Emma Kobil

“I have been through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.”—Mark Twain

“Worry never robs tomorrow of its sorrow, it only saps today of its joy.” –Leo Buscaglia

Fear runs in my family. Though all of us have happy lives, on any given night, someone is probably awake in the middle of the night worrying about money, the mortgage, the well-being of someone else, the looming presence of death and decay, and/or the fact that we’re not sleeping because of our worrying minds. As a kid, I was so afraid of the dentist that I hid letters from our dental office in the closet and hid any teeth I lost in the back yard. I dreamt of how I’d cling to the stairway banister if anyone tried to take me to the dentist, and I covered my chipped teeth with my hand so that no one would see.

Though I no longer tremble about the dentist, I still get anxiety. Thinking about upcoming transitions in this new year, I have been noticing my own mind running in circles—coming up with possibilities that will occur if I don’t figure out some master plan for my entire life right now. There is a part of me that feels this enormous responsibility for controlling my entire future, and another part of me that knows that I’m out of control and is terrified of that.

Though some people are more genetically prone to anxiety, a huge part of anxiety is learned. I hit the genetic and learned jackpot and I know many people who have a similar tendency for worry. Though we may know all there is to know about anxiety, it still comes. How do we relate to it when it is here?

1. Insight. Fear is a normal part of our experience. Our brains, especially if we’ve experienced trauma or early wounding, notice many things as threats, including anything unknown. If we grew up in an unpredictable household, we may have learned that we needed to constantly be on guard or to control situations. If we’re going through a difficult time, our brains go into fight or flight mode and try to protect us. When we see fear as our body’s protective response, and not as something ‘wrong’ with us, it is easier to accept and be gentle with our fear.

2. Compassion.  Meet your fear with compassion and curiosity. Explore it, give it love. What are you really afraid of? Often, there is fear over the fact that we all die, decay, and don’t have ultimate control over our bodies. Sometimes it’s that we feel like we are flawed and wouldn’t be loved if people really knew us. Whatever the fear, there is a poor, scared person inside of you that needs your compassion. How do we give ourselves compassion? We may need to wake up from a limiting belief (like that we’re not lovable), or get a picture of how connected all of life is. Walt Whitman writes:

“The smallest sprout shows there is really no death;

And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward—nothing collapses;

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”

–Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Remind yourself of how connected life and death are by getting into nature, reading a poem, or honoring the memories of someone you’ve lost.

3. Gratitude. Invite in gratitude. When we’re operating from fear, we’re probably not noticing all the gifts of our lives. Right now, I’m thinking of making some personal transitions. When I get lost in fear about the transitions, I tend to forget all that I have. I live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I have an amazing partner, family, and wonderful friends. I can afford running water, food, and rent. I have an education and leisure time. I get to be on this beautiful earth. I get to read, express my thoughts, type these words, look at the stars, go for hikes. The list could go on and on. I can spin out, or I can choose to live in the present, with what is, and trust in what’s to come

4. See the big picture. Another important step is to remember that everything works out as it should. Most of the things you were anxious about long ago never happened, and the ones that did have led you to exactly where you are. As long as we’re moving, we’re growing. Things are changing, we’re getting better, knowing ourselves better, discovering new love, and getting to know ourselves more by the day. Whenever there’s loss, there’s also an exciting window and an opportunity for change.

5. Don’t run from it. Fear is a part of our human experience, but we can choose whether to be ruled by it. We can hide, numb out, and give it power, or we can see it for what it is: a sensation that doesn’t necessarily indicate anything about reality. When fear loses its power, we are free to give ourselves tenderness compassion. We are free to engage fully with the magical and mysterious life that is here.

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Emma Kobil is a licensed professional counselor practicing in Denver, Colorado. Her philosophically informed therapeutic approach focuses on helping creative and perfectionist individuals practice self compassion. Learn more about Emma, or schedule an appointment, at mindfulcounselingdenver.com.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

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The holidays are here and life is busy with social engagements and end of the year work obligations. Many of us are experiencing a barrage of bittersweet memories involving loved ones; additionally, some of us feel anxiety about seeing families and the effects of the election on the new-year. It can be a time of grief and stress. Many people feel like they need to just ‘get through’ these days rather than savor them. The holidays can feel like a time of disconnection from our natural world  and from each other.

Stress during this time of year got me thinking about how we reconnect and come home to peace. When we are caught up in anxiety, we can’t see the beauty or love around us. We can’t play or relax into the moment.

I could not see any beauty or love around me during the recent election. As the numbers came rolling in, I made jokes and tried to deny what was happening. I felt like the ground had fallen out from under me and I couldn’t process my experience. After getting very angry and considering moving to New Zealand, I awoke the next morning and found myself weeping.

“Despair of the world” was growing within me, but I was too caught up in the emotions I was feeling to name them. I felt far from experiencing joy or being able to rest in the “grace of the world.”

Around the holidays, despair of the world often grows in us. We feel that we need to finish everything before travelling, get our finances and appointments together for the end of the year deadlines, and stave ourselves against difficult interactions with family or friends. We often don’t even recognize that we’re feeling like robotic slaves to our obligations. We don’t recognize that we’re not taking care of ourselves, and that we’re not honoring our bodies or our needs for rest. How do we awaken from this state and love our lives when things feel difficult?

When we are experiencing grief or stress, the first step in working through our experience is to name it. The moment you name something you give it less power, and you also give yourself space and permission to feel. There’s something about saying, “I feel powerless” that takes our guard down and allows us to have tenderness towards ourselves.

After we notice our experience, the next step is to take care of ourselves and to practice extreme self-compassion in our actions. Wendell Barry so eloquently describes his process of coming home to a sense of peace: “I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things.”

When we are hurting, or caught in an anxious trance, we must come back to what connects us to who we are, to our sense of spirituality, and to our sense of connection. For some, this involves going into nature or reading poetry. It might involve a spiritual community, nourishing films, writing, or making art.

But self care and compassion must include letting ourselves play. Laughing with someone else brings us immediately into the present moment and makes us appreciate the joy around us. We connect instantly. We become lighter, more childlike, and recognize that things aren’t so serious.

I encourage all of you to do something silly. To laugh like crazy, to embrace the moment, and to remember that letting yourselves have moments of peace is even more important than making sure everyone has the perfect present or getting all of your receipts together. You deserve a life that isn’t taxed with the forethought of grief.

The tasks will all get done; the wounds will heal. We can rest in the grace of this world. No matter what things are going on in our lives, the blind stars will be waiting with their light.

For Mike Rich

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Emma Kobil is a licensed professional counselor practicing in Denver, Colorado. Her philosophically informed therapeutic approach focuses on helping creative and perfectionist individuals practice self compassion. Learn more about Emma, or schedule an appointment, at mindfulcounselingdenver.com.

“There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” –Rumi

They say that gratitude is the enemy of anxiety. There are countless studies that describe the clear link between gratitude and happiness and positive psychologists all around the world are encouraging clients to adopt gratitude practices to combat depression. Gratitude is important for mental health, and so I try to practice gratitude on a daily basis—by acknowledging the people I love, getting out into nature, and reading things that help me appreciate the beauty in our world.

But last week, I didn’t feel grateful. Life seemed out of whack. I felt disconnected from my sense of joy and purpose. I was going through the motions and headed towards a cold winter of gritting my teeth, bearing down, saving money and staving against the pain of loss and change.

Though I couldn’t pinpoint what sparked this sudden sadness, it was reminiscent of other times when I’ve focused on how to ‘make it through’ and anticipated something bad around the bend. I was frustrated with myself for not feeling happy about all my blessings.

Somehow in the midst of feeling this lack, I decided that I wanted to write a blog post on gratitude. I had come across articles (like this one) that described how a gratitude practice can change our lives by improving our physical health, giving us new relationships, helping us sleep better, and making us more emotionally stable. I listened to a podcast where I heard the Rumi quote, “There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” But I wondered how one gets motivated to kiss a ground that feels dirty, hard and unforgiving.

On Halloween, I went on a long evening walk into Boulder canyon with a good friend. The remaining leaves were golden and almost gone. The cars were whipping past us, and trick or treaters sprinted joyfully between lavishly decorated houses. I felt frustrated by it all—by Boulder, and privilege, and how humans are creating global warming with careless consumption. I didn’t feel like talking or opening to what I was feeling. I felt like hiding from this world which seemed too sad.

But a small part of me also recognized that my mind was running a story line that wasn’t helpful or true.  I didn’t want to hide from my friend. I wanted to connect and be real with him, even if I couldn’t be real with myself.

Though I had to force myself, I talked.  My friend listened and validated my experience. He shared similar things that he had been struggling with. We walked for 2 hours. He encouraged me to go easy on myself. He reminded me of the bigger picture.

As I opened up more and more, I felt like I could say anything to my friend and it would be respected and heard. I began to notice the patterns on the rock, the sounds of the wild creek rapids. I had more of an ability to listen to my environment. Then we were laughing and deciding what trashy movie we would watch that night. We talked about my friend’s hilarious muppet dog and how glad we were to be friends.

I slowly felt more spacious.

Psychologists discuss many ways to connect with what we’re grateful for. When we focus on our blessings rather than our gripes, we feel more abundant, connected, and happier. We can do this by praying, writing what we’re grateful for, telling the people we love how much we appreciate them, changing our thought patterns, and getting out into nature. When we practice gratitude, we feel more grateful. We exude positive energy and we attract positive people to us.

But one of the most important ways to kneel and kiss the ground, I realized, is to honor our experiences and to give others a chance to honor them. Gratitude emerges when we treat ourselves kindly by giving our emotions the same care we would give a hurting child.

When we act with this care, the emotions that we hold onto finally have a chance to pass through us. And we finally feel like the ground—and the home where our emotions live—are kinder places to kiss.

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Emma Kobil is a licensed professional counselor practicing in Denver, Colorado. Her philosophically informed therapeutic approach focuses on helping creative and perfectionist individuals practice self compassion. Learn more about Emma, or schedule an appointment, at mindfulcounselingdenver.com.

I grew up loving stories. Before bed, I would always be cuddled up with a book that transported me to a different world. Tales of phoenixes, time travel, magic, and kids who survived and learned to love with the help of animals gave me hope and comfort. Stories gave me a framework to view the world and allowed me to use my imagination to relate to other possibilities. Stories helped me survive the most difficult times in my childhood.

When I became an adult, I recognized that everyone forms stories to make sense of this life. While the stories I absorbed as a girl opened me up to connection and expanded my mind, I recognized another set of stories that kept me small and disconnected. These stories were ones of unworthiness. I often found myself believing that I needed to do something in order to be an OK person who was worthy of love, survival, comfort, and relaxation.

In Philosophy grad school, I thought that this meant I needed to live ‘the best’ life in order to be OK (in fact, my Master’s thesis was titled “Happiness is a Warm Nun”). In this life, I donated all my money, time, and energy to helping others, but was also incredibly connected to those around me, hiked all of Colorado’s 14ers, and wrote books that helped people convert to veganism. As a therapist, I felt at first like I needed to be available on weekends and evenings, and work incredibly hard at jobs that didn’t fulfill me in order to be OK.

Though these stories didn’t serve me, the fact that we form stories isn’t negative in itself. Our brains love to make sense of the world—they are narrative junkies. We want to understand our relationship with the universe, and we want to understand others so we can relate to them and thrive. So much great art comes from this desire to organize and understand our human experience. Productive self-knowledge also comes from our ability to inquire and be curious.

But our stories can also limit us. As we try to explain to ourselves why we are in the situations we’re in, why others are treating us as they are, and why we feel negative emotions, we can get stuck in destructive narratives. Stories can be adaptive mechanisms to help us avoid feeling emotions that seem dangerous to us. They can serve to justify our separation us from others—we make others into ‘bad people’ and we paint ourselves as a hero. By the same coin, we paint ourselves as deficient and put others on pedestals.

Whenever we’re running these narrative lines that put us into a different category—as being better than others, as not being worthy, as being a victim—we reinforce our negative beliefs that we are different. Our behavior then follows suit; we act superior and shut others out, or we focus on evidence that confirms that others are mistreating us.

Our stories are mental control strategies. We all want to be seen and understood, and we fear not having these things. Stories help us feel in control. But they can also keep us from really living and relating.

As a kid, I loved the possibilities that stories gave me. As an adult, my job is to listen to and help others make sense of their stories. I help people challenge stories that are negative, unrealistic, or shut down possibility and connection.

The question becomes, what’s the difference between a helpful story, and one that keeps us limited? For me, this poem by Rilke sums up the answer:

Buddha in Glory by Rainer Maria Rilke

Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet–
all this universe, to the furthest stars
all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.

Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,

a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.

The truest part of ourselves is presence, connection, and possibility. We all know this in our core of cores.

Take a moment to reflect on your own experience. In the moments when you’ve felt separate, what was your conception of yourself? Did you like yourself? Did you like others? Was your conception of the universe small and limited, or open and expansive?

Conversely, think of the times when you have felt happiest and most in tune with yourself. What were you doing? Were you connected with others, or did you feel different from them (better or worse)? Were you distracted or thinking about the future, or were you engaged in the moment?

At times in my life, I’ve gotten lost in compulsions that perpetuated my harmful stories in order to avoid feeling loss, sadness, fear and anger. But people I love always help remind me that I’m more than this story.

This connected, present self is the essence of who we are. The times when we feel happiest are the times when our destructive stories aren’t playing. Instead, we are living the story of our vast shell reaching into endless space.

When we come home to ourselves, we can be with the present moment. We are able to let love in. We can approach the world with an open mind because we aren’t focusing on rationalizing how different and alone we feel. Love reminds us that we are more than our stories. And that there is a fascinating other world, full of possibility, underneath them.

‘The universe and the light of the stars come through me. I am the crescent moon put up over the gate to the festival.’ –Rumi

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Emma Kobil is a licensed professional counselor practicing in Denver, Colorado. Her philosophically informed therapeutic approach focuses on helping creative and perfectionist individuals practice self compassion. Learn more about Emma, or schedule an appointment, at mindfulcounselingdenver.com.

Reckless Poem

Today again I am hardly myself.

It happens over and over.

It is heaven-sent.

It flows through me

like the blue wave.

Green leaves – you may believe this or not –

have once or twice

emerged from the tips of my fingers

somewhere

deep in the woods,

in the reckless seizure of spring.

Though, of course, I also know that other song,

the sweet passion of one-ness.

Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the

tumbled pine needles she toiled.

And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.

And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength

is she not wonderful and wise?

And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything

until I came to myself.

And still, even in these northern woods, on these hills of sand,

I have flown from the other window of myself

to become white heron, blue whale,

red fox, hedgehog.

Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!

Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched

among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.

—Mary Oliver

Last weekend, I visited a Hindu temple nestled in the untouched mountains Creststone. The light from the setting sun was pouring through the windows onto shrines and the faces of the worshippers singing the same few words and tones over and over.

When I walk into many places of worship, I often don’t feel any spiritual energy. But on this day, I felt an attunement that I assume many of the singers felt. I felt like the red sky, the drums, the people, the old gorgeous temple, and the green scrubby hillside were all made up of the same stuff.

This instance of connection felt poignant because of the disconnection all around us. People I care about are being victimized by hate crimes and racism, facing impossible health care bills all alone, and those who appear ‘different’ are fighting to use their voice. These people are receiving a message from society and other people that they are separate. But we all leave ourselves and our lives on a daily basis by tuning out.

Feeling separate and disconnected is different from just having ‘alone time,’ and it is one of our greatest human struggles. When we’re depressed, anxious, or facing a daunting transition, we may feel completely unsupported and like others can’t understand.

We feel like the part of us that is struggling is unlovable. I felt so alone at points in my childhood that I didn’t even try to connect or make friends. Loneliness can make it feel too daunting to begin the task of trying to reconnect and re-engage with our lives.

When we’re cut off, how do we come back to the truth of our connection to each other and the world—how do we come back to feeling like we’re a part of a community, to something larger than ourselves? How do we feel like we belong to something in those moments when our entire body revolts?

As I walked through the temple and visited the Buddhist Stupas which stand out elegantly and proudly on the mountainside, I thought of this poem by Mary Oliver. Her words reminded me that connection is always there if we open to it.

We open to connection by softening towards ourselves, noticing what’s around us and inside of us, and being present. The line, “And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength is she not wonderful and wise? And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything until I came to myself,” is about noticing that we are just as worthy as every other being of love and compassion.

If our child were in pain, we would nurture her and show her she was cared for. We would let her talk to us, cry, and snuggle up with her favorite movie. We would see her as ‘wonderful and wise’ just because she lives. We would know that her sadness is a part of her growing, and we would reassure her that no feeling is permanent.

To see ourselves in this same way seems radical, reckless. Even noticing that we need love and nurturing seems uncomfortable. But it is far more reckless towards ourselves to ignore the girl inside us who needs comforting, and to buy into our unhelpful beliefs about our separateness.

The line: “Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming, ” emphasizes that our feelings of separateness aren’t really just ours—they are also all of ours. We are all screaming in the dark trees from time to time. But we are also all growing green leaves from the tips of our fingers. Each of us has power and passion inside of us that is unique. In order to let our uniqueness out, we need to connect with our support.

Sometimes it is a long journey to noticing our own connection. We can turn our attention towards having compassion for ourselves and others, and we go to the places and people that make us feel connected. We can also remember that we are all made up of the same cells and atoms and desires and fears. The process of beginning to notice our connection is even more valuable than arriving at some state of enlightenment.

When we turn our attention towards knowing that we’re connected—by noticing our emotions, nurturing ourselves, and doing things we love—we can also begin to flap and scream in excitement at being alive.

No matter where you are, love is always here. Rilke says, “all this universe, to the furthest stars all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.” The windows of yourself are endless. They are beckoning for you to explore them.

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Emma Kobil is a licensed professional counselor practicing in Denver, Colorado. Her philosophically informed therapeutic approach focuses on helping creative and perfectionist individuals practice self compassion. Learn more about Emma, or schedule an appointment, at mindfulcounselingdenver.com.

The summer is dwindling. The days are getting cooler, we’re harvesting the tomatoes that have ripened all summer, and the dry leaves seem languished and resigned to their descent. Fall is the season of impermanence. As it approaches, I feel a poignant, soft throb of sadness and gratitude, marked by a desire to linger in the pool, dig in to the sweetest watermelons, and be with the people I love.

This desire intensified when my dad turned 60 last week. At his party, we celebrated the playful, kind-hearted gardener who loves literature and alternative rock. Pictures of my dad in all stages of his life were strewn across the back yard. The beard and kind eyes of young Dan resembled my brother’s beard and kind eyes.

That evening—an evening when people in togas laughed and took pictures, drank Greek beer and toasted my father—felt like it was passing so quickly. My dad says that his full 60 years feel like they have passed so quickly.

As I talked with my family and played in the photo booth with my dad, I realized how strongly I didn’t want the evening to end. I didn’t want to face the impermanence of the time home with my dad or of his time on this earth. Even though the party hadn’t ended, I felt like I was already clinging to it.

Reflecting back on these feelings, I am reminded of a story about the Buddha that I came across in a guided meditation several years ago:

Before saying a word, he [Ajahn Chah] motioned to a glass at his side. “Do you see this glass?” he asked us. “I love this glass. It holds the water admirably. When the sun shines on it, it reflects the light beautifully. When I tap it, it has a lovely ring. Yet for me, this glass is already broken. When the wind knocks it over or my elbow knocks it off the shelf and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ But when I understand that this glass is already broken, every minute with it is precious.”

(From “Freud and the Buddha” by Mark Epstein)

 

To be a human being is to experience anxiety over loss. We all want to be connected, experience love and creativity, find financial security, and feel useful. In order to obtain these things, we choose careers that we think will give us meaning and help us support ourselves and the people we love, or we get married, or we develop communities or engage in projects for social change. We do what we can to keep the glass intact and reflecting the light.

The problem doesn’t come from pursuing connection and meaning—in fact, our choices create the groundwork for wonderful experiences. The problem comes from trying to hold on to a glass that is naturally breaking. Pema Chödrön says, “We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. (From, When Things Fall Apart: Heartfelt Advice for Hard Times).

We all know deep down that nothing is permanent, but we only feel this impermanence when something reminds us (a death, an ending relationship, a new job, a new relationship, a 60^th birthday party). We see so acutely that the glass that we want to keep together is already broken and will keep breaking and that we are powerless to when and how loss will occur. This can make us feel crazy, out of control or get resentful at the universe if we don’t make room for the array of emotions that need to be felt. When things end, it is natural to feel sadness, grief, misery, fear, and sometimes joy.

There is nothing sharper and more painful than the loss of a life that we love. But endings and beginnings are parts of the passing dance we are all in. All we can do is experience the freedom of living in this moment. All we can do is honor the dance’s entrances and exits and move with them.

Sitting around in a circle in the night air, we talked about my dad’s life. I heard my dad say that at 60, he feels just as vital and interested in his life as he did as a boy. Kafka said, ‘Everything you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.”

While there is experience, love will always be coming back to us in different forms. And each of these forms is precious.

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Emma Kobil is a licensed professional counselor practicing in Denver, Colorado. Her philosophically informed therapeutic approach focuses on helping creative and perfectionist individuals practice self compassion. Learn more about Emma, or schedule an appointment, at mindfulcounselingdenver.com.