The Accidental Guru
Mindfulness doesn’t always smell like incense. Sometimes, it smells like goldfish crackers.
I used to think presence required silence, solitude, and at least 20 uninterrupted minutes.
Then my daughter became my teacher.
She didn't arrive with spiritual credentials or a sound bowl. But somehow, this wild, tiny human has become my most powerful guide.
When we’re walking through the wintery New York streets and I'm lost in thought about tomorrow's meeting, she tugs my hand and points to a dog crossing the street, “"Look, Mommy, that dog is wearing a silly jacket!" And suddenly, I'm exactly where I need to be - in this moment, witnessing wonder through her eyes.
When she erupts in frustration because her zipper is stuck, I have a choice. I can rush to fix it, dismiss her feelings, or distract her with something else. Or I can practice staying calm in the center of her emotional storm, not controlling but not abandoning.
Each tantrum becomes its own kind of meditation. Can I remain untroubled by her trouble? Can I see her big emotions without becoming entangled in them?
And as I watch her move from tears to laughter in minutes, in moments, I am blown away each time. She doesn't cling to emotions. They move through her like waves, never disrupting her essential joy. She is already a Buddhist master.
I've spent years reading books, attending workshops, and following guided meditations. But my most profound practice happens in these ordinary moments. Can I respond with patience to the fifteenth "why?" question? Can I match her delight at discovering what new colors emerge when we mix paint? Can I breathe through my frustration as bedtime stretches into its third hour?
Each day offers hundreds of these tiny invitations to practice who I want to be in this world - present, patient, compassionate. And I fail. Every day. All the time.
But thankfully, the very next day I get a hundred more invitations to try again.
The spiritual journey doesn't always look like silent retreats and whispered mantras. Sometimes it looks like wiping sticky hands and answering endless questions. Sometimes our greatest teachers aren't found on mountaintops, but beneath our own roof, disguised as the ones who need us most.
