Freedom. | rejoyce letters, vol. 14

Hi Friend, 

During a cold spell in my first NYC winter, I was working from home, leaving only for errands. One day, while readying myself to face the cold, I had an epiphany. Like most epiphanies, it came when my mind was quiet and it was about something obvious I'd somehow failed to notice up to that point.

The epiphany came in the form of this question:

Why am I putting on a bra right now?

It made no sense. I'd also be wearing a bulky sweater, a huge winter coat, and a scarf. I had no plans to remove any of those items until I was back in our sweltering apartment. (We don't control our heat, so our apartment is Caribbean-level hot all winter.)

And yet, though I'd been running errands in my coat for weeks, I'd never considered not first putting on a proper bra.

I realized, a bit angrily, that I'd been programmed. I'd been playing out an engrained societal belief ("Before leaving the house, you must put on a bra") that's arguably excessive in summer, but in winter, for me, it's idiotic. 

To me, bras are uncomfortable. As is being cold. So, why was I choosing to subject myself to an unnecessary layer of non-comfort?

In short, I wasn't choosing: I was acting subconsciously. My definition of the opposite of freedom is this: operating at a level of subconscious decision making which results in thinking and acting in ways that don't serve you. 

This is a simple example of me self-sabotaging my own personal freedom.That day, I went forth onto the frigid Brooklyn sidewalks braless and never looked back. Running winter errands sans bra: 10/10. Will do again next year.

The Fourth of July had me contemplating freedom. I reject the notion America is a "free country" when millions of Americans consistently operate in this "opposite of freedom" zone: making subconscious decision after subconscious decision that are often unnecessary and/or personally (and globally) damaging. 

Maybe wearing a bra doesn't strike you as damaging, so let's take things up a notch:

Is someone addicted to pain killers or money or binging and purging or alcohol or social status—regardless of citizenship—truly free? I don't think so. I think freedom has more to do with how you live than where you live. If you're ensnared in "uncontrollable" damaging self-made routines, then, in my opinion, you aren't free; you're metaphorically imprisoned. 

Even if you aren't addicted to a substance, it's worth investigating if you're addicted to compulsive thinking. Do you ever stop thinking while you're awake?

I first heard of the idea of being addicted to thoughts from philosopher Alan Watts. Eckhart Tolle expands upon it in The Power of Now (which I'm re-recommending and re-reading!) where he says:

"Not being able to stop thinking is a dreadful affliction, but we don't realize this because almost everybody is suffering from it, so it is considered normal. This incessant mental noise prevents you from finding that realm of inner stillness that is inseparable from Being."

If you think constantly—thought after thought after thought—you aren't listening. It's like you're talking nonstop, all day, to yourself. You inevitably swirl. 

It can be difficult to imagine your mind free from thoughts, so start here: Can you imagine your mind free from worry? 

We all know worrying is wholly pointless; still, many of us do it constantly. This upsets us, so we worry about worrying. The inevitable swirl. So: why are we thinking in a way that doesn't serve us?

Because we are not free from our minds. Allowing your mind to worry is operating at a level of subconscious decision making which results in in thinking and acting in ways that don't serve you. The opposite of freedom.

Worrying never serves you. Jesus said [Luke 12:25-26 NIV]:

"Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life? Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?"

Nevertheless, worrying persists. My modern spin on Jesus' message:

"Who of you, by worrying, can make this airplane depart a single minute sooner?"

Airports breed worry. I spent hours last week at JFK thinking over and over: "I hope our flight doesn't get canceled, I hope our flight doesn't get canceled." A total waste of my mental energy. [It did not get canceled; I had nothing to do with it.]

I mentioned when my bra "epiphany" came my mind was quiet. I've had some big epiphanies in the past six months—about my past, about mental patterns I've been stuck in for years, even about my future. 

Once you notice an unnecessary or damaging subconscious pattern, you interrupt it because you make it conscious. Only when you see a damaging pattern can you break free from it.  However—you need a quiet mind to see. I do not get clarity through thinking, I get clarity through listening.

Watts says:

"In order to have something to think about, there are times when you simply must stop thinking. Well, how do you do that? The first rule is don't try to because if you do you will be like someone trying to make rough water smooth with a flat iron and all that will do is stir it up. 

So, in the same way as a muddy, turbulent pool quiets itself when left alone, you have to know how to leave your mind alone. It will quiet itself."

For me, daily meditation has been an incredibly helpful tool in allowing my mind to quiet itself.

Rumi says:

"Let the waters settle and you will see the moon and the stars mirrored in your own being."

On the other side of constant thinking is more than just freedom from the mind—there's starlight, too. Or, maybe, they're the same thing.

with Love and with Light,

Joyce

p.s. It's worth noting half of the population almost never deals with bras. Oppression is often inversely correlated with freedom. I.e. The more oppressed a group of people is, the less free they feel. How are women less free than men? The most undeniable example is women are forced to cover two regions of their bodies in public and men are only forced to cover one. (Of course, neither are free by this metric compared to every other animal species—which covers zero.)
p.p.s. I believe a free country is possible, just like I believe world peace is possible. I also believe freedom starts at the individual level—as does peace. Inner peace precedes world peace. Inner freedom precedes world freedom.

Devastation. | rejoyce letters, vol. 13

Hi Friend, 

I played basketball through college. As one of the tallest people on the court, I usually played Center. My job on offense, essentially, was to set picks, shoot lay-ups, and rebound. 

Or, as my coach sometimes put it: "Get back in the paint, Novacek!"

I'd occasionally get bored with the limited confines of my role, or feel desperate when we were losing, so I'd step outside of my "area" and take a jump shot.

This generally resulted in one of two outcomes:

a. I'd miss the shot and get yelled at. Maybe even subbed out. It would be deemed a horrible shot.

b. I'd make the shot. In which case, it would be deemed a good shot.

I've been thinking a lot lately about overcoming fears. The truth is, we likely all have a self-imposed "paint" in our minds. The areas where we feel safe and comfortable operating, the familiar routines and thought patterns we return to again and again. We probably even have people in our lives who are (explicitly or implicitly) telling us to stay there. 

But we never expand our games—i.e. grow—if we don't step outside of the "known" areas and act.

We've all heard we need to "overcome our fears" but I think the concept is often packaged in a sterilized, commercialized way and the packaging can strip the idea of its inherently profound meaning.

It's easy to visualize a contestant on The Bachelor saying, "I've been terrified of heights forever, but I went on a private helicopter tour of Aruba with Anton, and finally overcame my fear. Now we're in love."

We can all roll our eyes at that—but the thing is, these variations of "sterilized" overcoming-fears examples are everywhere.

I mean, I just made one. (This is getting strangely meta but I'm going to go with it.) I just claimed taking the occasional three-pointer in college was a wild risk. 

The truth is: at the time, it actually was! And yet, we all know that people who are truly good at basketball, the masters of the sport, the professionals, would not call a three-point shot a risk. They'd never label shooting a three as "overcoming fear." They would call shooting a three pointer: playing basketball.

So the question becomes: do you want to be a master at the game of life or do you want to be the equivalent of a so-so Center on an average team in the Patriot League with a decent hook shot but a terrible free throw percentage? (:

I'd wager Rumi would object to labeling the metaphorical occasional outside-of-your-range jumper as "growth." Rumi would likely say: burn your fear-based comfort zone to the ground. Devastate your expectations.

His poetry advocates for total destruction of mental limits and routines. Of breaking out of your self-made prison with an ax. Of falling, hard. Of escape. Of—even—dying before you die. And, to him, this is not just recommended, it's necessary in order to live a life of love.

Consider this Rumi poem in full:

SKY-CIRCLES

The way of love is not

a subtle argument.

The door there

is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles

of their freedom.

How do they learn that?

They fall, and falling, 

they're given wings.

My favorite part of this poem is everything. :) I like how he equates love and freedom, a comparison we don't see often in our possession-obsessed "put a ring on it" culture. I like how he points to animals—consistent teachers on the path to becoming more connected to the universe.

And, my favorite line: The door there is devastation. I spoke of the importance of unlearning a few letters back, referencing Yoda's quote, "You must unlearn what you have learned." And I still believe unlearning—essentially, breaking free from the lies you've been fed your whole life— is an integral step to freedom, yet, maybe "unlearning" is too academic a word for the experience. 

"Unlearn" can summon, perhaps, the image of erasing a chalkboard. In my personal experience, Rumi's word choice is more apt for this process:devastation of the old way of thinking. So much so that you can't fathom going back; you can't return to your house of fears if you've burned it down.

It's not merely a step outside of fear, it's changing your entire perception of how you view the world—seeing your life through a new lens. A love-based lens rather than a fear-based lens. In Byron Katie's book Loving What Is she writes:

"You're either believing your thoughts or questioning them. There's no other choice."

Rumi's poetry often gets at the power of questioning—and destroying—tangled, fear-based thoughts, and then, even, transcending thought and acting not on thinking but on feeling. 

Do birds go to class where they learn the intricate aerodynamics of flight? Of course not. They fall, and falling, they're given wings.

This next quote comes from the beginning of a Rumi poem called Quietness:

Inside this new love, die.

Your way begins on the other side.

Become the sky.

Take an ax to the prison wall.

Escape. 

I (briefly) referenced the concept of "the other side" last week, referring to the other side of pain. I believe in the possibility of a joyful, love-filled, and peaceful life, and I believe the way there almost always requires utter devastation of old world views. Dying before you die. Rising from the ashes.

Not only 13th-century poets believe this. Price Pritchett, business advisor and author, puts it like this:

"The real limits won't box you in, but the false ones you're carrying around in your mind are a self-imposed prison. So how do you break out of jail? Through surrender. You have to forfeit some of your old beliefs and sacrifice some of those 'sensible thinking patterns.'"

And writer James Baldwin says:

"Any real change implies the breakup of the world as one has always known it, the loss of all that gave one an identity, the end of safety."

Take an ax to the prison wall. 

The good news is after you burn down your old house (likely built on the shaky foundation of fear anyway), you can rebuild it exactly as you desire. A house on rock, not a house on sand.

At that point, you're on the other side of the game. So if anyone ever yelled at you: "Get back in the paint!" You could look at them and say, "What paint?"

with Love and with Light, 

Joyce

p.s. I recommend Loving What Is especially if you're trying to heal (or strengthen) relationships. It provides awesome tools for letting go of expectations, and asks you to actively participate in your own healing. Byron Katie calls it "The Work" which is basically a framework for intense personal inquiry. She says, "Love is so big that you can die in it—die of self and be fully consumed in it. It's what you are, and it will have all of you back to itself again." She also bluntly calls out a lot of people for clinging to damaging thought patterns (the book contains interviews with people upset by various things). In her opinion, suffering is optional. (Note: as with all books, take what resonates and leave the rest.)

p.p.s. You can read the full Quietness poem here. 

Transmute. | rejoyce letters, vol. 12

Hi Friend, 

I recently experienced the David Bowie exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum, and ever since, I can't stop thinking about ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. (:

Bowie was an artist who clearly had no interest in stagnation. When I think about change, this quote by writer Anaïs Nin comes to mind:

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death. Living never wore me out so much as the effort not to live."

I love that. It reminds us our lives are not unlike the lives of flowers: ever-changing. And to resist change is, truly, to resist life. Your cells are constantly reproducing and replacing themselves. Can you imagine a rose refusing to bloom? Or a rose refusing to wilt when its season of blossoming is completed?

Changing is living. I think we—as human beings—have a special gift, though: the ability not only to change and to grow, like a kitten into a cat, but to transform and transmute, like a caterpillar into a butterfly.

"Transmute" is not a commonly used word (if you're a spiritual book junkie like me, though, you see it everywhere, haha), so here's the definition:

transmute: verb. to change or alter in form, appearance, or nature especially to a higher form.  

It's often used when referring to alchemists, legendary people who transmuted base metals into gold.

One famous story of transmutation is Jesus's first miracle, turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana.

As a child, I was always less than impressed by this wedding story. Partially because I didn't drink wine as a child. And partially because it seems a rather blasé miracle debut, no? I mean, we're talking about the dude who we all know is going to rise from the dead later in the book, you guys, so why is the pastor preaching on this wine thing, yet again? (Little me could be quite judgey and spent most of Church doodling and passing notes.) (No offense, JC, you have an open invite to any party I ever throw.)

Now that I've learned the benefit of reading the Bible symbolically instead of literally, I can't believe how much this story moves me.

[Aside: One unexpected side effect of my meditative practice and spiritual work is Bible stories that were pounded into my head as a child are suddenly imbued with symbolic meaning. Trust me, no one is more surprised by this than me.]

Is there anything more inspiring than taking something so ordinary and prevalent and transforming it into something so divine—not average wine, the best wine, and after everyone else had assumed the party was over—and doing this with nothing but the power within you? 

When I think of something that is literally everywhere, I think of water. Look at a map of the world, the clouds in the sky. When I think of something that is energetically everywhere, I think of pain. Pain, like water, presents in many forms—physically, emotionally, mentally—and can range from discomfort to agony, but is, at its core, suffering. 

Most people, consciously or subconsciously, kind of pass their pain around, and then pass it down, from generation to generation. We all know this. We all know children who play out the exact same struggles as their parents. We might even be those children. But what if we didn't have to be? What if we could transmute? 

French philosopher, activist, and mystic Simone Weil puts it like this:

"Pain and suffering are a kind of currency passed from hand to hand until they reach someone who receives them and who does not pass them on."

That quote is taped to my door. We often hear of the importance of paying forward acts of kindness—and obviously I think that's great—but I think the sister concept of not passing on your pain is wildly underrated. A co-worker once told me when I worked in corporate: "Don't make others miserable just because you're having a miserable work day." 

But it becomes tough—because then, what to do with the pain? Most of us would like to run from it, hide from it, or dispose of it somehow, and ASAP. Weil provides an alternative:

"We must not wish for the disappearance of our troubles, but for the grace to transform them."

Obviously, transmutation might not be easy. Spiritual growth can hurt; refining gold takes fire. But we possess more power to persevere than we generally give ourselves credit for. And on the other side—the other side of sitting with, feeling, and receiving pain and suffering without passing them on—are states of being so astonishing they're irreducible to words. (I feel I've experienced very brief flashes of these states. "Peace" and "joy" probably come closest to describing them. A peace, as Paul says, that surpasses all understanding.)

But you cannot get to the other side if you spend your life running away from and avoiding pain. As Rumi reminds us: 

"If you are irritated by every rub—how will your mirror be polished?"

This is what I'm beginning to believe: To resist change is to die. To change is to live. And to transmute is to live consciously. To live with intention. To live in a higher form.

Why drink a life of water when you could drink a life of wine?

Why settle for a life of base metals when you could be living a life of gold?

You are the alchemist. And the party isn't over.

with Love and with Light, 

Joyce

p.s. David Bowie went through a serious third eye phase. Shout out to the sixth chakra! Rest peacefully, Ziggy Stardust.

p.p.s. Book rec this week is Anaïs Nin's Henry and June. Only read this if you want to read about lots and lots of sex. It's extremely sensual (and it's nonfiction, which is wild). It's also beautifully written and Anaïs, as expected, delivers mind-blowing quotes.

p.p.p.s. "Many of us spend our whole lives running from feeling with the mistaken belief that you cannot bear the pain. But you have already borne the pain. What you have not done is feel all you are beyond the pain." —Bartholomew

Essential. | rejoyce letters, vol. 11

Hi Friend,

Last week I wrote about the power of not clinging—physically, emotionally, or energetically. I believe creating space in your life (i.e. letting go) is one of the most empowering things you can do. I know I still have plenty to release, and I'll likely write more on that in the future.

And yet...the question that comes out of so much letting go is: what to do with all the space? Is there anything we can hold on to?

I have days where it seems I have let go of so much that I feel untethered...in a scary, unsettling way. I mean, right now, I'm 29 years old and I don't have a job and I don't have kids. And I'm not job searching and I'm not trying to have kids. Those facts, alone, leave me "outside" of "normal" society. Some days, it feels I could float into the air like an aimless balloon and drift away.

I was recently at a baby shower and my kind, pregnant friend was introducing me and another friend to someone else. 

She said, "This is Laura, she lives in Boston and works in pharmaceuticals. And this is Joyce. She lives in Brooklyn and is a stay at home...a stay at home Joyce."

I laughed, of course. It is a humbling way to be introduced—humbling in a healthy way. Humbling the way standing barefoot on the seashore lost in the immensity of the roaring ocean is humbling. Or standing outside, neck back, throat exposed, inhaling the infinite night sky. 

Maybe everything truly beautiful is humbling. 

It makes you want to shed your ego like a dead snakeskin and connect with something bigger—and that's where I am now, exploring what there is to connect to when you aren't connected to things "normal" society expects.

Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius wrote in his book Meditations:

"24. 'If you seek tranquility, do less.' Or (more accurately) do what's essential—what the logos of social being requires, and in the requisite way. Which brings a double satisfaction: to do less, better.

Because most of what we say and do is not essential. If you can eliminate it, you'll have more time, and more tranquility. Ask yourself every moment, 'Is this necessary?'

But we need to eliminate unnecessary assumptions as well. To eliminate the unnecessary actions that follow."

Aurelius' question, "Is this necessary?" is an excellent gauge to help eliminate extraneous actions, words, and thought patterns. Is it necessary to share that embarrassing story about a friend? Is it necessary to revisit that mistake you made five years ago? Is it necessary to complain? Is it necessary to scroll through the comprehensive history of your friend's friend's dog's Instagram account at one in the morning? 

It's a simple yet profound tool to continue the letting go process and practice aparigraha or non-grasping. Or, to put it less eloquently: to cut the bullshit. 

Yet I appreciate Aurelius isn't advocating for doing nothing. He isn't encouraging sedentary, boring lives. He tells us to do what's essentialwhich immediately made me think of this quote from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's book, The Little Prince (which I coincidentally gifted at the aforementioned baby shower): 

"One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eye."

So: what is essential? 

Obviously, there's a realist take on what's necessary to stay alive—food, water, sleep. But I'd posit that is not what Saint-Expuréy and Aurelius are getting at. 

Let's operate under the assumption we're doing basic necessary actions adequately in order to have made it this long. And, likely, you could eat, drink, and sleep exactly as you are right now and continue surviving for years. I am in the fortunate position of not being too interested in navigating how to survive—I want to know how to live. Or, perhaps even, how to thrive. 

Personally, I believe making that jump (from surviving to thriving) requires extensive inner reflection and exploration, which often pushes us toward connecting with what is essential.

Rumi says:

"The animal part of us that wants more and more

flares and dies, feeds and sleeps.

But there is an essence inside variability

always quivering with the joy of returning

to the origin.

Live inside that ray."

He's reminding us: we are more than beastly instincts; we can transcend our animal tendencies. An essence inside variability. 

[Aside: the words essential and essence both have the same Latin root, esse, which means "to be."]

I recently watched a documentary that began with this anecdote: a man on his death bed said to his wife:

"Remember this always: each morning, the moment you take your head off the pillow, you have all you need."

Maybe we already have what is necessary. Maybe the essential—the "something bigger" many of us long to connect to—is already within us.

Live inside that ray.

And if you can't feel that ray, that essence inside variability, if you feel you don't have everything you need, a kind reminder: there's nothing you need to get outside of yourself to feel it; it's an inside job. Rumi:

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."

It is an ongoing process, connecting to the essential; a constant practice to feel the essence inside variability. 

Meditating helps me feel the ray within—and gazing at the vast ocean or the infinite night sky helps me feel it, too. And in these precious moments of inner connection it becomes crystal clear to me that I could never drift away aimlessly, because I am not merely connected to the essential—I am essential.

with Love and with Light, 

Joyce

Clinging. | rejoyce letters, vol. 10

Hi Friend, 

I had a different letter written for this week. It was "done," contained three lovely Rumi quotes, a Tolstoy gem, and even led with a funny anecdote from my childhood. 

And, yet, I could feel it wasn't quite right; it lacked clarity and authenticity. But I was so attached to different pieces of it—the story, the quotes, the specific book recommendation—that, despite its shortcomings, I tried to force it to work. I edited it for hours until I finally realized I was doing with it what I am guilty of doing in many areas of my life: clinging. 

When we cling to things—possessions, people, even ideas—we are sending out some doubt-filled energy into the Universe. 

We are, essentially, subconsciously saying: I need to hoard this. I live in a world of lack. If I can't hold on to this money or this friend or this idea—what will I do? There isn't enough for me. I am surrounded by scarcity.

This is a completely fear-based mindset, and one, I admit, I find myself occupying more often than I'd wish. (Me, on Saturday: But if I don't send this exact letter, even though it's not working, then what will I possibly write about??? as if I had entirely exhausted all topics worth contemplating in nine weeks. Lol.)

By clinging, I was ignoring the abundance surrounding me.

Right after college, my roommate and I would throw parties in our Madison, Wisconsin apartment. They were very classy: cheap beer, cheap liquor, loud music. We even had special plastic shot glasses made exclusively for jägerbombs. I'm talking unprecedented levels of sophistication, you guys. (:

When we first started hosting, we'd get very worked up about who was or wasn't going to attend (at least, I can't speak for her, but I certainly did). We worked at this huge tech company with tons of young people right out of college—tons of people who would attend exactly this type of party all weekend. But—would they come to our party? What if no one came? What would that say about us?

In fact, for our first couple parties, I'd spend the first hour or so, you know, ignoring the people who did come and getting all worked up about who wasn't there, sending out frantic, tipsy texts from my Blackberry. (#hostessoftheyear)

The parties got a lot more fun when we loosened our metaphorical grip—when we committed to the idea: We are going to have fun tonight no matter who comes. (I know it sounds cheesy—but it's true and it's likely applicable in more areas of your life than you currently realize.) When we, in short, let go.

Because it's almost impossible to have a fun party when you're clinging to these expectations: Everyone (we choose) must come. And everyone must have fun.

I'm using this example because I think it illustrates energetically clinging well—an area I'm working on. I think of energetically clinging like this: Getting so emotionally caught up in what "should" be that I have no space to appreciate what is. 

Energetically clinging is a bit more difficult to express than the classic example of possessiveness: clinging to objects. 

If you find yourself opening overstuffed drawers of decades-old tee shirts, I recommend the popular book by Marie Kondo, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. It's easy to mock. In fact, I was at a recent party where people were excessively making fun of it. (There were also no jägerbombs, though, so can it really be called a party? ;) Jk.) But I think the book is genius, especially the first half, entirely dedicated to discarding possessions. I.e. Letting shit go. 

Clearing physical clutter can lead to releasing mental clutter. For example, for years, I harbored the vague notion I might get my MBA. It seemed reasonable and respectable, and is a good path for many. However, when I was doing the Marie Kondo method on my books about five years ago, I was all: "Accounting book—donate! Economics book—donate! Management theory—donate! The Great Gatsby—I need multiple copies!" The process made me instantly and peacefully realize I'd never be applying to Business school.

I've gotten pretty good at not clinging to possessions (downsizing to an NYC apartment helped even more), but I still find myself mentally and emotionally clinging to people and ideas and expectations; harboring the notion that I don't have enough friends or enough ideas or enough inspiration in my life. Since I often have this mentality of lack, a Rumi poem called The Road Home really struck me. 

Here's the beginning: 

"An ant hurries along a threshing floor

with its wheat grain, moving between huge stacks

of wheat, not knowing the abundance

all around. It thinks its one grain

is all there is to love."

I never imagined I could so profoundly identify with an ant. But how can I avoid this fear-based mindset of lack and transition into the love-based mindset of abundance? In short: by letting go.

There is a beautiful Sanskrit word, aparigraha, which means non-possessiveness or non-grasping. In addition to deepening my meditation practice, I am enjoying this ten-minute Aparigraha yoga sequence a few times a week to help me let go. 

I also have the joy of living with two lovely creatures who constantly remind me of the importance of not clinging, my cats, Tywin and Arya. The thing with my cats—which is difficult for me, somewhat of a natural clinger—is if you try to force them to cuddle with you, if you pick them up and put them in your lap, they will, 999 out of 1000 times, jump off your lap and run the hell away from you. This isn't hyperbolic, I've actually tried a thousand times. ;)

Yet, if I just relax around my apartment, my cats will occasionally jump into my lap and purr for hours. It is bliss; only a fire could make me move. 

So, these animals help me perfectly convey the beauty of not clinging: When you energetically let go of expectations, you create space in your life so wonders can effortlessly come to you.

with Love and with Light, 

Joyce

p.s. It is also important not to cling to the past. I realize this is a bit mainstream (haha), but if you really listen to Frozen's Let It Go lyrics, they're spot on. (And, debatably, about spiritual awakening. :) I mean: "And the fears that once controlled me, can't get to me at all.") (I saw Frozen on Broadway with my sister in April and it's breathtaking.)

p.p.s. Another beautiful show tune about spiritual awakening is Wicked's Defying Gravity. I don't consider that one up for debate. "Too late for second-guessing / Too late to go back to sleep / It's time to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap."

p.p.p.s. We are most powerful by what we put down.

Unlearn. | rejoyce letters, vol. 9

Hi Friend, 

While reading The White Album, the Joan Didion essay collection not to be confused with the beloved Beatles' record, I was suddenly compelled to underline a sentence in pen. It was page 134, and I, up to that point, hadn't established this as an underlining type of book, but sometimes a sentence resonates with me so strongly I have to drop everything and underscore it in ink.

Here's the line:

"I have trouble maintaining the basic notion that keeping promises matters in a world where everything I was taught seems beside the point."

Some friends found this quote depressing; I can see that. But to me, that sentence feels full of unspoken promise.

If everything you were taught is beside the point, then maybe all the things you struggle with, all the things "wrong" with you, the things that keep you up at night, that torture you, all those things, are not actually you. They are things you were taught. And, therefore, you can unlearn them as you once learned them.

It's not you, it's the system—and you can break free from the system. 

I began noticing a theme of unlearning in spirituality books, but that's not the only place this theme emerges. Before Yoda says his famous, "Do or do not, there is no try" line in The Empire Strikes Back, he first says to a discouraged Luke Skywalker: 

"You must unlearn what you have learned."

There's a profound truth in those seven words. 

It's often tempting to think personal growth is all about learning new things. Read more books! Attend more conferences! Watch more TED talks! Listen to more podcasts!

But I'm starting to believe unlearning is equally, if not more, important. A lot of transformation is about returning to who you already are, at your core. Removing blockages and disposing of unhelpful stories you (consciously or subconsciously) believe can be more important than adding "new" knowledge. 

Imagine you are trying to grow a basil plant in a small pot. You plant it as a seed, and it sprouts! But right along side it are a few weeds. You ignore them, and keep watering your beloved basil plant devotedly. It grows a little grows more, but doesn't seem to be doing so hot—because as you water it, you're watering the weeds, so the weeds grow, too. You decide you love your basil plant, and you'll do anything for it (all while ignoring the weeds), so you go see a plant specialist. You start moving it around constantly so it is in optimal sunlight every hour of every day. You read books on basil. You start playing music for your plant, since you heard that helps. Still, it's not really thriving, and there are those growing, pesky weeds you're not ready to think about...so you buy special plant food, you add healing crystals to the soil, etc., etc.

What you really need to do—obviously—is not add anything to that little pot. You need to take something away.

You have to pull the goddamn weeds.

You must unlearn what you have learned.

It's absurd, but I've found it's often difficult for me to pull the metaphorical "weeds" in my life—to kill off stories that don't serve me, even after I've become fully conscious of them (which is the first step). 

You see, I've grown attached to my weeds. I mean, I've hung out with them for years. It feels like they're a part of me. Who am I without them?

It goes something like this: Hmmm...maybe I'll read more instead of addressing the realization that I've had this damaging thought pattern for over a decade...I mean, sure, it sucks that after I hang out with people my mind lists all the reasons those people don't actually like me, but that's just me. Whatever. Rather than consider stopping that, let me re-read some Rilke...

We often erroneously conflate familiar things with comfortable things; even if those things are literally hurting us and preventing our growth—still, we cling to the familiar.

In The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle says:

"Once you have identified with some form of negativity, you do not want to let it go, and on a deeply unconscious level, you do not want positive change. It would threaten your identity as a depressed, angry, or hard-done by person. You will then ignore, deny, or sabotage the positive change in your life.

This is a common phenomenon. It is also insane."

In addition to the negativity you've personally identified with (your "little" weeds) there are larger, society-based "weeds" worth unlearning, as well. 

These can be even more challenging (no honest person said personal growth was a day at the beach) because the first step of removing anything is becoming consciously aware of it. Some of these larger societal "weeds" have been engrained since birth. You might believe them so strongly you don't even realize they're learned beliefs; you might mistakenly assume they are, simply, true.

I'm talking things like:

Life is fun when you're a kid, but sucks when you're an adult.

More is better.

Net worth is correlated with self worth.

Success is quantifiable.

Some people are better than other people.

I don't believe any of those statements—not at my core. Though, sometimes, I know my actions or words say otherwise. My life reinforces the very ideas my soul rejects. But, I'm trying to be patient with myself—because just like learning, unlearning is a process, too. As Rumi says: 

"I need more grace than I thought."

with Love and with Light,

Joyce

p.s. The White Album essay collection is the only Didion I've read. I enjoyed it and she's a very talented writer, but I occasionally struggled when she made in-depth references to books or people I hadn't heard of. 

p.p.s. The Power of Now is one of my favorite books. I, personally, recommend reading Singer's The Untethered Soul first to establish a foundation and then The Power of Now—but if you're only going to read one, I say, go with Tolle. He blew my mind.

p.p.p.s. Context for the Rumi quote here. (And a bonus Rumi poem!)

Marriage. | rejoyce letters, vol. 8

Hi Friend,

First, I want to acknowledge that, though I am married, there's still a chance I know next to nothing about marriage. As Rumi says:

"The art of knowing is knowing what to ignore."

So if this (or any) letter doesn't resonate with you, please ignore it. 

Also, it's likely that expounding upon Love or marriage is futile, since both topics, in their purest forms, are too immense for words, too immeasurable to reduce to the inherent restrictions of any language. 

Still, I decided to try since tomorrow is our two year wedding anniversary. (Stephen and I got married on May 29, 2016 in Madison, Wisconsin; it was a beautiful day and cheese curds were served during cocktail hour.)

I'm going to focus on something I believe marriage is not about and see where that leads: I do not believe marriage is about reciprocity. I don't think it's about "balancing the scales" or "carrying your weight" or "equal contribution." 

Some examples from my own marriage:

Stephen spent about eight hours this year jointly filing our taxes (it was a mess, multiple states, etc.). During that time, I mostly read poetry and pet the cats.

Then again: I do laundry way more than he does.

Then again, when Stephen grocery shops he gets enough food for all meals for the week, and when I do (which, firstly, is a rare phenomenon) I buy enough snacks to feed a youth soccer league yet hardly any items translatable into breakfast, lunch, or dinner. (Snacking is my strong suit.)

I could keep going...back and forth...he does this, but I do this! I do this, but he does this! But, why??? It's exhausting. Also, I'm bored.

First Corinthians chapter 13 famously says, "Love keeps no record of wrongs." I agree. But I also think Love keeps no record of rights. Love keeps no record, period. 

Is marriage a competition? Am I a better wife than he is a husband or vice versa? Of course not. 

What are you possibly gaining by keeping score in your own relationship? If you want to leave your relationship, then leave it. If you want to stay, then make like the Beatles and let it be. :) 

When Lao Tzu speaks of wise souls (not that I claim to have one), Tzu says:

"Not competing,

they have in all the world no competitor."

We printed this Hafiz poem on our wedding programs:

Even

After

All this time

The Sun never says to the Earth,

"You owe me."

Look

What happens

With a love like that,

It lights the

Whole

Sky.

In my opinion, marriage isn't about owing anyone anything. Full stop.

[Note: I don't claim to have mastered this keeps-no-records approach by any means and still find myself making the occasional petty comment, but I am practicing noting when I get off course, forgiving myself, and re-centering on what matters. Who vacuums more than whom, truly, does not matter. Rumi refrain: The art of knowing is knowing what to ignore.]

Since learning to love wholly is often an ongoing practice, I definitely think that, if you marry, whom you marry is extremely important.

Rumi says: 

"Set your soul on fire, seek those who fan your flames."

To me, no quote better describes Stephen. His "fandom" for me started in the traditional sense, when he'd often comprise one-quarter of the four-person student section at Bucknell Women's Basketball games. Now, some claim women's basketball is not much of a spectator sport to begin with (haha), and that season (my junior year) we won seven games and lost 21. Yet, he was there, waiting long after the buzzer for me to emerge, wet-haired and upset, from the locker room. 

His support continued: when I started a (now retired) blog my senior year, he'd carefully proofread my posts (often on topics that didn't remotely interest him). Recently, he has read entire manuscripts I've written. One was over 250 pages! He read it with an intensity and carefulness that I can only call Love. I'm not pursuing publication for said manuscript, but just thinking about him reading it brings tears to my eyes. 

As I've shifted into this meditation and healing stage, he gave me the book Tao Te Ching: A Book About the Way and the Power of the Way by Lao Tzu. (The Tzu quote from last week and this week are from that book.)

I now realize that this thread runs through our eight-year relationship: He has always fanned my flames. 

I think that's an underrated quality in a partner. I say, don't look for someone you need (you don't need anyone) and don't look for someone who makes you feel whole (you are whole and if you don't feel whole, the only person who will ever make you feel whole is you). 

Look, instead, for someone who supports you, as you are. Right now. Today. Whether you're missing foul shots or misspelling words. (:

Now, my husband dislikes public attention (I'm sorry, Stephen, I promise I won't mention you for the next ten letters), but I wanted to end with a short note for him:

Dear Stephen, Words could never contain my feelings for you, so I will simply put this on record: I would marry you again. And again and again and again. xoxo. c

with Love and with Light, 

Joyce

p.s. Stephen's favorite number has always been 8, so it feels magical to me that this is volume 8. (: 

p.p.s. I recommend the Tao Te Ching if you're drawn to spirituality. However, though the poems are seemingly simple, I'm sure most of their deeper meanings are eluding me in my current state. I recently listened to Michael A. Singers' The Untethered Soul and not only would I recommend that book in itself as a good starting point for spiritual/consciousness work (the first two chapters are a bit redundant, but stick with it!), Singer also has a chapter dedicated to the Tao (aka Dao) which enhanced my understanding of Lao Tzu's writings. 

Innate. | rejoyce letters, vol. 7

Hi Friend,

When people would ask poet William Stafford, "When did you become a poet?" he'd reply, "That's not really the right question. The question is: when did you stop being a poet? We're all poets when we're little, and some of just keep up the habit."

The reason I've been mulling over this Stafford quote is not because I'm considering poem writing, but because I've been contemplating these questions: What are we born with? What do we lose along the way? And, what can we return to?

There's a child theme running through many spiritual teachings, and it is, frankly, one I have difficulty understanding.

Jesus said:

"Truly, I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven." [Matthew 18:3, NIV]

And ancient Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu said:

"Can you keep your soul in its body,

hold fast to the one,

and so learn to be whole?

Can you center your energy, 

be soft, tender,

and so learn to be a baby?"

I like those quotes, but their meanings seem beyond my reach.

When I think of my childhood, my mind sometimes lands on second through fourth grade, when I was teased pretty relentlessly, especially on the school bus. The "reasons" for the teasing seemed to be:

a.) I was abnormally tall.

b.) I was a "new kid" (we'd moved across the country at the end of first grade)

c.) I cried incredibly easily. 

Not the best combo for scaling the elementary school social ladder.

I took to reading at the bus stop, reading as I walked to my seat, and reading during bus rides, cheek against the window.

Still, the teasing persisted. I have a distinct memory of standing up at my stop to go home and finding that, when my face had been in a book, someone had crawled beneath my seat and tied the shoelaces of my shoes together. I found this out because I nearly fell over when I tried to walk. I put on my backpack and hobbled down the aisle, flooded with confusing, pervasive shame. Everyone, it seemed, was laughing at me. I think I was about eight.

I drew the conclusion there must be something innately wrong with me. Something definitively not right at the core of who I was. Surely, if I were "right" and "normal" then I wouldn't be the go-to girl to tease on the bus.

During that time, I remember nice classmates with exceptional clarity. One boy in my second and fourth grade class was consistently kind to me—a dim light in my periphery reminding me not all boys were cruel. 

After college, this boy married one of my best friends from high school and, this past Friday, I got to hold their newborn baby girl in my arms. She was sixteen days old, the youngest baby I've ever held. (With the exception of my two little sisters when I was a child.) Long after I gave her back to her mom and drove away, I could still feel her pure energy on my chest, where she had curled up against me.

Some observations: Babies are magic. Babies are miracles. Babies are perfect. 

Also: Babies are not innately wrong, flawed, or evil. I know this won't win me points with the Pope, but I reject the notion of "Original Sin." I just don't buy it. Hold an infant and tell me: where is the inclination toward evil?

And if nothing is wrong with babies, and I was once a baby, then maybe that idea I formed in elementary school—something is wrong with me—is, actually, what's wrong. 

Now it wasn't just bullies, society certainly encouraged me cling to the concept of my inherent wrongness. How could the global $445 billion so-called "beauty" industry keep growing if people weren't convinced there's something wrong with their skin, faces, or hair?  

Capitalism essentially drives on perpetually reinforcing this core idea: there is something wrong with you, and money can fix it. 

There are countless iterations: Something is wrong with your house/wardrobe/body/relationship/etc., and money can help fix it. [See: the fast fashion industry, the $60 billion U.S. weight loss industry, reality TV elevating opulent lifestyles, etc., etc., etc.] [Also see: almost any ad ever.]

Everything is wrong; money is always the answer. 

But what if there is actually no problem?

What if you risked acting on the assumption that nothing is innately wrong with you? 

What if to change to become a little child, you simply had to accept the idea that you are enough? Right now. Today. Just as you are.

Because here's the thing: I know that sweet baby girl I held against me did not think anything was wrong with her; she knew she was perfect.

You were once sixteen days old. Had I held you in my arms when you were an infant, I would've told you: You are magic. You are a miracle. You are perfect. Of course, I wouldn't have had to tell you those things, because you would've already known.

Isn't there a chance it's still true?  Isn't there a chance our innate selves are not depraved, but, instead, miraculous and full of Love?

Isn't there a chance we don't need to buy anything to save us, rather, we simply need to return to who we already are?

Rumi says:

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."

Maybe, you're born with it. Maybe, Love is innate.

with Love and with Light, 

Joyce

p.s. This week's (predictable) book rec: Rumi The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing translated by Coleman Barks.

p.p.s. There is nothing wrong with your skin, face, or hair. Nothing. I appreciate this Nayyirah Waheed quote on the topic. (I also like her onInstagram.)

Journey. | rejoyce letters, vol. 6

Hi Friend, 

One thing I've noticed in taking "time off" is people will ask me: Are you going to travel?

It's a sensible question. I have all this "time I might never have again" (personally, I consider that a limiting belief) especially, they say, because I'm childless, so it's currently socially acceptable to backpack New Zealand and "find myself" or whatever. Contemporary society accepts this narrative, a variation of the modern day hero's journey. (Though it seems even more socially accepted if you make a viral Instagram travel account along the way.)

I suppose I can now answer this travel question with, "Yes!" since I'm sending this letter from New Orleans, where I road tripped with my mom and twin sister. We planned this trip spontaneously and ended up seeing an amazing live jazz performance at Preservation Hall yesterday on Mother's Day—talk about last week's theme of perfect timing. :)

I like big trips (and I cannot lie). I've been on three big international trips—Spain, Portugal, and Chile—since 2015 and love talking travel.

But here's the thing: any good writer (or anyone who's taken tons of writing classes, like yours truly) will tell you that the outer journey in the plot line of a story is only as strong as the inner journey.

That's why there are books and movies where tons of action happens (car chases! sex! murders!), but nothing really happens, and it's not satisfying. No characters grow.

The reverse can be true, too: a book where nothing "happens" but it's satisfying because the character goes through an inner transformation.  I am partial to exactly this type of book. One of my favorite books where "nothing happens" is the novel Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson. It's set in Idaho and quiet and haunting and has some perfectly-strung sentences that blew my mind. Another "quiet" book I absolutely love is Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout (which won the Pulitzer). (Note: Robinson's Gilead won the Pulitzer, but I preferred Housekeeping. I didn't link to it because the description is spoiler-y. If you want a rather solemn book immersed in the natural world about an insular, eccentric family, read it. If you want a page turner, read something else.)

Fiction aside, I believe in the power of both the journey without and the journey within, and am recently reveling in the power of the latter. If you aren't willing to open your mind and heart, then wherever you go, there you are. If you don't change how you see things, then whether you're in Paris, France or Istanbul, Turkey or Dayton, Ohio, you don't grow. 

I think this is what my homeboy Rilke was referring to when he said: 

"The only journey is the one within." 

I recently attended a virtual meditation retreat and it was wild because, even though I didn't leave my apartment, it felt like I traveled miles and miles within. 

During one session, we did the Ananda Mandala meditation. (You can find it on YouTube, though I recommend doing it with a guide in a group for your first time. In NYC I easily found groups that do this.) This meditation is designed to clear Chakras and raise Kundalini energy through a special, vigorous breathing technique.

(Chakras are the seven energy centers in the body down the spine's path (bottom to top: root, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye, crown). In Sanskrit, the word Chakra means "wheel" because these centers, essentially, spin with energy. Kundalini energy is primal or life force energy, known as Chi (Chinese) or Prana (Sanskrit).)

After we finished the Ananda Mandala meditation, I felt like I had run ten miles, which is something, for the record, I've never actually done. And the wildest thing: I'd been "merely" sitting and breathing the whole time. 

Kabir, an Indian poet, said: 

"I felt in need of a great pilgrimage, so I sat still for three days."

And Rumi, my go-to Sufi poet, said:

"Everything in the universe is within you."

So whether you're reading this from your sofa or a hemisphere away from your home, may this serve as a kind reminder that anything you could ever need is already inside. 

with Love and with Light and with all of the beignets,

Joyce

p.s. The first sentence in this letter irks me because I believe there's no such thing as "time off." I'm currently doing everything I've done my whole life with one exception: I'm not exchanging my energy for currency. If we consider people "on" when they're exchanging energy for dollars and otherwise "off" then I think that's indicative of a larger problem in our society: the problem of thinking personal worthiness = net worth. That is a notion I reject entirely. 

p.p.s. I recently polled well-traveled friends on their favorite places in the world (and would love to hear yours!). I enjoyed these answers so wanted to share: Mexico City, the Swiss Alps, Tel Aviv, Key West, Hong Kong, and Prague. I've been to zero of those places, and would love to go to them all. As for today though, I'll continue exploring the Big Easy and, through meditation, explore more of the universe within, as well. :)

Patience. | rejoyce letters, vol. 5

Hi Friend, 

If you were raised Christian or have ever attended a wedding, you're likely familiar with this Bible passage on Love: First Corinthians, Chapter 13, starting at verse 4:

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud..."

I went to Presbyterian church every Sunday of my childhood and tons of youth groups and church camps to boot. So, at least 9,320 times a teacher said: "Now, replace the word 'love' from this passage with your name."

My problem is the pesky order of these attributes. I've never been too boastful and always rather kind, but that's not where we start. Of course not. Apostle Paul dives right in with one of the arch nemeses of my life: Patience.

So, each of the countless times I did this exercise, I wrote: "Joyce is patient" knew it was a gigantic lie, and kinda threw in the towel from there. (Even at age eight, I just couldn't lie to myself about this.)

Now seems a good time to shout out anyone who has ever:

a.) worked on any type of deadline-based project with me

b.) waited for a table at a restaurant with me

c.) waited for food at a restaurant with me while other people who sat down after us already got their food (!)

You, my friend, are the real MVP. (:

I only recently realized these "minor" yet consistent spurts of impatience could speak to a larger theme in my life. 

There's small-scale patience, like waiting two hours to get pizza in Brooklyn. [I admit: this can be worth it. :)]

And then large-scale patience, which I define as: accepting that everything in your life is happening in perfect timing.

For me, small-scale patient can be tough, and large-scale patience can border impossible. I'm almost 30 (!) so found myself being hypercritical of my life's timing—especially my "career path." 

At times, I'm like: Who cares? Trying to contain a luminous human being to a résumé, a single sheet of paper in bullet point format, is ludicrous.

But, at other times, self-sabotaging thoughts reign: I missed the boat. If I were going to "accomplish" anything in life, I would have already. I've always wanted to be a writer, but have nothing "to show for it." There are people my age who are physicians!!

When I'm wading in this cesspool of thought, I ignore things like the blatant fact I've never had any desire to be a physician. I am immersed in two states: self-pity and impatience.

On self-pity: I think Cheryl Strayed says it best in this advice column:

"Self-pity is a dead end road."

On impatience: Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke can help. In Letters to a Young Poet [one of my favorite books!] he writes: 

"Let your judgments follow their quiet, undisturbed evolution, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be pressured or hurried in any way. It's all about carrying to term and giving birth. To let every impression and every seed of a feeling realize itself on its own, in the dark, in the unconveyable, the unconscious, beyond the reach of your understanding, and to await with deep humility and patience the hour when a new clarity is born; this alone is to live artistically, in understanding as in creation.

Time is no measure there, a year is worthless, and ten years are nothing. To be an artist means not to calculate and not to count; to mature like a tree that does not pressure its sap and stands amid the spring storms with assurance and without the slightest fear that summer might not come. It does come. But it comes only for the patient ones, who stand about as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and vast. I learn this every day, learn it amidst considerable pain, for which I am grateful. Patience is everything!"

Inspired by this passage and a Belief Work class I'm taking, I started this: Each time I noticed a beautiful, blossoming tree, a tree that never feared if summer would come, I used it as a trigger to think this affirmation: "Perfect timing is at work for me."

At first, I didn't believe it at all. I actually couldn't even remember the seven words and had to keep looking them up and then felt dumb. But, guys, the craziest thing (!) is happening: I'm starting to truly believe it. 

I even believe I'll soon be able to say, "Joyce is patient" and know it to be true.

with Love and with Light,

Joyce

p.s. If you ever feel like you've missed the boat, a kind reminder: There is no boat. :)

p.p.s. If you have any q's about my experience in Belief class, feel free to reply directly to this email. A few of you have kindly replied in the past and prefaced your emails with "Sorry to bother you..." and I want to put on record I'll never be bothered by a genuine reply.

p.p.p.s. I am sometimes impatient and I am also often fun to eat with and competent to work with. It feels weird typing this since our society often accepts self-loathing but questions self-acceptance, but I wanted to put this note here, for me. As Rumi says: "Good and bad are mixed. If you don't have both, you don't belong with us."