I have landed on a consistent, weekly writing practice. I say practice, because that is exactly what it is. The more I show up and do it, the better I get at it. Like everything else we do. We practice. Everything is a practice. That phrase used to piss me off when my once upon a time therapist would say it to me. Because I couldn’t understand what she meant. I would come to her freaking out about something or other and her words to me would be “Remember, everything is a practice.” I am sure my practice at the time was to scream “What the fuck does that even mean?!” at her. She was very patient. Or she wasn’t and she just had really good boundaries and a strong sense of self. I am guessing it’s the latter. My consistent writing practice has been taking place on Sunday mornings as of late, and even though I didn’t write this morning, here I am, showing up for myself. I didn’t write this morning because I went to yoga church instead. Yoga Church is the class that grounds and centers me for my week ahead like no other. It connects me to my past and roots me in my present. The therapist that I had once upon a time, the one who taught me that “everything is a practice” also happens to be my Yoga Church teacher. If you are familiar with my story, you already know I had a love/hate relationship with this woman. I could always count on her to call me on my bullshit like no one ever had. And I hated her for it. But I paid her good money to (in my mind) be mean to me every week. The reality is that she was honest with me in a way nobody else would be. She didn’t sugar coat the truth and wrap it in a pretty package either. I would have certainly preferred that. I have a head full of her “classic one liners” that were absurd and hilarious. But spot on too. Nothing is hilarious unless there’s some truth to it. When I first started going to the Buddhist Temple to look for some peace and clarity I mentioned this to her. She looked at me without batting an eye and said “Please don’t fuck the monks.” In my mind that was absurd, but in reality, I can see why she would say that to me. The me I was on that day anyway. I am sure I wasn’t even truly offended until I got in my car to leave and I am equally sure I called her and let her know how shitty I thought she was. That was the standard procedure. I would spend an hour on her couch. She would piss me off. I would think about it on my drive home and upon my arrival I would call her and yell at her. Or I would call her in the middle of the night, on the office emergency line if need be, because I needed something. Her. I needed her. During the time she was my therapist, I landed in a psychiatric hospital. They have telephones in those places, and I called her. Because I needed her. She reminded me to “practice my skills.” She was referring to the communication, emotion regulation and mindfulness skills that I had been learning in my DBT Group. It seemed a little late for me to practice those skills since I was already in the hospital, but I went with it. I practiced my skills and did what I needed to do to get out of the hospital. But I stopped practicing when I got out. I was an emotional wreck, fueled by alcohol. Within a few months, I landed back in the psychiatric hospital. And I called her. Because I needed her. She reminded me to “practice my skills.” “Everything is a practice” she said. I was so pissed because nothing about anything seemed like a practice to me. This was my LIFE and I was losing. I screamed into the phone “what the fuck does that even mean?!” She simply repeated that it’s all a practice. Life is a practice. I hung up on her. I practiced my skills, did what I needed to do and got out of that hospital a few days later. But when I got home, I stopped practicing. Again, I was an emotional wreck, fueled by alcohol. A month or two later, I ended up in a psychiatric hospital. Again. This time I was committed on an involuntary basis. This was a different hospital. This was a hospital where the steel doors were kept locked and I couldn’t leave if I wanted to. I was “a danger to myself and others.” I saw what real mental illness is in this hospital. I was terrified. I called my therapist. Because I needed her. She did not tell me to practice my skills. She did not remind me that everything is a practice. She said “Oh. You’re in the Ha Ha Hospital. Why are you calling me?” That was not the response I was expecting and I honestly didn’t know why I was calling her. I just knew I needed her. She told me there wasn’t a thing she could do for me. I told her bye and we hung up. She was right. There wasn’t a thing she could do for me. There wasn’t a thing anyone could do for me. I did what I needed to do to survive that hospital. It was not a good experience. Locked up. Terrified. I practiced my skills. I was there for 8 days. I was released from that hospital and eventually I started to “practice my skills” on a more regular basis. I wish I could say this is when I got sober, but it’s not. It took some more terrifying experiences to make me understand that alcohol was not helping me and was in fact destroying my life and killing me. I went back to therapy, and eventually did get sober. When I rooted myself firmly in AA, that therapist let me go. She had given me all the tools she could. She had pointed me in the direction of a skillful path. It was my turn to do the work. I was terrified. And I needed her. But I knew, it was time. I began the long, hard process of becoming a sober person. And it sucked. So bad. I kept in occassional contact with that therapist just to let her know my progress and make sure she was still there. You already know. Because I needed her. Eventually, I needed her less and less, but she was always there when I emailed her, and that helped me let her go. I got sober. I grew. My life changed. Our relationship changed. I don’t need her today, but I am grateful for her presence in my life. She has been a wonderful teacher to me in so many ways. She gave me what I needed at the time even though it was never what I wanted. Today in “yoga church” as she was giving a dharma talk, she made a reference to a scientist who was so ahead of his time, that he was thought to be crazy. Isn’t that always the way it is with scientists? She told the class how this particular man “ended up in the ha ha hospital.” I almost died. I flashed straight back to the day she said that to me and the way it felt and the person I was. Then I flashed right back to the present moment. I sat up a little straighter and beamed a little brighter because I am NOT that person today. That one little phrase made my practice that much sweeter. That one little phrase reminded me why I was there. I was there to practice. Everything we do is a practice.