Chapter 26: Gratitude — Jailbirds In Flight

A preset coffee mug catching dawn light on the prison bunk

I went to sleep with my mind feeling sluggish, like all the hues were getting a brown wash. Dakina had spent the night climbing on top of her bunk, even with several of the women continuing to coax her down. Loud, rhythmic hoots emitted from her, the dorm echoing with the sound of her howls. Yet somehow, when I woke up, I felt lighter. Calmer. An emotional rain from the day before seemed to have cleared the air and left a rainbow on the sidewalk. I was grateful not to be painting a rainbow over mud. I found out later when I checked my email that my friend Kate had worked on my energies long-distance. Do I know how that works?

Not really. Is it a message from the under-layer of consciousness, the hum beneath everything? Maybe. Whatever it is, I’ll take it. I have my usual morning routine: the preset hot-and-cold mug waiting by my bunk; a scoop and a half of instant coffee; two scoops of nondairy creamer; one packet of sugar substitute. I joke to Rachel it’s like waking up to candy. Prison is hardcore; it turns tea snobs into coffee lovers. I gather my bathroom things including enough toilet paper to dry my hands with, then make the one-stop trip across the dorm to the sink. In the middle of the night, it’s no small thing to pass the night crew—the women who sit bunk-side of the blue line, crocheting or watching TV till dawn, then sleeping all day.

They tease us that they’re the college night owls and Rach and I are the grandmas, bumping into each other at 4 a.m., them brushing before bed, us brushing to start the day. It has the feel of camping in the middle of winter. Though it’s summer outside, the A/Cis set to full power for reasons I can’t fathom. I practice tummo daily, a breathing technique that warms your body from the inside. In the cold of Tibet, cave-dwelling meditators developed the practice to speed transformation; as a by-product, it generates inner heat. I’d seen videos of monks soaking their shawls before sitting outside in the cold. Steam poured off their shoulders until the shawls dried. After weeks of sleeping in two pairs of socks, crocheted slippers, and a sweatshirt, I slept barefoot last night.

It seems I am making progress. As part of my practice this morning, I did my prison version of a Tenth Step—a daily moral inventory from Alcoholics Anonymous. I wrote down the tiny biting fears I avoid, and then my desires. When I’m upset “because of someone,” a thin membrane of separation forms. There’s an urge to attack and pick apart their motives so I can feel better. It never works. I’ve seen that the only way out is through: aim attention at the seed of the upset, right where it starts, until it dissolves. The looping thoughts create confusion, which merely hides the truth. Relief only comes when I go all the way back to the origin. This happened recently in an attorney meeting.

I was holding my breath without realizing it and ended up flattened afterward. Bracing builds a shell, and then I’m left trying to soothe the shell. Or I can skip the shell entirely: soften before, during, and after. Clamping down cuts me off from wisdom and lets ego run the show. Contraction causes wreckage. I want to live in fluid, dancing flight. I want to be clear of confusion. I want to understand others wordlessly, and be understood. I’ve been a member of Alcoholics Anonymous for years. Step One says: “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable.” My ego finally conceded. In a single snap of clarity I saw it: Every spike of upset, anger, or discomfort comes from trying to steer the infinite instead of letting it carry me.

I pictured the wink of my Lama, a slight whistle in his breath, riding the wind. All the talk people do about “manifestation,” vision boards, trying to force a dream without wisdom—it’s just trying to control and drive reality from up on high. Years ago I made the commitment to keep going until I was free. Scribbling through the writing exercise this morning, I understood the missing half: Trust how freedom unfolds. Let things unknit themselves. I was still trying to do it, instead of collaborating with that which already knows the way. Einstein said intuition is the gift and the rational mind is the faithful servant. I had been ordering the servant of my mind to build the road I preferred, instead of listening for the road that wanted to appear for my liberation.

Two pairs of hands holding a crystal puzzle piece that casts a prismatic rainbow

The ego is powerless over the infinite. When I finish my practice, I feel like the pixels have been sharpened. Colors click into focus. As I walk over to the computers to check my email, I pass Jingyi. She recently finished her “impossible puzzle”—three thousand Marvel posters mashed into one image— and started a new one called the Diamond Puzzle. It’s shaped like a diamond, each piece a tiny shard that looks part crystal, part mirror, part gemstone, catching different light at different angles. I have never spoken to Jingyi. She’s the quiet definition of beauty: a round, strong face; perfectly set eyes; hair down to her waist; composed in silence. Up until then, our only exchange had been the extra coffee or sugar packets she would occasionally drop on our table with no words; just a quick glance, a small act of kinship. “That’s my favorite color,” I say, passing her and the glittering puzzle. “It’s transparent,” she replies without looking up, though there’s a question tucked in the words. “Yes, but with light running through it.” I shift, and the light cast on the table slides from orange-red to green.