The coffee pot is on fire.
Flames slither up and wrap around the melting handle, and the sizzling python squeeze chocks black plastic blood to dribble into the dancing inferno of a stove top left on too high of heat…apparently.
“Oh,” I announce to an otherwise serene morning scene of sunlight streaming through a window and cereal dishes left half-washed in the sink. NPR’s live broadcast of President Obama’s address at Nelson Mandela’s 100th celebration in South Africa becomes the soundtrack to a series of eerily calm movements that proceed to extinguish the fire, to ensure safety, and then, to pause, and breathe.
Bare feet press into the cool floor. I lift a hand to my heart, feel the rhythm of my heartbeat, and slow down, and soothe.
Instead of the onslaught of self-criticism I typically deploy for my careless (kitchen) mistakes, I find myself peacefully observing, a floating allowing to feel the echo of the adrenaline rush, the fear of the fire, a soft appreciation for handling the situation, and a compassionate cleansed clarity washes over me. I note the main reason why the fire occurred – because I tend to multi-task while cooking (hence, all the crusty burned pots of pasta, exploded sweet potatoes, and fire-roasted cups of coffee).
I could berate myself for another episode of kitchen mishap. And in the non-linear trajectory of my musing mind this cooking fail would be swiftly tied to a list of all my other perceived faults and short-comings and limitations, and down the spiral of self-disparaging commentary I would go. And there would of course be guests to make quips, a chorus of people who have been only too joyous to pinpoint my cringing lack of cooking skills.
In all my years of cooking and judging myself for my miniature kitchen melt-downs, and all the criticism I’ve bitten my lip and suffered through hearing (which I believed I deserved and it isn’t as nasty as the comments ping-ponging around in my head), I haven’t improved in the kitchen.
The self-criticism cuts and stagnates my curiosity to experiment, because I want to play it very safe and avoid making mistakes. The judgment brews self-doubts, concocts labels of who I am and who I am not, and I end up making decisions based on fear rather than love, which means kitchen fires because I am not in tune with flow, intuition, heart-based instinct. And all the disparaging commentary keeps me low, not lifted and motivated to do better, or just be mindful in the kitchen.
So I practice another recipe.
A recipe of self-compassion.
A recipe of self-compassion inspired and implemented from Kristin Neff’s transformative book, Self-Compassion : The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself.
A conversation about mindfulness over tacos with one of her former students and improv friend results in a gift of a summer read, a poolside companion that surprisingly shimmers with life-changing revelations.
As I suntan and dive through pages of heart-resonant epiphanies, I mentally rehearse Kritin Neff’s guidelines for shifting caring concern and all-encompassing kindness toward self. And the flame-kicked coffee pot presents a hot opportunity to practice self-compassion.
First of all, when practicing self-compassion, I can take in the whole situation and clearly step into the reality of the facts. I’m not going to belittle myself in this investigative process, so I’m open to acknowledging what went wrong without it adding or subtracting my inherent worthiness.
Second of all, most people have had kitchen accidents, so this mistake connects me to my human family and does not separate me. Our mistakes, imperfections, flaws unite us.
Third, choosing to comfort myself in the aftermath, the after-pause, cultivates self-trust. My inner world needs to be one of genuine care, and when I directly recognize any manifestation of suffering -- discomfort, fear, criticism, inferiority, hurt – I cradle the feelings, sensations, reactions in soft awareness and this frees me.
This practice of self-compassion works with me by embracing all my humanity, and holding all my flaws and imperfections in the gentleness of luminous equanimity.
Self-compassion redirects me to viewing and honoring my suffering as something valid and worthy of being felt, soothed, seen. This acknowledgement strengthens me to actively choose decisions that promote health, well-being for myself and others, and peace. Self-criticism drains energy. Self-compassion gifts us energy to be present, honest, and clear on the proactive behaviors and aligned actions that reflect the way we want to optimally show up in the world.
For me, Kristin Neff’s research is revolutionary. This heart-centered practice feels radical and absolutely natural.
A rebellion bringing me back home.
A revolt that like this Texas boiling heat pulls the old drudge to the surface.
Texas reveals the layers in need of healing. The determined sun wins.
A healer once cautioned me that moving to Texas wouldn’t solve my problems. I’d just be confronting myself.
True. The patterns, processes and behaviors that sabotage me from fully experiencing life, from feeling that sun, have been dared to step forward, because I am ready to meet them. And they are ready to be healed.
Healed through brave recognition. Healed through pure allowing of feeling. Healed through compassion. Compassion.
For the tendency to suppress my heartaches, to write off my disappointments, to leap right into problem solving without acknowledging the seed of the wound, because my suffering wasn’t valid.
Not true. Breathe.
Compassion for my twenties. For trying so hard to look a certain way because I confused looks with being lovable and worthy of loving.
Compassion for my younger self, who was and is sensitive and vulnerable and frightened and who adopted self-criticism as a defense mechanism from bullying family members and a highly judgmental outer family unit who saw the sensitivity and the default nature of sweetness as something to put down, to make fun of in an ego attempt to feel better about themselves. And compassion for them, too, and for people who judge others because it’s a momentary release from their own neglected pain and our society does not teach us to turn in, to properly and adequately meet and manage our feelings.
(Judgment is not discernment. Discernment wisely filters intuitive insights, experiences, words and actions from interactions with others and makes a calm, compassionate and centered assessment free from an ego-pumped, emotional charge. Discernment sees people as people, in our flaws and gifts without comparisons, put-downs, expectations, and is loving and respectful and establishes boundaries to stay loving and respectful. Protection is an essential form of self-care, which ultimately ripples out caring for all people.)
Compassion for the teenager trying to assert boundaries, attempting to advocate and being punished repeatedly for speaking up and against people and places and situations that did not hold the best intentions for me, and so my self-judgment became louder and my expectations of my own behavior were pushed higher. Compassion for falling in love with men who emotionally abuse me (through gas-lighting and ghosting), for repeating patterns I didn’t question, and for not granting myself the full space and grace to grieve the excruciating disappointment, the pain of rejection, and the pop of delusion. I halted that grief because I knew that in the long run those relationships were not ideal for me, and my friends and loved ones never understood the attraction, and so there was self-judgment from the beginning, but still, you have the right to feel what is present, to grieve what and who needs to be grieved, even and especially if that person was you in your brave and vulnerable hopes and sweet dreams of what this relationship was and what it could have been.
I grieve the girl I was - in love with a man who didn’t have the capacity to love me and prioritize me. And I’ll grieve him here. I’ll grieve him here in this Texas summer while I sit tall by a pool that is all my own, and my skin exhales into buttery sun rays.
I drink my coffee by the pool, because yes the pot caught flame and the handle melted off, and the coffee splashed with cream still tastes delicious. I’ll continue to keep my imperfect and well-functioning coffee magic-maker and be mindful of the heat setting and be present at the stove while it bubbles into caffeine creation. And stay close to self-compassion as I proceed in all my humanity.
Coffee and compassion and claimed moments of stillness by water and in early streams of light will be the softening practice leading me to flow with the challenges and the breath-giving joys of a Texas summer.
So a coffee toast to you and a sun-kissed reminder to embrace all aspects of your very human self in a compassionate light pure and bright like that Lone Star sun.
Breathe. Be. Choose compassion. Lovingly proceed.