Martha Beck

My friend Dan believes that our whole lives are metaphorically prefigured in the story of our respective births. I’ve been asking everyone, to see if I agree, and I have to admit Dan has a point.

My own birth was pretty normal except that I was huge—10 pounds, 14 ounces. Eight years later, when I went to get allergy shots, the pediatrician’s nurse looked at my chart and then cried out in what sounded like horror, “Oh, my gosh, you were that enormous baby!” And, indeed, there are still plenty of people who’ll tell you I have far too big a footprint on the earth.

I’ve written about two of my children’s births in different memoirs: Adam came into the world triumphantly peeing in the face of an obstetrician who would rather have performed his abortion; he has lived as a walking testament to the value of being different. Lizzy’s birth was early and easy, just like her departure from home (she’s 19 and already living in Japan). My first child, Katie (sorry, I mean Kat) almost stalled out because I was trying too hard to give birth perfectly. I was in labor for 40 hours before I finally had an epidural, fell asleep, and relaxed. Then she popped right out. And since then, she’s always held back until she’s sure before going ahead with anything.

What was your birth story? If you know it, think about how it might inform your life right now. Call your mom and get the details—I promise, giving birth is something most of us can talk about until were blue in the face (and many of us were, right around the time our babies emerged.

Dan suggests that you close your eyes and rest for the circumstances of your own birth; for your mother, your father, siblings, other relatives, friends. Soften the pain and magnify the joy of the event. Retroactively fill it with as much love as it will hold (hint: a lot). It’s worth the time. After all, I think it’s pretty safe to say it was one of the most important days of your life. Then, as Kabir suggested, “hold each moment as I did my son when he was born.”

I Can’t Stop the Waves, But I Can Learn to Surf

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Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa: I’ve had a checkered history with blog posts because of old mental patterns I don’t want to release. My computer was once my sanctum sanctorum, the place I went to write, the object of fiercely undivided attention. Since I have a massive case of ADD (doesn’t everyone?) focusing my entire mind on one thin line of prose is no easy task for me, and once I’ve managed that, the imposition of other people into my quiet space can feel almost unbearable.

These days I’ve come to accept that very few things can have anyone’s undivided attention any more. I’m having to make due with divided attention. For example, blogs are divided attention—anyone can read them—and because I’m writing them I have less time for individual coaching, or sending long and frequent emails to my dear friends and relations. This goes against my grain, stirs up all sorts of painful stories in my mind: But they NEED my UNDIVIDED attention! It all makes me just a tiny bit stressed, like a lab hamster in an experiment that involves setting off deafening smoke alarms right in my cage at random intervals.

But just now, I ran across a tidbit of thought that is reorienting my feelings about our current Age of Distraction. It’s an article by Steve Silberman in this month’s edition of the magazine Shambala Sun. The author describes a conversation with the wonderful Buddhist teacher John Tarrant, who says, “People first learn to meditate while sitting, then while walking. Eventually they learn to cultivate the mind of awareness while talking or preparing a meal. Why should websurfing be any different?”

Tarrant goes on to describe how he experiences a mindful approach to the Internet. There is a calm awareness deeper than physical or mental sensation, the compassionate observer who merely notices events going on around us or in our chattering “monkey minds.” Tarrant says, “It’s calm and having a good time, noticing, ‘He’s got a headache,’ or, ‘Hes online now, and he thinks his attention is scattered.”

“He thinks his attention is scattered.” This sentence is a revelation to me, and also an objective. I plan to begin observing myself online as I observe myself during my morning ritual, when I sit by the window, sip a cup of tea or coffee, and sort the disturbances of my thoughts and emotions from the calm of the observing awareness. I plan to pay a lot of attention to my divided attention.