sure, I was happy and calmer — but I hadn’t found my Zen.
Losing grip
The days that followed were an uphill climb. From the outside, I looked “fresh” and upbeat, but the struggle all lied beneath the surface.
Every night, often past midnight, I’d go home from work more confused than ever, asking myself before succumbing to slumber: What is my purpose? What do I want to do? What is the meaning behind all that I’ve been doing?
Not too long ago, I can answer these questions without pause, with pure gusto, passionate idealism, and sure terms. Now, the clarity of thought has evaded me. If I recite my old credo — “to tell stories that has a head to make people think, a heart to make people feel, and hands to make people act” — all I hear is my own voice trying to convince me that I am still her. I know things have changed. I’ve changed.
All is not lost
In therapy, my psychologist Lala mentioned how I differ from most of her other clients: “When people come here, it’s usually because they don’t know what they want. But you know what you want. The question is how.”
Her words made me more confused.
“It’s not confusion but fear,” she continued. “You know what you have to do to get what you want, but you’re afraid to do it.”
After giving it much thought, I realized that what she said was true. I know which stories I would like to pursue as a journalist and a documentary producer, and I, at least, have an idea of how I intend to work on those projects — but I can’t leave where I am for fear of losing all the good things in my life now: some semblance of job security, a relatively high-paying job, a pleasant work relationship with my team.
Maybe I don’t have enough courage to go after the uncertainty that comes with chasing my dreams — after all, years of experience have taught me the stark contrast between the harsh reality and my youthful idealism. Unknowingly, I clipped my wings, and I am, oddly, fine with it. •