Most mornings, I try to take a walk and listen to a meditation or dharma talk on the Libby app. On particularly cold or wet mornings, I’ll opt for the elliptical in my basement. I prefer the walk, but either way, I tend to savor this time. It’s dark, quiet, contemplative – and most importantly, I don’t have to be anyone for anyone else quite yet.
On one cold elliptical morning, I was listening to a favorite – Pema Chrodron. There are a few different teachers I like who tend to share some core ideas (many of which you’ve seen threads of in these Sunday Seekers essays) – specifically that suffering comes from resisting reality as it is, that we are all connected, and that loving kindness is the way forward.
So on this particular morning I’m striding away in the darkened basement, earbuds playing my zen teachings, and honestly a little too satisfied with myself. That’s when I hear noise on the stairs. I knew right away it was my youngest daughter, up far too early.
She opens the basement door and eyes me with a conspiratorial grin on her face, also apparently quite pleased with herself. She bursts into the room laughing as my own little spiritual high drops off a cliff.
She runs over to the elliptical, grabs one of the moving handles, and starts hanging on it like a monkey. I tell her to stop, that it’s making it too hard to keep the machine moving – not to mention it’s dangerous – but she finds my frustration hilarious and her giggles intensify. She runs around the back of the machine and climbs onto the pedals. At barely six, she doesn’t weigh much, but the extra weight means the resistance has just increased significantly, and each step requires much more effort on my part. “Let me do it with you!” she begs, her excitement bubbling.
Meanwhile, I’m beyond annoyed. I’m agitated that she’s now interrupted this precious parcel of time. Why do I get so little time to myself?!?, I internally moan. And if I tell her no, I already know that she’ll fall apart into a pile of tears, and I’ll have to stop to pick up the pieces. And what’s wrong with me that I haven’t taught her better to tolerate a “no”? I’m so weak as a parent sometimes. And why is she even up this early, I wonder. Did her brother wake her up? He’s been doing that lately and it’s been driving me crazy. Now I’m mad at him and don’t even know if he’s awake.
Not even five seconds have passed and I’ve already cursed the past, predicted the future, and gotten mad at three people (myself being one). I was wading into my usual patterns – feeling sorry for myself, getting angry, losing my cool, and then feeling guilty.
But then, all of a sudden, I let out a loud laugh. It surprised even me. Something had seemed to almost pop inside of me, like a jolt of recognition.
Pema Chodron calls these moments gaps. They are like moments of suddenly waking up to what’s happening in real time. The split second where you see clearly. You’re pulled out of being in the experience for just long enough to witness the experience. And you often have to laugh.
Landing in the gap right then, I saw the irony laid out: I was toiling away on my exercise machine, trying to get stronger, but when my daughter made the resistance greater (helping me do just that), I didn’t want it. Meanwhile, I was listening and taking diligent notes on the wisdom of my spiritual teachers, but one of my greatest real-life teachers, my daughter, was right in front of me, and I wanted her to go away.
I was pretty sure I knew what dear Pema would say about this moment. Some version of: “How perfect! It’s all right here for you.”
And indeed, it was.
That morning was a reminder to me that I never actually have to look far for a chance to practice the work I need to do.
It’s all – often annoyingly – right there. In fact, I’ve come to believe that any given moment contains our patterns, and so any given moment is also a chance to rewrite them.
As a therapist, this principle means that I can talk to my patients about how they experience nearly anything and we can discover an abundance of data about their ways of relating to the world; how they meet a moment, their anxieties and fears, how they see themselves, their hopes and desires.
This isn’t magic. This is the principle that every single moment is a teacher in the school of you.
And if every moment is a chance to meet ourselves more deeply, it’s also a moment to – with loving kindness – practice new ways of being.
That morning, I could have responded to my daughter with the frustration I initially felt (and often would have), but because I had been able to witness my experience in the gap, I didn’t feel so in it. Finding the gap gave me enough emotional distance to laugh at the absurdity.
My point here is that little teachers are literally everywhere. And looking at situations and people as part of our personal curriculum can really change how we relate to a given moment. It lets us take an observer’s view, to be a student of ourselves.
If everything is a teacher, then the question isn’t how to curate a more peaceful life, but how to show up for the one we’re already in. Not a life of uninterrupted mornings or perfectly protected routines, but real ones, where our our lessons arrive disguised as disruption.
That morning, my daughter wasn’t ruining my practice — she was the practice. She was inviting me into the messier, louder, more honest version. The kind that doesn’t happen in a dark basement, but in relationship.
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Questions for Reflection
- What situations reliably activate your familiar patterns: irritation, self-criticism, urgency, withdrawal, etc.?
- Who or what in your life currently feels like an obstacle rather than a teacher?
- Where might life be inviting you to practice right now — without waiting for better conditions?
- What is one ordinary moment this week you could treat as a place to practice presence?
