INTRODUCTION: HEARTFULNESS

When we speak of mindfulness, it is important to keep in mind that we equally mean heartfulness. In fact, in Asian languages, the word for “mind” and the word for “heart” are usually the same. So if you are not hearing or feeling the word heartfulness when you encounter or use the word mindfulness, you are in all likelihood missing its essence.¹

— JON KABAT-ZINN

Grandmother was proud of her ancestry and told me about the scroll with our genealogy written on it that was lost when our house was burned by fires from American bombs. The genealogy traced our family back to Michinaga Fujiwara, the most powerful man in Japan in the Heian period. Another of our ancestors was Saemon Matsumoto, the lord of a castle.

Grandmother grew up with my great-grandfather, one of the last samurai. She remembered him as a beautiful man — tall, long legs, fair-skinned, a long nose, and deep-set eyes — who people thought looked like a foreigner. I too am often seen as a foreigner, so was heartened when she claimed that I look a lot like him. She lauded the way he carried himself with dignity and without the immodesty of people who have money or power but no “decent family background.” He was known as a kind, gentle, mild-mannered, true gentleman.

Great-grandfather was a quiet man, which was highly admired in those days, but Grandmother liked to stay by his side and ask him many questions. Sometimes he would say, “Oh, it’s not important, no need to talk about it.” But at other times he told stories, such as how the family name was really Yamamoto, not Shigematsu. He had been a hatamoto, a high-ranking samurai, one of the Shogun’s trusted warriors, a direct subject of Ieyasu Tokugawa. When the forces supporting the emperor rose up against them, there was a great battle in which both he and his brother were wounded. His brother survived a spear injury but later died of cholera. My great-grandfather was injured by a sword striking his wrist and was forced to flee. He made it to the sea by horse and then down the coast to where they bought a small fishing boat and with one hundred men set sail for the safe haven of friendly samurai. After several days they landed in a port on the island of Shikoku. When he got there, he changed the name to Shigematsu, to hide his identity.

She remembers watching him on days that he felt good and would sit in the garden. Holding his sword out in front of him, he would sprinkle it with flour and stare at the blade. Suddenly he would swipe at the air with a whoosh! He taught her that he lived by Bushido, the way of the warrior, that included contemplation of death in a daily ritual:

Every morning and evening I calm my heart by contemplating death, considering myself as dead. Then I am able to live as though my body were already dead and am freed to live well.

Great-grandfather explained that he did not fear death and even wished for it. Yet he appreciated moments of beauty, when he could be filled with the wonder of nature and the fleeting cherry blossoms, feeling oneness with them in the impermanence of existence. In this way of living, with the awareness that, like the blossoms, we are all inevitably dying, lies a key to living fully in every breath, in every cup of tea.

Grandmother taught me that this is what is meant by the expression Ichi-go, Ichi-e — one moment, one meeting: a reminder to appreciate each moment as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. In daily life, this meant bearing all things in mind, not being distracted or forgetting what we are attending to. With these teachings, I felt myself coming alive in the spirit of Bushido, embracing death, living fully in each moment.

Grandmother loved teaching me life lessons with kanji characters that originated in China thousands of years ago. While the meaning of kanji has evolved over time and people today don’t normally see deep meaning in deconstructing the kanji, to her they were rich with significance. I too became fascinated with them.

One that she taught me was the kanji for busy, It consists of two parts, one meaning heart and the other death. She said this means that we are not really living well if we are too preoccupied with thinking and doing, too busy to be present. “Busy” is when are minds are full, rather than mindful — times when we are not available for others. This reminds us that we are most alive when we are mindful, living fully in the present moment.

Grandmother surprised me by showing me another kanji composed similarly with the symbols for death and heart, This one signifies “to forget,” which she said could have many meanings. The most basic is that we are spiritually dead when we forget who we are, with whom we are connected, who our ancestors are. It’s a reminder that we are alive when we remember who we are and from where we come. The opposite of mindfulness is forgetfulness. We must remember that we are alive, as expressed in the kanji for one’s nature, which combines heart and life, .

Grandmother said that the kanji for “forget” teaches us that we need to remember we are alive, to remember what we must do, and to live with our hearts. We need to remember the lessons we have learned, the teachings of our elders, and the times in life when we feel most alive. Remembering when we feel meaning, balance, connectedness, and wholeness will bring healing.

I saw that when I am moody and not fully alive, it is because I am living as if I were going to live forever, forgetting that I am in fact dying and will die. Remembrance of death helps me to come alive. Bushido taught me to incorporate the awareness of death into my daily living — not as a practice of thinking of my last hour, or of my physical death, but rather as always seeing life against the background of death. The challenge is to incorporate the awareness of dying into our every moment so as to become more fully alive. Death makes us warriors. Living with the awareness that death is near us makes us alert and alive.

Grandmother’s stories helped me to remember how compassionate wisdom is passed on through stories. Spirituality, our connection to things beyond ourselves, is conveyed well by stories, which speak the language of the heart with words. Stories convey the mystery and the miracle, the adventure of being alive. They guide us to truth, knowledge, and beauty through words.

I remember many stories, and I will tell three here that especially enable me to develop heartfulness. These stories tell me who I am, with whom I am connected, and what I am called to do.

You Are Japanese

One unforgettable story I like to tell is of my adventure in summer camp when I was a boy. I thought camp would be endless fun. My two best friends, both older than me, were going, and I wanted to go with them so badly that I asked my dad to lie about my age so I could get in; I was seven and you were supposed to be at least eight. Dad liked my boldness so he agreed and I got to go to the two-week overnight camp.

Camp Russell wasn’t quite what I had dreamed about. The Boy’s Club camp was full of tough kids from all over the city. I heard them whispering to each other when I walked by, and soon little gangs were shouting, “Hey, Jap!” or “Ching, Chong, Chinaman!” Kids were laughing and mimicking Chinese. I was scared and didn’t know what to do, so I acted like I didn’t hear anything. No one approached me and I heard them joking that they should beware because I knew karate. I didn’t. But even though the kids didn’t want to fight me I was still afraid the gangs would beat me. I was flooded with fear, terrified of the hatred in their faces and words.

While I avoided violence, my friends didn’t. Joey was already shaving at 11 and when Shaun made fun of him for being so hairy Joey swung at him, forgetting that he still had a razor blade in his hand. Shaun screamed as blood spurted out of his neck and Joey started crying hysterically, apologizing like a madman. Both kids were sent home, leaving me alone. All my boldness in wanting to go to the camp for bigger kids was gone. This was my first time away from home, with no family or friends. I felt homesick, and at night in bed in the dark cabin I wished I was home with Mommy and Daddy and my big sisters.

After a week of camp my parents came to visit. I don’t know how they got there because we didn’t have a car. When they asked, “How’s camp?” I lied and said, “It’s okay.” I wanted to be tough, but somehow I couldn’t hide my pain any longer and started to whimper. I put my head down and began to sob, my little body shaking. I don’t remember ever crying before that. My dad never cried and neither did I. As his only son, I knew he wanted me to be strong. I didn’t want him to think I was a weak sissy. But he put his arm around me and held me to his big chest. So I let it all out.

I didn’t explain much, just that kids were calling me names and my friends were gone. My dad said gently, “That’s okay, you can come home. You don’t have to stay.” But as soon as he said that, I suddenly didn’t feel like going home any more. After I calmed down and wiped my tears away, I told my parents I was staying. They lingered a little longer that afternoon, thinking I might change my mind, but when they saw that I was firm in my decision they went home without me, leaving me there for the final week.

The story speaks to me in many ways. I see it is as a story of trauma — a fire in which I was forged. I emerged scarred, forever vulnerable to being wounded and feeling victimized. It was a formative event in my relatively safe and secure life. It is also a story of vulnerability and courage. Wounded, I pulled myself back together with a resolution to be true to who I was. Somehow, even as a child I knew that this was the way to self-preservation and maintaining my dignity.

The story helps me to remember who I am. Being Japanese became crucially important to me early in life. This connection to a cultural heritage, a spiritual spring, was heartfulness, and I trusted it to carry me forward. I see how I had grown, as a result of my own courage and the help of others. I also realize how there are parts of us that have been pushed into the unconscious, where our childhood memories are kept. To me, healing is remembering and embracing those memories shrouded in darkness, thereby becoming more whole as they emerge into the light.

The Buddhist expression “Lion’s Roar” came alive for me. I saw how, by connecting to our tender memories of vulnerability and feeling them fully, their energy becomes available to us. Overcoming terror of our own energy develops fearlessness toward the whole of life. The lion’s roar is the brave assertion that anything, including our emotions, can be handled rather than taking us over.²

Heartfulness is based in the wisdom of diverse spiritual traditions. For me, it is important to connect with others who share the concern of integrating mindfulness with its spiritual roots in Zen. Some Zen practitioners criticize mindfulness as devoid of spirituality, while mindfulness practitioners criticize Zen as removed from reality of people’s lives. The Zen 2.0 international conference in Kamakura, Japan, held in September 2017, brought together monks, mindfulness teachers, and concerned others to learn how we can connect and benefit from both Zen and mindfulness practice in the West.

Recent experiences I have had in many parts of Asia have made me acutely aware of the connection between mindfulness and culture. To make it more acceptable, mindfulness has been promoted in the West by disconnecting it from its diverse cultural roots. But for someone like myself, this removes it from a more genuine spiritual foundation. My Japanese cultural heritage is deeply connected to my understanding and practice of mindfulness. One can make sense of mindfulness by seeing how it is expressed in culture, philosophy, and language, and how it is integrated in daily life rituals and customs. Heartfulness is a way of making this connection central and crucial.

You Are Mixed

Another formative story I remember is from a scene in my childhood home, when my parents were engaging in a simple conversation at breakfast.

Mom began by saying, “The windows are dirty.”

Dad glanced up from his newspaper and coffee and said, “Yeah.”

Mom repeated, “They haven’t been washed in a long time.”

Dad mumbled, “Nope.”

We kids went off to school; Mom went to work and Dad stayed home.

At dinner that night Mom was in a bad mood. Finally, Dad asked her, “What’s wrong?”

Mom just said, “Nothing”

Dad persisted, “No, I can tell something’s wrong”

Mom insisted, “Nothing”

But Dad knew it wasn’t true, “Come on, Toshi, what’s wrong?”

Mom finally relented, saying, “You know what’s wrong”

“No, tell me.”

“You didn’t wash the windows.”

“You didn’t ask me to.”

“Yes, I did”

“No, you didn’t”

“Yes, I did”

“When?”

“This morning”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘The windows are dirty.’”

“Oh, okay, but that’s not the same as asking me to wash the windows.”

“I even said, ‘They haven’t been washed for a long time.’”

“If you want me to wash the windows, you have to say it clearly, ‘Please wash the windows.’”

Mom got in the final word, “Oh, why don’t you listen! I said the windows are dirty. Why do I have to say, ‘Wash the windows’? Anyone knows that’s what you do when the windows are dirty.”

Mom and Dad’s struggle with communication symbolized the human need to express things in words, as well as the awareness of its futility. Their values about words were radically different. Mom was raised in a strict household where girls were expected to be silent. Children were schooled in the art of subtlety, indirectness, and allusions, learning to read cues and understand without being told. Words were viewed as often unnecessary and inadequate to express the finer human emotions. Her way of communicating was like that of the haiku poet Bashō, who said, “What’s the point of saying everything with words?”

Dad was raised in the United States by Irish immigrant parents and believed that if you could just find the right words, you could say anything. He read voraciously and lived with a dictionary by his side, constantly looking up words as he read. He dramatically recited poetry. In his Judeo-Christian culture, words were sacred, as expressed in the Bible: “The word was God.”

Perhaps my relating this story is a way of remembering that as a child I was immersed in two, sometimes dramatically different, cultures. Born as the child of a Japanese mother and an Irish-American father, I was enveloped in both cultures from the beginning. Mixture became a dominant theme in my life. I even pursued it as a career, becoming an early researcher in the area of mixed identities. It became natural for me to see things from this dual perspective. Whenever I was asked if I was Japanese or Irish, my obvious answer was that I was both. This answer did not always please others, as we like reality divided into neat and distinct parts, seeing it as one or the other: black or white, Japanese or Irish.

Early on, I saw intimately how there were ways of being, doing, thinking, and feeling that were equally real and neither right nor wrong. It was deeply ingrained in me that life was rarely an either/or situation but more like both/and. I experienced the mixed nature of the human condition in which we are able to aspire to be godlike and yet are humanly imperfect. I saw that we live in two realities, one offering glimpses into oneness and the other stuck in our own egos. To be human is to be fundamentally finite, to be essentially limited, and yet, at the same time, to be capable of wisdom and love that transcends limitations. I recognize that my family, my students, and even my country have no inherent reality. Yet I cannot deny that I remain deeply attached to all of them.

The practice of mindfulness brings me closer to the ancient wisdom of us humans as being essentially mixed, somehow in the middle. I bring learning from my mixed racial, national, and cultural experiences and identities to the teaching of heartfulness. Paradox and ambiguity reside at the heart of the human condition — our failures are our successes, our suffering is our joy, our imperfections prove to be the very source of our longing for perfection. Mixed consciousness teaches us that only by embracing the dark side of our ambiguous natures can we ever come to know the light.

You Care

A third heartful story that I remember comes from my days at Harvard University when I was a student training to be a clinical psychologist. A group of us were hired by the school system in Savannah, Georgia, to randomly test that city’s children. We learned later that the superintendent of schools wanted to prove that the children, mostly African-American, were of average intelligence, and therefore capable of performing well in school. He hoped that this would motivate the mostly white teachers to raise their standards, their expectations, and the performance of the children. An article in the Savannah newspaper some months later declared: “Harvard shows Savannah children of average IQ.”

I was administering an IQ test one day to a 12-year-old boy named Jerome. We were in the Vocabulary section. The word was justice. Jerome didn’t answer so I repeated: “justice.” A smirk came on his face but he still didn’t answer, so I gave him a third chance: “What’s justice mean, Jerome?” As I was about to move on to the next item, he blurted out, “Can’t get none of it!”

His answer stunned me. I looked at him, he smiled mischievously, and I moved on to the next item to cover my discomfort.

Later that evening when I was scoring his test, I saw that the scoring guideline did not contain the example “Can’t get none of it.” It wasn’t a two-point answer, it wasn’t a one-point answer, so it was a zero-point answer. Jerome would get zero for a question to which he obviously knew the answer. I asked myself, Where is the justice in this system? Who makes the questions and answers? Whose children score well on this test? Who doesn’t score well and gets placed in special education or simply labeled as unintelligent? Who had ever seen the intelligence in Jerome?

By retelling this story, I remember how much I have been enlivened by the realities of diversity and social justice. Heartfulness for me involves a concern for those left out, the marginalized, those denied equal rights and fair treatment. My public emergence in the field of mindfulness relatively late in my career has required overcoming the barrier to what I perceived as an exclusive space of color blindness. Now I see more self-reflection on how the belief of having transcended certain worldly concerns leads to dismissing issues of dire importance for some people. I am heartened by a movement for mindfulness spaces to be more inclusive, and am connecting with others who are actively asserting themselves.

I encounter people who are realizing that while things like race don’t matter in the sense of their ultimate meaning, they do matter a great deal in the daily lives of many people. They may even be life-or-death issues. Heartfulness is a way to deepen awareness and understanding of human diversity. Those whose personal and professional lives have focused on this can play a role in encouraging mindfulness communities to embrace diversity and to promote inclusion.

A popular image of mindfulness is that it means being self-centered, yet we can better reframe our inner work as a collective, communal, and connected way of being. In the movement from “me” to “we,” our concern for others develops into wider and wider circles of inclusion. The personal growth promoted by mindfulness can, however, be stymied unless space and place are provided for further development. The work of transforming society begins by transforming ourselves, by making peace in ourselves. A heartful vision and practice of living extends to compassion by focusing on our interconnectedness, by uniting compassion with responsibility, and by acting to relieve suffering in the world.

The three stories just told are real medicine, reminding me who I am, what I believe, and what I live for. The first story forged the development of an identity that found fulfillment in a homecoming journey to discover my roots. Returning to Japan to live connected me to a spiritual source. The second story formed the foundation of an academic career in which I studied mixed identities that connected me to the truth of our dual realities of perfection and imperfection. And the third story nourished my lifelong activism in issues of social justice and diversity, connecting me to the expression of love in action. I saw the truths from these and other stories and realized that they could help others, who of course also have their own stories to tell. From the three stories I derived basic elements of heartfulness to be mindfulness, compassion, and responsibility. I saw eight ways of cultivating heartfulness: beginner’s mind, vulnerability, authenticity, connectedness, listening, acceptance, gratitude, and responsibility.

Why Heartfulness?

Heartfulness describes a way of being in mindfulness, in compassion, and in responsibility. The word mindfulness, by itself, seems insufficient to explain how mindful consciousness extends into compassion and is expressed in active caring. Heartfulness portrays this expansive sense of living with openness and clarity, being true to ourselves, acting in sympathy with all beings, resonating with and being part of the world around us. The word com-passion literally means “feeling with,” and is enabled by first being willing to feel what you feel, opening up a certain rawness and tenderness.

Today’s mindfulness movement is full of potential. Mindfulness training programs in diverse settings, including schools, businesses, and governmental agencies, offer good training in reducing stress and increasing the powers and flexibility of ordinary mental processes. Making mindfulness more of a biological, cognitive, brain activity has helped many people overcome resistance to it, as evidence-based research findings convince many that it is legitimate.

However, the focus on science also takes mindfulness further from the heart by making it an activity that can be done pragmatically for its benefits. This perpetuates the illusion that we can achieve anything through our intellect and willpower. The science focus disguises the reality that truth, beauty, and kindness are not reached merely by rationally and logically thinking our way to them.

Our love of technology and faith in science is countered by the recognition that these will never provide what we need to live with meaning. We realize that no matter how advanced we become, regardless of how sophisticated our gadgets are and how many of them we possess, they will not give us the essential elements of a good life. A meaningful life is focused in the heart and filled with compassion and giving.

Heartfulness seeks to overcome limitations to the kind of mindfulness that is used for the pursuit of profit and pleasure and doesn’t challenge materialistic beliefs, values, or practices.³ Mindfulness can enable other virtues, but if we remain on the purely cognitive level, or stay narrowly focused on stress reduction, we are missing its true power. While the science focus is extremely convincing as to the reality of the power of mindful practice, we also need to maintain and expand the heart’s role in mindfulness.

Mindfulness is still becoming equated with the individual pursuit of happiness, with people seeking pleasure and more joy, with less stress and less involvement. Yet the popular culture’s adoption of mindfulness risks losing its original meaning. Heartfulness emphasizes purpose through connecting to something larger than the individual self. A heartful life finds meaning in making a difference in the lives of others.

A beautiful expression of this evolving form of mindfulness is in the Japanese word kokoro While minds and hearts are separated in a Western sense, with mind referring to thinking capacity and heart meaning emotions and sentimental feelings, in Eastern thought they are the same reality. In Asia, people often point to their chest when referring to mind as an openness or a wakefulness that resonates with the world around them, rather than something created or possessed by their own brain or ego.

The word heartfulness brings us closer to the meaning of kokoro and the deep meaning of mindfulness. Kokoro unites feeling, emotion, mind, and spirit — the whole person — and seems close to the word heartfulness. This word appears in Jon Kabat-Zinn’s writings since the 1990s, in which he suggests that another way to think of the gentle, appreciative, and nurturing way of mindfulness is to use the word heartfulness.⁴ He later warns that many people are not equating mindfulness with the heart, thereby missing its true essence. Heartfulness is opening and cultivating the heart through inner stillness and silence, becoming more human, more compassionate,

and more responsible, both to one’s own self and to all other beings.

The meaning of heartfulness is expressed in the kanji . It consists of two parts, the top part meaning “now”; the bottom part meaning “heart.” This symbol clearly expresses the sense of being wholly present in the moment. Living in a state of heartfulness means listening to one’s heart, to one’s inner voice, affecting our relationship with ourselves as well as our relationships with our family, with our work, and with the larger world.

Heartful Community

I believe that we are at the point now in the United States where a movement is beginning to emerge . . . demanding that instead of just complaining about these things, or just protesting about these things, we begin to look for, and hope for, another way of living. . . . I see hope beginning to trump despair . . . in the many small groups emerging all over the place, to try and regain our humanity in very practical ways.⁵

— GRACE LEE BOGGS

Like the individual psychotherapy that I practice, mindfulness is a solitary activity. But heartfulness is practiced in groups with the clear goal of creating community, a sense of openness, direct communion with others, and an awareness of oneself as part of something greater. Grounding our encounters in mindfulness enables vulnerability and authenticity. People realize connectedness, engage in deep listening, feel more accepting, and are grateful for what is happening. Mindfulness is a path, not an ending — something to be practiced, put into action. It fosters the awareness of being connected to the self, to something beyond the self, and indeed to everything and everyone.

In my work as a psychotherapist and teacher, I know that while some learning takes place in isolation, it can be greatly intensified and accelerated in the company of others, where we can put what we are learning into practice — mindfulness in action. In much of the world, healing is a process done in community, characterized by synergy, in which therapeutic power is unlimited, expandable, and possessed and shared by all. The process of heartfulness focuses on groups as entities in which healing and learning the art of living with others can be done.

The work of heartfulness consists of bringing people together in classes or workshops and developing inclusive communities. Research and experience tell us that intimate contact between people of diverse backgrounds can reduce prejudice if we share common goals, show a sense of cooperation, and have equal status.⁶ Pushing back the tables, sitting in a circle, we demonstrate the transformation of consciousness that often occurs during simple, everyday exchanges, when all present are treated with respect. We listen carefully to each other and acknowledge the speaker by saying, “We see you; we hear you.” Even engaging in mundane concerns touches our spirit and enhances consciousness in ways that do not need to be radical or intense; often, learning consists merely of a subtle shift in perspective.

In these groups we open ourselves up to ways of knowing beyond scientific rationalism. We understand through experience rather than using intellectual reasoning to reach a logical conclusion. We affirm the unity of mind and body and of the spiritual with the material. We believe that we are not victims limited to and bound by the past. Crossing boundaries brings joy. Rather than seeking the answers, we try to live the questions — now.

We consciously strive to create “heartful community,” based on the mutual understanding and respect that result from sharing voices and storytelling. Our sense of cooperation is enhanced by the values we practice — beginner’s mind, vulnerability, authenticity, connectedness, acceptance, listening, gratitude, and service. Together, we learn through nurturing and caring in relationships with others.

Our purpose is to cross borders within ourselves as well as between us and others, so that we can cultivate the ability to see the positive even in apparently opposing worldviews, trying to understand and empathize. We value well-being that involves multiple forms of self-care and compassion for others, healing by connecting to all parts of our self and others.

Heartful communities are grounded in storytelling. We expand the boundaries of our stories, allowing room for narratives of difference, seeking more compassionate ways of relating to one another. No one’s stories are privileged; we listen and try to understand where others’ stories come from and how are they situated within our various embodied experiences of the world.

Heartfulness provides for our needs in finding identity, meaning, and purpose in life through connections to the community, to the natural world, and to spiritual values. We are integrating the inner and outer life, actualizing a sense of individual and global responsibility. In our communities, we are acknowledging and embracing our humanness alongside our aspiration to go beyond ourselves, bringing these two together synergistically. We connect more with the heart, extending the circles of compassion more widely to include responsibility to others.

Eight Ways of Cultivating Heartfulness

This book is organized around a way of being and living that is called heartfulness. In my grandmother’s teachings and in my life stories I identify eight principles for cultivating heartful living. These are learned from observing life circumstances, engaging in self-reflection, studying human nature, practicing mindfulness, counseling, teaching, parenting, and partnering. There is considerable overlap in the principles, which form the core of the chapters in this book, and there is nothing sacred about the number; they are only the ones that I have identified:

Beginner’s Mind

Vulnerability

Authenticity

Connectedness

Listening

Acceptance

Gratitude

Service

EXERCISES

I. Mindfulness Meditation

This is a meditation on experiencing mindfulness.

1.   Sit quietly in a chair with both feet on the ground and your hands in your lap.

2.   Close your eyes and bring your attention to your breathing. Notice the breath as it enters your body through your nose and travels to your lungs. Feel how the inward breaths are cool and outward breaths are warm, and notice where the breath travels as you inhale and exhale.

3.   Just observe your thoughts, don’t fight them, and gently bring your awareness back to your breath.

4.   Do this exercise for 5 minutes daily for one week, lengthening the time by a few minutes each day.

There are many resources online that will give you more detailed instructions and guidelines. Here’s one:

www.mindful.org/mindfulness-how-to-do-it/

II. Loving-Kindness Meditation

This is a meditation on showing loving-kindness to self and others.

1.   Follow the directions in exercise I for meditation. Then focus attention on your heart center. You may want to place one or both of your hands over your heart center.

2.   Say these words to yourself:

May I be well
May I be happy
May I be peaceful
May I be loved

3.   Bring your attention back to your heart center and feel the warmth there.

4.   Next, bring to mind the image of someone you love — a person or a pet, either living or deceased.

5.   Say these words to the loved one:

May you be well
May you be happy
May you be peaceful
May you be loved

6.   Bring your attention to your heart center and feel the warmth there. Visualize loving-kindness spread throughout your body. Feel it move out of your body to touch the loved one.

7.   This meditation can continue by extending loving-kindness to many different people — someone who is sick or suffering; someone whom you feel indifferent about; someone with whom you are having difficulties.

Many resources are available online on the loving-kindness meditation. Here’s one:

ggia.berkeley.edu/practice/loving_kindness_meditation