You Are My Sunshine

​The warm glow of a winter sun and the stark blue sky make the red-rock bluffs and rusty-green desert valley look otherworldly. The landscape is formidable yet somehow I feel seen, both arid and water-soaked; it’s an oasis among ancient dry bones.

​Last week I attended a Mindful Self-Compassion workshop in Sedona, Arizona, led by the founders of the Center for Mindful Self-Compassion, Kristin Neff, PhD and Chris Germer, PhD. It was amazing, challenging, full of surprises and connection. One of the guided meditations invited us to bring loving kindness to a loved one. We were told to choose a living being that made us smile, someone that made us happy with their very presence, someone who evoked the universal sigh of loving kindness, “Ahhhhhh.” I ran through a number of candidates but landed on my grandnephew.  We were asked to bring a vivid image in our mind’s eye of being in the company of our loved one. 

Cradled in my arms, I rock Wyatt back and forth. The bass timbre of my voice softly vibrates as I sing:
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
He coos back to me in a sweet call and response. His arms stretch upward and his fingers wander to my face, an explorer in search of my lips. Over and over I sing “sunshine” and his eyelids grow heavy. He fights slumber surrender with whimpers and an arched back. I readjust his body against my shoulder and his head nestles in the harbor of my neck. I feel wet puffs of baby breath.
“You’ll never know dear how much I love you.”
​He falls asleep and the weight of his little body feels like a sacred embrace. 

The guided meditation continued by suggesting that we tell our loved one, “May you be happy. May you be peaceful. May you be healthy. May you live with ease.” I usually try to follow directions, however, I had raced ahead of the instructions, I already had my mantra and it was set to music! So in my mind’s eye I sang another round of my sunshine ditty rocking this precious child with my own self-satisfied smile.

The next part of the meditation was unexpected although I should have seen it coming (I was distracted by the baby!) We were told to let go of the image of our loved one and shift our awareness to ourselves, bringing attention to our body and spirit, noticing any stress or pain or uneasiness. And then the surprise, “Offer yourself the same loving kindness you gave your loved one—hold yourself as you held them.” In my mind’s eye I held the child that is David, innocent, hurt, beautiful, broken and messy.

Cradled in my arms, I rock my child, back and forth. The bass timbre of my voice softly vibrates as I sing:
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
The young me coos back in a sweet call and response. His arms stretch upward and his fingers wander to my face, an explorer in search of my lips. Over and over I sing “sunshine” and his eyelids grow heavy. He fights slumber surrender with whimpers and an arched back. I readjust his body against my shoulder and his head nestles in the harbor of my neck. I feel wet puffs of baby breath.
“You’ll never know dear how much I love you.”
He falls asleep and the weight of his little body feels like a sacred embrace.

​Dr. Neff and Dr. Germer say that the language of self-compassion is wet-eyes. And so, as I held myself, I spoke in tears which were actually better than words. Like water in a desert, I was touched in places I had forgotten were parched. As Pema Chodron says, “Compassion isn't some kind of self-improvement project or ideal that we're trying to live up to. Having compassion starts and ends with having compassion for all those unwanted parts of ourselves, all those imperfections that we don't even want to look at." This turning towards experience “as it is” with a loving connected presence is at the heart of mindful self-compassion. And in my experience healing is always a surprise. It’s never what I expect, or want, but it’s always what I need.