This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
Because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

I’ve heard the 13th century poet and Sufi mystic Rumi’s poem “The Guest House” more times than I can count. It’s a staple in U.S. spiritual communities, from psychotherapist and meditation teacher Tara Brach to NPR’s On Being.

But during the COVID-19 crisis, the poem’s metaphor is more metaphoric than ever—which gives it a fresh resonance. For the foreseeable future, we can’t have anyone over without risking our health. No guests will be visiting our houses.

Obviously, Rumi’s guest house is inside of us, and what he meant by a “new arrival”—an “unexpected visitor”—was an emotional state, a mood.

Like me, you’re probably feeling all kind of moods right now.

Part of me wants to drive to some fictional place where coronavirus doesn’t exist.

Part of me is scared that I or a friend or my family will get sick.

Part of me is angry at big corporations and Wall Street for using the government to bail out themselves rather than poor and working people.

Part of me is whiny like a 16-year-old about being cooped up for the rest of this crisis.

I’m using the word “part” intentionally. (The concept of parts, or sub-personalities, comes from the work of psychotherapist Richard Schwartz. I learned it from my therapist.)

As Rumi says, there’s immense value in trying to welcome all of our parts—to treat each guest honorably. Keyword: trying.

No one wants to feel negative emotions—they’re painful. Emotions like fear and anger not only burn a hole in your chest or paralyze your shoulders but they also mean (in the eyes of your inner critic) that you’re weak or not a nice person.

Rather than feel the pain, we judge ourselves for experiencing the emotion. We try to talk ourselves out of it, rationalizing why we shouldn’t feel the way we do. We ignore how we feel and focus on making others happy. We numb with alcohol and other escapes.

Sometimes, the emotion is so strong that we can’t help but act out. We get swept away by fear and catastrophize, imagining the worst possible outcome (the whole world is going to end!). We get caught up in anger and try to pick a fight. It goes without saying that this often leads to even more pain and suffering.

Whether we ignore or get lost in negative emotions, we’re trying to avoid the pain, which is reasonable. Who wants to feel all the feelings right now? There’s too much. A little distraction is OK.

But, as Rumi writes, there’s power in welcoming our emotions, moods, and mind states—our parts. Because what the parts are doing is trying to protect us.

That restless part of me that wants to run away is trying to protect me from feeling the slow burn of boredom.

That part that’s afraid is trying to protect me from facing the unprecedented uncertainty of the crisis.

That part that’s angry is trying to protect me from the undeniable truth that our society is cruel and unfair.

Our parts are like little kids. They want to do the right thing, but they’re extreme in their thinking. Either run away for good or stay here and die. Either start a revolution or get crushed by the gears of capitalism.

Would you kick a toddler out of the house if they were anxious, angry, or afraid? Of course not. You’d treat them like a child. You’d try to understand why they’re acting the way they are. You’d soothe them until they calmed down.

One of my loudest parts right now—and pretty much all the time—I like to call “striver.” It shows up as anxiety about getting things done, overplanning, preparing for the future. Right now, it wants me to buy up every bag of frozen vegetables and roll of toilet paper, which is unnecessary and foolish.

But it’s just trying to protect me. It thinks that if I don’t get enough done then others will perceive me as a failure, which will be painful.

Once I started seeing my inner striver as a young child just trying to help, I’ve been less caught up in trying to prove that I’m on top of everything all of the time. I can still get things done like the most Type A person alive. But I can also relax — like, fully relax, for the first time in my life.

The more compassion you muster for yourself amidst negative emotions the less likely you’ll ignore or get lost in them, and the more likely you’ll be able to respond rather than react in the days ahead. The more you notice and welcome your parts, the less likely they’ll take over.

As meditation teacher Jack Kornfield writes, “[We can take] unwanted sufferings, the sorrows of life, the struggles within us and the world outside, and [use] them as a ground for nourishment of our patience and compassion, the place to develop greater freedom.”

As Rumi’s poem says, “Be grateful for whatever comes. Because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”

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I can’t remember a more contradictory time in my life. I’ve never felt so lonely. For the past month, I’ve been living alone on my family’s farm in rural Southern Maryland. It’s been part “Walden,” part “Joe Dirt,” part “The Blair Witch Project.” Days go by without seeing another human.

But I’ve also never felt so fearless. Unlike when I’ve traveled solo or had nothing to do on a Friday night—which is when I want company the most —the fact that I’m lonely hasn’t bothered me.

What I’ve been practicing is sometimes called the “two wings” of mindfulness: awareness and compassion. Just as a bird needs both wings to fly, we must see reality as it is and hold our reaction to it with compassion.

The first wing, awareness, is hard to achieve but easy to understand. It’s what most people think mindfulness is, the moment to moment focus that comes from meditation practice. It’s seeing clearly and feeling fully the flow of body sensations, thoughts, emotions, and sounds happening right here, right now.

Compassion, though, is hard to explain and even more difficult to put into practice. It’s allowing whatever is happening in our experience. It’s accepting rather than critiquing our gut reactions.

Our default way of thinking is the opposite. We ignore our feelings by drowning them out with distractions, like Facebook and alcohol. We critique ourselves for how we feel—I shouldn’t feel lonely. I’m weak.

Meanwhile, we forget our inner freedom, what existentialist psychologist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl described as our ability to choose our attitude in any given set of circumstances. We’re on autopilot, whipped around by our thoughts and emotions.

Compassion sounds like rolling over and letting the world step all over you, but it’s not. We can speak up, name our wants and needs, and set boundaries with other people while still knowing that everything is ultimately out of our control. Everything except how we relate to our experience.

The spiritual teacher David Deida tells a story about a teacher of his feeling jealous at a party. Deida sees the teacher’s wife across the room enjoying a conversation with an attractive man and asks his teacher, “Aren’t you jealous?”

“Yes, but the fact that I’m jealous isn’t bothering me,” his teacher responds.

In other words, the teacher was aware of how he was relating to his jealousy. Instead of making it a problem, he was allowing it to just be. He could decide to intervene or discuss the situation with his wife after the party. Or he could decide not to. Either way, his decision wouldn’t be distorted by his self-criticism. If he did choose to speak with her, he could speak honestly and without shame.

So, how do we cultivate compassion? We have to find a tactic that works for us and practice it until we become skillful.

Compassion isn’t some flowery or wimpy positive thinking exercise. Like awareness, it’s a muscle that must be strengthened through action.

I’ve heard of different tactics over the years. There’s finding a phrase that feels soothing when silently whispering it to yourself. Something like, I’m enough or I’m loved. There’s placing your hand on your chest or shoulder to calm your body down.

I like to imagine younger version of myself feeling an overwhelming emotion. I imagine my current self comforting that younger version, just being with him as he feels all the feelings.

The other night I was feeling lonely and imagined myself at five years old sitting beside me on the couch. Just this acceptance of my loneliness and being with it rather than trying to hide from it or change it made me feel less alone.

I didn’t care that I hadn’t seen anyone that day or that I didn’t have plans for the weekend. I heard the wind in the leaves outside the window and smelled the rice I had cooking on the stove. I felt fully alive, at ease, and the opposite of alone, i.e., connected.

If you meditate or practice mindfulness, you’re only halfway to the inner freedom you’re capable of. Search for a compassion practice until you find one that works for you. Try RAIN, Tibetan tonglen, and lovingkindness. Find a therapist who uses reparenting or Internal Family Systems (IFS).

As meditation teacher and therapist Tara Brach writes, “Both wings together help us remain in the experience of the moment, just as it is. When we do this, something begins to happen—we feel freer, options open before us, we see with more clarity how we want to proceed.”

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My ebook, How to Get Out of Your Head, will help you start or stick with a regular meditation practice. Get it for free here.

Listen to my podcast Meditation for the 99%

On Meditation for the 99%, I take meditation out of faraway monasteries, expensive retreat centers, and Corporate America, and bring it to work, relationships, and, especially, politics. Listen everywhere podcasts are available.

I recently bought marijuana for the first time in years, and on the way to the shop I was reminded of the power of mindfulness.

Playing in bands in my 20s, I used to get weed from a friend or bum off friends of friends. Drugs and alcohol were always just hanging around.

After it was decriminalized in D.C. in 2014, I began to wonder how to buy it. A friend told me, while shops can’t sell directly, they skirt the law by giving it away as a “free gift” with the purchase of merchandise, like a t-shirt. Supposedly, shops are routinely raided by the police.

Walking through the Columbia Heights bustle, anxious thoughts raced through my mind: what if the shop gets busted when I’m there? What if a cop sees me leaving?

Then came ego: I’ve got this. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

Then came self-judgement: why am I afraid of buying pot at 33 years old? Why am I smoking again? When am I going to grow up?

Then came logic: I’m a college-educated, white, heterosexual, cisgender man. Cops don’t care about me.

None of the self-talk helped. My shoulders and stomach were still tense. I still felt a little claustrophobic and off-kilter. I wasn’t going to talk my way out feeling anxious.

But then I remembered a story the spiritual teacher David Deida tells about his own teacher feeling jealous at a party. Deida sees the teacher’s wife across the room enjoying a conversation with an attractive man and asks his teacher, “Aren’t you jealous?”

His teacher responds, “Yes, but the fact that I’m jealous isn’t bothering me.”

In other words, the teacher was aware of how he was relating to his jealousy. Instead of making it a problem, he was allowing it to just be.

Mindfulness is often associated with focus and paying attention. But it also involves accepting rather than resisting what’s happening inside of us.

We often deny, ignore, or repress emotions we don’t want to experience. The mind tries to calm us down by telling stories (There’s nothing to be afraid of).

But think about what makes you feel better when you’re sad or afraid. It’s when your partner or friend or relative gives you their undivided attention without giving advice or trying to change how you feel. When someone let’s you be yourself, with all your messy emotions. When someone just listens.

Once I acknowledged that I felt nervous and a little silly about buying pot at 33 years old, the tension in my body dissolved, and I saw it as yet another of life’s adventures.

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On Meditation for the 99%, I take meditation out of faraway monasteries,expensive retreat centers, and Corporate America, and bring it to work, relationships, and, especially, politics. Listen everywhere podcasts are available.

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