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Good morning, I love you
© 2020 Shauna Shapiro PhD
And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth. –Late Fragment by Raymond Carver [written while dying of cancer]
Eleven years ago, I went through a painful divorce. I was hurt and alone. The damage was irreparable and the choice to leave was inevitable, but I still felt like a failure. No one in my family had ever divorced. My grandparents had been married for seventy years; my parents forty. All my aunts and uncles had thriving marriages, my sister was (and still is) happily married to her college sweetheart, and my brother had just gotten engaged to the woman of his dreams. Marriage in my family was sacrosanct. The prospect of upending my life was terrifying. But that was nothing compared to my fear of how the divorce would affect our three-year-old son Jackson.
Despite my fears, I packed up everything I could fit into my tiny car, buckled Jackson into his car seat, and drove to Marin County, California where my grandparents lived. I needed to be close to family. Reflecting on my journey, I’ve learned the importance of understanding things not to say to a child of divorce, ensuring that they feel loved and supported through every transition. Navigating the complexities of Maryland child support has also been a crucial part of this process. Ensuring proper financial support helps maintain stability and meets the child’s needs during challenging times. Get started on couples therapy here.
And Nana and Grandpa were my home. Once we’d crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and exited at Sausalito, we passed a small apartment building with a For Rent sign out front. I could tell just from the outside that it was out of my price range, but they were holding an open house that day, so I figured I’d take a quick look around.
The owner, a large man with striking features and ebony skin, answered the door. He warmly greeted us: “I’m Ishmael”—and then, observing my face more closely, and my car out front with all my belongings visibly packed into it: “Looks like you’re having a tough day.”
Greetings
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I told him I’d just left my husband and was looking for a place to live. And then, much to my surprise, I burst into tears. His reaction I will never forget. “Young lady, sounds like you need a break.” He had no reason to help me, but he did. We worked out the logistics and he introduced his nephew, who would be my landlord. As I left, he gently said, “Remember this when you can help someone else get back on their feet.” I never saw Ishmael again, but I will never forget his kindness. A week later, a soft beam of sunshine woke me. I blinked my eyes open, taking in the bare walls surrounding me. I was lying on the floor of what was once a barn but had been transformed into a stylish barndominium, with Jackson snuggled in my arms. We had no furniture yet, so I’d zipped together two sleeping bags to make a little nest for us. This transformation from barn to cozy home was something my cousin, who works at a real estate company, had helped us with. His knowledge of such unique conversions made the transition smoother than I had ever imagined. As the sun filled the room, brightening the exposed beams and open space around us, I was filled with gratitude for the guidance we’d received, making this barndominium our own. It was the warmth of the sun and the love for Jackson that gave me the strength to embrace this new chapter, one step at a time. Yet, over the next several weeks, with each step forward, I seemed to take two backwards. I was adjusting to life as a single parent, juggling child care, and commuting three hours roundtrip to teach at the University. My life felt overwhelming. This was not how I imagined things would be. I felt exhausted and hopeless. I was trying so hard, but each morning I’d wake with the same aching pit of fear and shame in my gut—my monkey mind swinging between ruminations about the past: “If only I had . . .” and fears about the future: “How am I going to handle it when _______ happens?” I couldn’t seem to shake the self-judgment and sense that I had failed. There was no space for self-compassion. No space for self-kindness. No space for joy. Friends, family, and colleagues all saw the pain I was in. Many offered support and ideas. One of my meditation teachers suggested I begin each day by saying, “I love you, Shauna.” I immediately balked. Yuck! It felt so contrived, so inauthentic. She noticed my hesitation and suggested, “How about simply saying ‘Good morning, Shauna’?” Then, with a wink, she added, “Try putting your hand on your heart when you say it. It will release oxytocin—which, as you know, is good for you.” She knew the science would win me over. The next morning, when I awoke, I resolutely put my hand on my heart, took a breath, and said, “Good morning, Shauna.” Much to my surprise, it felt kind of nice. Instead of the avalanche of shame and anxiety that usually greeted me upon awakening, I felt a flash of kindness. I practiced saying “Good morning, Shauna” every day, and over the next few weeks I began to notice subtle changes—a bit less harshness, a bit more kindness. Little did I know that this small practice would lead to big changes. One Sunday morning, I was out for a walk in our new neighborhood and passed an old basketball gym. I was surprised to hear loud music and laughter pouring out onto the street. What could be making so much noise at 8:00am on a Sunday?! Curious, I peeked through the door and saw about 200 people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and colors . . . dancing. Some were clearly professional dancers—others clearly were not. But all had one thing in common: a look of pure joy on their faces. As a young girl, I had danced with the Pacific Ballet conservatory and fallen in love with dance. I especially loved the performances, when somehow my mind quieted and the dance became a joyful expression of my soul. But after my back surgery, I stopped dancing. My body was no longer a safe place. It was filled with pain. It didn’t move the way I wanted it to—even simple movements like glancing over my shoulder or walking were awkward and disconnected. Dancing was out of the question.
Sixteen years post-surgery and just a few months after leaving my marriage, there I was, standing in the doorway watching all these people joyfully dancing. Seeing me peeking in like a hesitant schoolgirl, an older woman with shining silver hair motioned for me to join. I turned and fled. The next Sunday I found myself walking by the same old gym. The music played like the Pied Piper and again I peered in, longing to dance but afraid to join. Over the next couple of weeks, my Sunday walks past the gym became as much a ritual as my “Good morning, Shauna” practice. But I didn’t go in. I longed to dance, to feel that freedom I remembered and loved so well, yet I didn’t trust my body. I was terrified of trying to dance again—of feeling awkward and vulnerable in front of a bunch of strangers. Then one Sunday, I set my intention to walk through that gym door and dance, no matter what. I committed to practicing an attitude of kindness and curiosity no matter what happened and no matter how I felt. That morning when I got to the gym, I went in. I stood in a corner, alone, eyes closed, while the music and movement surged all around me. I tried to gently move my body, simply trying to feel it. I didn’t dance with anyone. I didn’t even look at anyone. But slowly, my body began to move.
I continued to go every Sunday morning, and one millimeter at a time, I began to re-inhabit my body. I began to feel parts that had been completely numb. And as my body began to wake up, I became aware of the emotions that had gotten locked inside—loss, grief, vulnerability, rage. As I danced, these emotions began to move through me. As I made space for them, they began to transform. Unexpectedly, a new emotion arose: compassion. I began to feel compassion for the young woman still inside, who had lived for so long in pain, feeling awkward and alone. Then one day, the tears came. First one, then two tears escaped my closed eyes, sliding down my cheeks. As I continued to dance, the river of tears released something, and my body began to spin—round and round, twirling, eyes closed. Whirling tears, snot, and sweat. No thoughts, no judgment. And then a lightness filled my being, a freedom in my body: Joy. As the music began to fade, my movements slowed, and I gently laid down on the floor. I felt at peace. I felt hope. “God circled this place on the map just for you,” wrote the fourteenth-century Persian poet Hafez. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was supposed to be here. My life wasn’t how I expected, and it certainly was far from perfect. But that was OK. I could begin again.
One Sunday, I saw a man who danced as if his soul were choreographing every movement. I asked where he had learned to dance like that. He responded with one word: Esalen. When I got home I immediately Googled Esalen and learned it was the very same retreat center in Big Sur, California where my father had taught when I was a young girl. And, in yet another coincidence, they were holding a dance workshop the following month—during the week of my birthday. This would be my first birthday without my son, as he was going to be with his father at a long-scheduled family reunion in New York. I decided to go! Driving through the gates of Esalen, the first thing I saw was a magnificent garden with eight-foot sunflowers, rows of lettuces and dinosaur kale, and the lush fronds of a banana tree—a kaleidoscope of color. Even more extraordinary were the hot springs, on a rocky cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The next morning was my birthday. I woke just before dawn and headed straight for the hot springs. Cool mist from the ocean mingled with steam from the springs, blanketing the world around me. I eased into the steaming waters. The sky was starting to lighten, announcing dawn’s arrival. I put my hand on my heart, preparing to do my “Good morning, Shauna” practice. Something about the magic of the place, the enfolding arms of the water and the mist, evoked an image of my grandmother, and the next thing I knew, I was saying, “Good morning, I love you, Shauna. Happy Birthday.”
The dam around my heart gave way and a flood of love poured in. I felt my grandmother’s love. I felt my mother’s love. I felt my own self-love. A sense of peace flowed through my body. I wish I could tell you that my life has been a bubble of self-compassion ever since, and that I’ve never again experienced shame or self-judgment. But of course that’s not true. What is true is that I continue to practice. Every morning, I put my hand on my heart and say, “Good morning, I love you, Shauna.” Some days I feel awkward, some days I feel lonely and raw, and some days I feel profound love. Whatever I feel, I keep practicing, and every morning, this pathway grows stronger. The Good Morning, I Love You practice continued to evolve and expand over the years. I began greeting the sunshine, the birds chirping in my backyard, the flowering jasmine outside my bedroom window. One morning, I even sent a “Good morning, I love you” to the garbage truck that woke me up! I began saying “Good morning, I love you” to Jackson even if he wasn’t there, which eased the ache when he was away at his father’s house. I began to say it to my dear friends and family; to people I was working with; to my students. Eventually I started sending this greeting out to the world. I even began sending a silent good morning, I love you to my ex-husband, whom I realized I’d been leaving out.
Eventually, I began to teach this practice to my students and my clients, and finally shared it in a TEDx talk. Now well over two million people have learned the Good Morning, I Love You practice. I’ve been awed and inspired by the ripple effect of this practice, and how it has changed people’s lives. Thousands of people have shared their own Good Morning, I Love You stories with me. One 5-year-old boy sent me a video of his practice. He sat, eyes closed, his little hand on his heart. He took a deep breath and bellowed, “Good morning, I love you, Nathan!” Then he peeked his eyes open and shyly whispered, “Good morning, I love YOU, too.” Another Good Morning, I Love You story began when I received a note via Instagram from a young mother named Kristen. Her three-year-old son was in the hospital recovering from brain surgery. She wrote that she’d seen my TEDx talk and had been practicing with her son every day. I responded to her message and we realized she lived near Phoenix, where I would be teaching a workshop called Messy Motherhood. I invited her to attend. As Kristen, 400 other mothers, and I put our hands on our hearts and practiced Good Morning, I Love You, the sense of connection and compassion were palpable. We expanded our “Good morning, I love you” to include all children facing illness, and to all of their parents. We continued to expand our circle of compassion in all directions, to all beings. All of us were crying by the end of the practice. Tears of love, tears of hope. I received a letter from Kristen while I was writing this book. Her son, now four, is healthy and thriving; all brain scans are clear. She wrote, “(these practices) helped me get through one of the most difficult chapters of my life, and come out of it stronger and more connected to myself than I have ever been.” Another story came from Azar, a recently widowed seventy-year-old woman originally from Iran. We began working together to help with the loss of her husband. At that time, she was terrified of the world, having never navigated it alone. She also felt lonely and without love in her life. As she began to practice Good Morning I Love You, she began to slowly transform. Azar began to engage in dance classes and poetry groups. A year later, she traveled alone for the first time in her life—to attend one of my mindfulness retreats. At the retreat, she shared with the group how this practice had changed her life, and how she says, “Good morning, I love you” to herself and to her late husband each day. She shared that it opened her up to feeling love and joy again. Three years later, Azar was diagnosed with breast cancer. I have never seen anyone fight harder for her life. She won. Azar now volunteers teaching mindfulness to support groups for women with cancer. I’ve witnessed how this simple practice has catalyzed change in so many lives, I’ve come to see it an intimate practice that spirals out into the world and back in again to our own heart. It is a simple yet powerful practice that has changed lives. I know it can change yours.
Good Morning, I Love You: The Full Practice I always do the Good Morning, I Love You practice first thing when I wake up. While lying in bed, I place my hand on my heart and take a moment to simply feel the connection; to receive this tender gesture of self-care. Please continue with me:
- Place your hand on your heart. Focus on your palm. Feel your heart pulsing through your chest.
- Feel how your heart is taking care of you, sending oxygen and nutrients to the trillions of cells in your body. The heart knows exactly how to care for you—you don’t have to control it or even think about it. Simply receive the nourishment.
- When you’re ready, take a breath, and say, “Good morning, [your name].” or “Good morning, I love you, [your name].”
- Notice how this makes you feel. See if you can bring kindness and curiosity to however you are feeling. There is no right or wrong way to feel.
- Trust that you are planting the seeds of presence and compassion for yourself and that these seeds will grow and strengthen the neural substrates of self-love.
- Send these seeds of blessing out into the world, offering the phrase “Good Morning, I Love You” to anyone who comes to mind.
- Recognize that we are never just practicing for ourselves. Everything we do has echoes in the Universe.
If we create a habit of greeting ourselves with love each morning, these first moments of our day can transform the rest of the moments of our day, our lives, and the lives of others. May this be of benefit.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Shauna Shapiro is a professor at Santa Clara University, best-selling author, and internationally recognized expert in mindfulness and compassion. Dr. Shapiro has published over 150 journal articles and co-authored three critically acclaimed books translated into 16 languages, including her most recent book: Good Morning, I Love You: Mindfulness & Self-Compassion Practices to Rewire the Brain for Calm Clarity and Joy. She has been an invited speaker for the King of Thailand, the Danish Government, Bhutan’s Gross National Happiness Summit, the Canadian Government, and the World Council for Psychotherapy, as well as for Fortune 100 Companies including Google, Cisco Systems, Proctor & Gamble, and LinkedIn. The New York Times, BBC, Mashable, the Huffington Post, Wired, USA Today, and the Wall Street Journal have all featured her work. Dr. Shapiro is a summa cum laude graduate of Duke University and over 1.6 million people have watched her TEDx talk The Power of Mindfulness. More information can be found at drshaunashapiro.com.
Posted by mkeane on Friday, December 4th, 2020 @ 5:14AM
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