The Evil of Selfing

I got to hear Jim's tale of how he was treated in the hospital. Hordes of eager residents hovering over him, while the doctor in charge discussed his case. His personal life uncovered in great details, without any regard for his privacy. Many voices heard, except his. "It was as if I did not exist as a person."

This could have taken place in any hospital, not just that particular one.

This is what happens when we forget to live in the present. Not seeing, not hearing the person in front of us, but instead operating out of ideas about the situation. I am a doctor, you are my students, this is the patient in Bed 3. The roles are set, and I, the doctor have unwittingly shrunk the reality to a pre-established script that boosts my sense of self.

I tell Jim I have to go meditate with the other volunteers before we officially start our shift. And I get a kick out of his response: "Sounds like a healthy version of rounds" . . .

I am not a doctor, but I too succumb often to the easy temptation of automatic 'selfing'. I do it when I bring the past into the present with a loved one and I do not give him a chance to start anew in this moment. I do it when I fail to listen to a stranger's story, because I am more interested in telling my own story. I do it when I play the same role over and over, even if it does not make sense. I do it when I obsess over 'me'.

Tonight, I thank Jim for being my teacher. 

Loving the Stranger

No dog, no iPod, no friend. This morning, I went for a long walk with myself only. 

And before long, encountered a familiar presence. Sad, depressed, lonely. With it,  I kept on walking, along the quiet streets, past the new Facebook campus, across and amidst the Stanford students housing, back into my neighborhood. A whole hour, I stayed with this company. I thought of the dying ones I sat with yesterday at Zen Hospice, and the patience that arose naturally in me, as I sat at their bedside. Being there for their fears, their pain, their aloneness in the face of impending death. And I realized how much more difficult it is to be present for one's own suffering.  How tempting it is to ignore one's reality, and to anesthetize oneself with busyness, or food, or Dharma talks even . . . Crowding the mind with thoughts not related to the moment. Keeping the body in constant motion so as to not feel the physical pain from difficult emotions. Hyper connecting with a crowd to displace the focus of attention outside of one self. Anything to not feel the pain. 

The more I walked, the more tenderness I felt for myself. There was no denying the extraordinary effort required and at the same time, I knew there was no other way to be. Heart turning towards itself, doing exactly what it was supposed to. Again, I thought of the ones I have been privileged to serve, and who have taught me to love. It is said you cannot love others unless you can love yourself. I am convinced it works both ways. You cannot love yourself unless you can love others.  Stretching the compassion muscle . . . 

I came home happy, that I had not abandoned myself:

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you have ignored

for another who knows you by heart.

~ Derek Walcott ~

Today, will you take the time to love the stranger that is you?

This Is How It Is

Discovered, this quote from Suzuki Roshi, up on the fireplace mantel in the dining room at the Zen Hospice Guest House:

Suzuki Roshi's Quote - Zen Hospice Guesthouse

I am with you, Roshi . . .

The Price of Exclusion

I have been meaning to write about this experience for a while now . . .

When I was working at C-2, the old hospice ward at Laguna Honda Hospital, there was this woman, Gloria, who demanded a lot of attention from the volunteers. "Volunteer! Volunteer! Volunteer!" She summoned us constantly. At first, I didn't mind. I sat by her bed, listened to her stories, helped her with her meals, fetched her coffee . . . Whatever Gloria wanted, whenever, I would do for her.  This went on for a few weeks, until one day, my patience ran out, and I no longer felt like responding to Gloria's imperious calls. I started trying to avoid her. This was hard, since her bed was one of the first ones in the ward, and I had to pass her to get to the other residents.  I figured if I looked straight ahead, and moved fast with an air of purpose, I would be saved. That worked to some extent. Of course, walking back, I had to deal with the Gloria problem again. I found myself hoping that she had fallen asleep, or was engaged with another volunteer, or a nurse. She catched me some times, still. "Volunteer!" and I usually came up with some excuse. "I am busy with another resident. Let me get someone else to help."

An interesting thing happened meanwhile. The more I shut off Gloria from my world, the more space she took up in my mind. I started thinking about her often, and with great aversion. While on the ward, I could feel the constriction in my body, as I overheard her voice. "Volunteer!" . . . My heart was sealed shut, and I did not like the feeling. Of course, I could have taken action, and opened up to her again, but I didn't. The aversion had made too much of a dent, and had left a permanent mark. My heart was not so elastic, that it could bounce back to its original neutrality.

As I look inside, I find many such blemishes, some more recent than others. And I am learning a big lesson. That closing the heart is no longer an option, for the price of exclusion is simply too high. The solution lies in catching the first inklings of  'I don't like him, or her',  before they get a chance of  settling into the heart.

Keeping one's heart open, always . . . 

A Painting Dance

Ninety three years old. Gladys speaks so softly that it's hard to make up her words. I sit by her side, and ask  if she would like to paint. She nods a timid yes. When presented with an assortment of colors, her sinewy hands go straight to the green and blue tubes. No hesitation there. Her daughter told me she used to paint a lot "before". 

Watching the artist come out of Gladys as she effortlessly pushes her fine brush on the white paper is quite a treat. Something important is taking place in her brain, that's giving her back the confidence that normally eludes her. After one long green stroke, she lifts her brush and hands it over to me.

Gladys's painting dance with me at Zen Hospice

I look at her with surprise. Me? Does she want me to join her? She nods. I pick up where she started and complete the green line, then give the brush back to her. Pretty soon, she and I enter into a trance, dancing together in silence on an 8 by 11 sheet of paper. Until the whole surface gets covered. "It's beautiful" says she.

Being present for each other. It was beautiful indeed . . . 

Getting Ready Before It's Too Late

Sitting just now, I experienced much unpleasantness in body and mind. I also felt great joy, from having the practice to carry me through. Knowing that the trick lied not in hoping for a better experience, but in being with everything, including what did not feel so good.

I thought about conversation I had once with Bryan, one of the residents at Zen Hospice, shortly before he died. Bryan knew he did not have much longer, and fear had taken ahold of him. In the middle of the night, he had gotten up to play music on his keyboard, and for the first time his fingers had refused to cooperate. Bryan, a professional musician had reached a place of no return. "I wonder what happens after death. They say Jesus came back from the dead. Did he really? That whole story about the stone being rolled back, and him stepping out and meeting the women, I don't know . . . What do you think? You are a Buddhist." I sensed the urgency in his voice. "Well, I don't know either. What I notice is right now, you are being in your thoughts, and in the future, and there is a lot of fear there, and I wonder if you could suspend the thoughts for just a moment, and just be with the present experience? Feeling your body, and your breath, and the thoughts coming and going, and the whole atmosphere." Bryan got angry. "What do you mean, being in the moment . . . It's taking me forever to put on just one shoe. There is nothing good about this." He was right, there was not much pleasant about the moment. I realized right then the importance of getting ready for the final goodbye. 

Practicing, every day. Being with the ebbs of flows of life. Even minded . . .

Presents From Those Who Have Little Left

On this Christmas day, my heart goes to those who have been deprived of what most of us take for granted. Abilities as basic as thinking clearly, or walking, or holding one's head up, or breathing without pain . . . For that gift of recognition, I am indebted to all the beautiful souls I met this week at a memory care community, and also at  Zen Hospice Project:

Betsy, in the late stages of MS requires three people to feed her, two to hold her head, and the third one to place food in her mouth. She used to be an artist and make sculptures. Now her hands lay limp by her side. Betsy's body is betraying her, and yet her spirit is still very much intact. She smiles and grunts a resolute yes when I ask if she would like some more pureed squash soup.

Mimi is Japanese and 'total care' . . . She does not understand a word of English. It takes two aides to clean her, dress her and transfer her to her wheelchair.  I am told she can be quite combative some times. That morning she obliges. Later, I see her sitting alone in one corner of the dining room, she smiles and tries to engage whoever comes close. I wonder, what must she feels? When offered some crackers, she first pushes them on the side, then ends up eating her entire snack. 

Kate thought she could beat her leukemia but the latest news are not good. Down the drain, her dreams of a sweet retirement after a distinguished career as a scientist. Down the drain, the possibility of seeing her grandchildren grow up. Down the drain, the expectation she had of a longer life. She is pissed, and so would I.

Bob has stopped eating, and presents the emaciated corpse of one whose days are numbered, literally. There is little left for him to enjoy. Ice chips to cool his mouth, and the warm hand of a volunteer to hold, that's it. Lung cancer will do that to you.

Alice is 97 and wakes up with lots of fears, that someone has been taking advantage of her. Her favorite aide reassures her, and directs her attention to the task at hand. How about getting ready for her shower? The aide tapes a plastic bag around her ulcerated leg. "That's good, less work for you." Alice still has it  in her to care for the one who cares for her. 

Bill was a fighter pilot during World War II, and a damn good one. On one of the walls, I read that he flew over fifty missions. After she is done washing and dressing him, the aide gives him a thumbs up, and he responds in kind. Top Gun is still living in the old man. Later I see him slumped over his chair, drooling in the common room. 

Kate just arrived at hospice. She's got Alzheimer's and gets confused sometimes. Her daughter tells me she likes beautiful things and still enjoys painting. When I come to wake her up for lunch, I see her stare at the ceiling. I look up and notice for the first time a gorgeous fresco around the light fixture. She knows that I see what she sees, and smiles. I smile back.

The human psyche is funny that way. It often takes coming close to the reality of an existence without, to fully appreciate that which we have. 

Empty and Whole

So light, I felt as I walked out of Zen Hospice! and so whole also . . . 

Something very wonderful happens when the right conditions are set for mind to empty itself from unnecessary self- related thoughts. 

The place, the people, the traditions have a lot to do with it. Years of beautiful work have filled the walls of the house with the same kind of stillness I felt back in India in one of the caves up Vulture Peak. One starts walking, speaking, feeling, thinking, acting differently, past the old green door. 

Inside, the unspoken code of respect,  love, and service holds everyone in its own sweet way. This house is not about going anywhere but about being completely present for what is, right now. And of course, the most powerful influence of all has to do with the residents, and the transformation that impending death brings to each one of them, and those who have chosen to serve them.

I was remembering many years ago, when I had felt moved to 'do good', and had signed up to visit an elderly woman in her home. What a difference mindfulness practice can make . . . Back then, my urge to serve did not have a foundation of mindfulness to rest on, and I had burnt out very quickly. It was all about being a receptacle for the old woman's loneliness, without the awareness of how full my bowl was already.

There are several lessons to be drawn here, not just for me, but for all those in a position of giving care. Being a care partner demands that one be completely mindful of oneself, of the other, and of everything in between. It demands the wisdom to know what should be cultivated or not in one's mind. It requires to be completely present. And last, it exacts the gift of one's whole person, nothing denied or pushed aside.

Experiencing compassion fullness . . . 

10 Ways to Mindfully Touch the Dying

You can touch your dying loved one with gentle words. You can also touch him or her with your hands, and that may be even more important, as touch is one of the last remaining ways that we can effectively be present for a dying person. This is about mindful touch, healing touch, a way of touching the sick or the dying that will make them feel connected, cared for, met, loved, not alone. It is an ability we all have. It is also something we are not always comfortable with. When to touch, where to touch, how to touch, how much? So many questions we may have as we sit by the bedside of our loved one . . . 

Flicker Photo

One of the most powerful training I received as a Zen Hospice volunteer was from Irene Smith, a pioneer in the field of mindful touch for the dying. From Irene’s training, I have taken away these 10 principles: 

#1 Know your comfort zone: 

Figure out where you stand with touching, and only do what feels comfortable to you. 

#2 Get centered: 

Sit down by the bed. Pay attention to your breath, and let it slow down naturally. And listen in silence. Listen with your ears, listen with your eyes, listen to your loved one with your whole being. 

#3 Simply touch: 

When I first heard Irene’s instruction, I immediately took it that I was to perform a massage. While massage may be a good thing for the dying person, often what’s called for is a much more ordinary form of touch. 

#4 Make touch a part of the care routine: 

Bathing, brushing hair, changing diapers, feeding, transferring from bed to a chair, . . . these are all natural opportunities to mindfully touch your loved one. 

#5 Ask permission: 

If the person can still speak, simply ask. If the person can no longer speak, or is confused, state what you are going to do, and watch for subtle body responses from the person for feedback that would indicate comfort or lack of comfort. 

#6 Gaze softly: 

Do not stare at the person, and do not avoid their gaze either. 

#7 Speak slowly and clearly: 

The person may need time to integrate what you are saying.

#8 Touch with intention: 

Touch from the heart, with love, care, and respect. 

#9 Take your time: 

Don’t rush. Approach the person slowly, and move your hand just as slowly. 

#10 Keep on checking: 

Keep on telling the person what you are going to do next, and keep on watching for responses, both verbal and non verbal. 

And remember, mindfully touching your dying loved one, may be one of the greatest gifts you can give him or her, and yourself as well. 

May you be at peace, and at ease. And may your loved feel the same as well . . . 

(this post was also published in the Huffington Post)

Hard Exit

48 years old,
and metastatic uterine cancer.
I saw her,
slumped over the sliding table,
a towel under her head,
and a pillow by her side.
The oxygen tube wasn't doing its job
anymore,
and she was gasping for air.
Taking a seat next to her,
there was just breath,
hers, painfully labored, and mine,
almost guilty from too much ease.
Rubbing her back, softly,
felt like the right thing to do.
Death was taking its time,
and I wondered why?

Sweeping at the Guest House

With only two residents still, and plenty of staff to attend to their needs, my days volunteering at the newly renovated Zen Hospice Guest House have been quite an adjustment from  the earlier busyness on the Laguna Honda ward. Yesterday was no exception. No sitting at the bedside of the residents. I was asked to sweep the back porch instead. Of course, expecting mind had ideas of its own, about what I should be doing as a hospice volunteer. Bedrock of wisdom acknowledged the thought, and dismissed it quickly, before it had a chance to turn into irritation. Different conditions were calling for sweeping, and that's all.

Sweeping meditation . . . breathing in, breathing out with each back and forth of the broom. Eyes engaged with the tiny leaves and twigs to be brushed away. And the joy of oh! so soft breeze in this very special place. 

Whatever we do, whether we write a book or chop carrots, it only matters how we do it. Most people believe writing a book is much more important than chopping vegetables. But whenever we act with total mindfulness and let go of our desire for results - which is easier when chopping carrots than when writing a book - we are observing the Buddha's guidelines. It's not 'I' who am doing it, it's just something that needs to be done. That's a useful criteria for any activity. The 'I' that enters the scene is the old troublemaker, creating all sorts of waves of emotions, which do not bring a happy and tranquil mind.

~ Ayya Khema, Be an Island ~

What needs to get done in your life, at this moment?

Letting Go Lesson

AIDS had dealt him its final blow, and now it was death's turn to march in with its unmistakable signs. Even the purple spray bottle, that's used to moisten the mouth of those during their last hours, had been stored away. There were was nothing left to do but sit, and be with Doug. Amidst the narrow space,  between the huge oxygen bottle, the long tube, and his bed, I managed to squeeze in a chair.  

Sitting, I was struck by the poignancy of Doug's situation. Doug was dying alone in the midst of the Laguna Honda open ward. His body showed signs of what must have been a hard life, with messy tattoos scattered all along his arms. I wanted to know more about him. During our first encounter last week, I had not been able to make sense of his words, only than he had just come from UCSF. Looking around Doug's bed, I found no personal belongings, other than a bible, and even that, I was not sure was his. Inside the holy book, a business card from a social worker at UCSF, and a dirty envelope with his name hastily scribbled, that held pictures of a lonesome baby cat.

Sitting, I took in the tension between Doug's almost complete stillness, and my own agitation. Despite all my intention to be calm and open, something inside was resisting. There was tightness in the throat, and the chest, and the stomach also. A whole blockade meant to oppose, and cling. The longer I sat, the stronger the walls of the fortress. Meanwhile, I could feel Doug drifting away more and more, into a place of utter surrender, with only a few rises and falls of the chest, here and there. Light, effortless.

Sitting, I let Doug show me the way. And I realized I need not wait until death comes, to let go.

The Hard Path to Happiness

Another Lesson From Zen Hospice, About the Power of  Seeing and Embracing Suffering.

Sitting with Doug*, a new resident on the ward, I got a confirmation of what it does to consciously be with all of one's experience, including the yucky stuff. It was hard to understand Doug. The tube in his throat helped him breathe, but had the unfortunate effect of muddling his words. Still, we managed. He asked me to turn on the TV. Doug's gaze was intense. I looked at the bare environment around his bed. Not a single personal object in sight. Doug settled on the Bay Area Bargains channel. The topic was home insulation and its benefit for large homes. The talk host, a bouncy middle age woman, took us inside the various rooms of a magnificent mansion, where she excitedly discussed the topic at hand with an expert. Doug seemed unfazed. I, on the other hand, couldn't help but react to the contrast between this place, where Doug and I sat, and that other world that was presented to us.  I wondered what Doug felt. 

Next to us, with only a thin curtain to separate us, we could hear Diana*, my favorite aide, giving Doug's neighbor his bath. Ears mobilized, and nose also. The smell of dirty diaper taken off, and body being cleansed grabbed me at the nostrils. Sitting with much unpleasantness, I struggled with staying in my spot. "You let me know, whether you want me to stay or leave." I asked Doug. He motioned for me to stay. This is just like sitting meditation, I thought. The trick is in surviving the aversion, without acting on it. And so, I kept on sitting with Doug, until it was time for Diana to take over, and give him his bath. 

Several more times throughout my shift, I encountered the unpleasantness, and I saw it for what it was. The opportunity, each time, to go against the grain of deeply ingrained habit, that causes me to want to flee what does not feel good. A day at Zen Hospice is like regular life on steroids. Same suffering, only magnified a thousand times. Same aversion to suffering, only so strong it cannot be ignored. And the obvious conclusion, that the only way out of the suffering is not to try to escape its reality, for that only makes it worse. No, the only way out, is to go deep into the suffering, and the natural aversive response to it, and to breathe with it, to feel it completely, and to embrace it. No cope out. That would defy the whole purpose. 

And now, the punch line. Out of the ward, I walked, heart filled with much lightness and joy. Feeling so completely whole.

* Not real name, to protect privacy.

Hard Wired Against Loss

Exploring The Flip Side Of Mother's Love.

My oldest daughter has been packing for several days. She is leaving home, again, this time for grad school. Heaviness in the heart has been creeping in, slowly. Tonight, I am typing with a tight throat, and the heat from grief. I know about impermanence, that's what practice is about, isn't it? Breath, thoughts, emotions, feelings, sensations, cascading versions of myself, events, come and go, and I am ok with it all. In fact, I rather like the constant ebbs and flows of life. With one exception.

The loss of a loved one, even a temporary one, is an experience I cannot get used to. With it, comes the great fear, that of losing them forever.  I read the Buddha's Fourth Rememberance, that says "All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.", and I think to myself, "That's a hard one to take. Not there yet, and may never get there." I also realize anxiety has come to grab me by the throat, and to deliver a hard hit to the stomach. Anxiety is a product of disturbed mind, to let got of.

This is what happens when one is hard wired for bonding with one's offspring. The fear of loss also comes with the evolution package, and requires no less than Buddha's strongest medicine, in order  for  it to be effectively dealt with. I think of the elderly mother I saw at Zen Hospice last weekend. I remember the profound sadness in her eyes, as she sat, helpless, at the bedside of her daughter who no longer wanted to eat. And I can only now begin to feel the immensity of her grief.

Using all of what life brings as an opportunity to practice, and stretch the heart. 

Lowering the Bar

I have been going enough times now, to Zen Hospice, to notice a trend. I come out of my days there, in a markedly improved mental state compared to how I felt when I went in. Other volunteers report a similar experience. We are also all feeling an overall change for the better in terms of the way we deal with life in general. 

This may seem kind of strange, and definitely at odds with the public perception of work with the dying. The "How do you do it?" type of reaction.

What has been happening is a mental shift, realizing that I can take nothing, absolutely nothing for granted. As in the fact that I am able to type these words on the keyboard right now, and see the letters dancing on the screen, and smell the incense burning on my desk, and not feel pain in my body, and enjoy the full capacity of my mind, and not being tired, and being able to sit up straight, and not having to wear a diaper, and being able to breathe freely, and knowing that I can get up if I want to, and that I don' have to rely on others for the littlest things . . . 

I call it lowering the bar of my expectations, to almost nil. A dramatic overturn of the way I used to be before the dying taught me. A lesson I had read many times before, in the books, but never quite got. 

Keeping Empty Mind and Open Heart

The first time I sat with residents at Zen Hospice, I came with an empty mind, and open heart. Not knowing anything about them, other than whatever little information I could gather from their physical appearance, and sometimes, a few personal items.  With each person, I sat and listened, with my ears, and my eyes, and I let each moment unfold with its own mystery. It felt easy.

Of course, I had questions. I wondered about their history. What had brought them here? What had their life been like before they got sick? What was their prognosis? How about their family? Did they have any friends? . . . I asked the people in charge. Should I bother to know more? 

The next time I came, I made sure to read up on each resident, before I set out in the ward. And got many of my questions answered. And something else too.

Right away, I noticed a change. Previously open mind was now filled with judgments, and preferences, and assumptions, and stories of my own, superimposed upon the dry, clinical facts I had just read. Sure, I was more informed, and maybe better prepared in some cases, but was the tradeoff really worth it? One can never underestimate the power of information. Diagnosis, labels, stereotypes, personal memories of past interactions, gossips, information gained through hearsay, . . . so many bits the mind can use to create distance in our heart, between ourselves and others. 

Not all is lost however. Under the gentle gaze of awareness, if is up to us to loosen the fixed views we hold of those we come in contact with. Keeping and cultivating in our mind, only those thoughts that open our heart, to all the possibilities within each moment. 

Her Last Hour

She did not have much longer to live,

I was told by the nurse.

In the blue quiet room, I sat by her bed

and took a good look at her,

whom I had just met.

She was working hard,

my breath no match for the rattle

 inside her throat.

I placed my hand on her sinewy wrist

and left it there. 

I looked around for some clues.

The date on her hospital bracelet

that belied her youthful face.

A picture of her, smiling,

and standing with loved ones.

And most useful,

a card from a friend, with godly words.

Prayers long forgotten,

I had to make up my own words

to let her know that God was with her.

As I Please

Reluctantly, I drove this morning to Zen Hospice. The sight of red poppies in full bloom, and the gorgeous sunshine were calling me to spend the day outside instead. Oh! hiking in the hills, if only . . . Why did I agree to a Sunday shift?

I had plenty of time during the drive, to sit with the annoyance, and the wishing. And then, amidst the unpleasantness, the thought of the people I was about to visit. A big wave of compassion washed over me, at once. And gratitude also, for my good fortune. Unlike the residents at Zen Hospice, I have the ability to walk and drive as I please. I am not stuck to a bed with no view, and I can go out and enjoy the red poppies. How blessed! 

Most surprising to me, is the grace with which most residents of Zen Hospice accept their condition. I have much to learn from them . . . 

With a Spoon

Sitting in a chair, eyes closed, I am supposed to be dying. I only have a few more days to live, and can no longer speak because of the lesions in my mouth. I have also lost my vision, and I am too weak to lift my arms. A woman introduces herself. She appears to know me, but I can't remember if I met her before. Her gentle voice feels good. "Today is a beautiful Spring day. The sun is out, and the flowers are in full bloom. Would you like to eat? Some strawberries and cream?" I am not really hungry, but  I figure why not . . .  

"Are you ready?" I nod yes. "Here it comes, open your mouth". Hard metal spoon, cream softness, and big chunks make their way in, all at once, against parting lips and tongue. Still working mind makes association with memory of cold speculum entering body during gynecological exam. I find I am really not hungry. Nevertheless, I manage to slide down the whole slew. My heart wells up with sadness and frustration. I am feeling incredibly tired. "Do you want some more?" My face says no. Woman offers to hold my hand.  That I will take.

Another powerful role play at Zen Hospice.

So many things I take for granted. Like the capacity to pick my own spoon, and the food I want to eat. Or being able to feed myself, when I want, and where I want. I am feeling so incredibly grateful!

Not Just at Hospice

From Zen Hospice training I have taken these three precious gems:

Sit

Breathe

Listen

and carried them around with me everywhere, all week. 

Sitting, not always literally, as in taking the time to settle into each moment, fully. There is a grounded-ness to be had there, that says, yes, I am here in this place, at this moment. I sit while I walk. I 'sit' while I drive. I 'sit' while I am talking to someone. I 'sit' everywhere, nowadays . . . 

Breathing, as a way of staying anchored in the body. I can't say enough about the gift of belly breath. So much calmness to be drawn from each breath, rising and falling in the belly. Breath has become my constant companion, my best friend, that can help me survive even the most turbulent circumstances.

Listening, as in paying attention to self, and all the thoughts, and emotions, and sensations that arise, moment to moment. Listening, as in keeping eyes, and ears, and all the other sense organs fully open to receive others. This often means talking less, and putting aside the chattering 'I'. 

Three simple things, that can change your life, and the lives of those around you!