TGIF :: On Readiness
#86 || The metaphor of acclimation in making change; timing is everything
September 28, 2001
Rest, regroup, then go for it
Huddled together on the earthen floor of Rongbuk Monastery, way up in the Himalayas, 16,400 feet above sea level, we sipped Yak butter tea, its warmth barely cutting through the piercing, arid cold—even indoors.
Conversations in several different languages wove through the lantern-lit room, easy and unhurried, as fellow travelers shared their journeys, chatted about logistics, and made new friends.
I was trapped in a contradiction—sheltered from the elements, attuned to the comforting presence of Tibetan Buddhist colors and artifacts, yet keenly aware of Chinese government oversight and the unyielding gaze of local men. One had even been bold enough to give my backside a squeeze on the way in, contributing to a sense of what my father taught me to travel with: “Code Orange. Not quite Code Red, but close.”
Most of the twenty or so of us had come from far-flung corners of the world in various AWD vehicles contracted with the government. Rongbuk Monastery (apparently they have since built a guest house) was the last rest stop before making a morning trek to Everest Base Camp (North, Tibetan side). We’d sleep in tiny beds lining frozen walls in a set of dorm-like, unheated rooms. This was the last non-tent resting place before the final push—a day’s trek to the foot of the world’s highest peak.
“I am on my sixth day without a shower—senses a
bit dull and head a bit achy from the altitude.” - 9/29/01 journal entry
A physical rebellion
Outside, a dusty vintage bus with soft curves and faded hand-painted signs had just arrived, packed with Australians. They had just made the six-hour journey north from Kathmandu as part of an accelerated tour. Most of them were doubled over in the rocky dirt between the bus and the building, vomiting—altitude sickness taking its toll.
“People need to acclimate more slowly,” an English woman murmured. “Jumping from a modest altitude to this in a single day is dangerous.” We watched as the majority of the group, still dazed and heaving, were loaded back onto the bus for a rapid descent to lower elevation—the only way to counteract the body’s violent rejection of altitude gained too fast, too soon.
Something clicked.
I recalled six weeks earlier, when I first arrived on the Tibetan Plateau. We had reached a small village on the western Tibet-China border, the place where we would reclaim our passports from a nondescript government office after a grueling two-week process of securing fourteen permits to cross China-occupied Tibet. It was meant to be a brief stop before setting out on a ten-day drive eastward to Lhasa, the capital. I was so excited about the long awaited journey, I wasn’t at all bothered by the idea of being packed into a vehicle with a stoic government driver and two other passengers, unknown strangers, for ten days.
But I was unwell that night. A dull, relentless headache throbbed at my temples, nausea churned in my gut, and an uneasy weight settled throughout my body making it hard to do much more than lie down. I had assumed it was the flu. I took Chinese herbs (the original prescription paper in the image of my journal above), chased them with cold and flu medicine, and pressed on through the discomfort with only modest vomiting. The worst of it passed—but the weighty blah feeling clung to me for days.
Now, watching the Australians struggle, I realized it hadn’t been the flu at all. It was altitude sickness. I had suffered the same symptoms they had, but stretched over days instead of hours, my body’s way of rejecting too abrupt of an altitude adjustment when we ascended to 14,000 feet, the average altitude of the Tibetan Plateau, for the first time. Without knowing it, I had (luckily) acclimated, slow enough to avoid the worst. And now, standing here in the thin mountain air, my body was ready for what was next.
And it was worth it. The next morning I awoke and made the four-hour, 8 km trek to Base Camp by 1pm. Also from my journal:
The terrain is barren. Gray rock with looking white peaks right in front of you. The rocky earth seems to ramble on forever. The sun had risen by now (finally hit us on the trail at 10:45am) and our fingers and toes were thawing out. A perfectly clear day! I was still “registering” that we were before Everest! No animals. Few vehicles or people — cold air, but crisp and fresh. After days of not feeling well I felt charged with energy.
I charged up a hill to the mound of rocks and prayer flags — total silence.
Peace. Light. All of the freezing the night before and this morning,
the illness — all part of it.
It is all connected. So worth it.
Acclimation is a luxury.
This memory, revived by a close read of that journal in recent days, has been with me all week as I reflect on challenge, discomfort, and change. My journey through Tibet was a lesson in perseverance, impermanence, and acceptance, intensified upon returning to a post-9/11 America in November of that year. I’d changed, and so had my home.
Sometimes we don’t have the luxury of “acclimation.” Sudden loss of a loved one, a job, a home, our mobility, or our health come to mind. People in my life have weathered each of these in the last month alone. Humans are by nature resilient, but we also have our limits and change—especially unwelcome change—is hard. Hand on heart for those navigating unwanted change right now.
But what about change we can control the pace and nature of? What about life-changing choices that come from nowhere else other than within? We can move too fast—but also too slow. The art of life is knowing when to push through discomfort and when to wait. When we know, we know. Listen.
A Micro-Practice
Find a quiet moment with a piece of paper and something to write with. (I suggest handwriting, not typing for this one).
List at least three things that you want to change. They can be big things like moving, changing work arrangements, health or relational shifts, or other significant changes. Small things work too—initiating or cancelling a subscription, giving away or selling unwanted belongings, or reaching out to someone.
Consider each item on your list, then color code them:
🟢 green - “I’m ready”
🟡 yellow - “I might be ready”
🛑 red - “I am definitely not ready”
Wait a day. Revisit. Are these true? What is our deeper sense of “readiness” — the layer beneath the surface? How might you feel in a year if you wait on all of them, act on all of them now? Where are you in the acclimation process, really?
*****
The First & Second Awareness
The Eight Awarenesses supports those of us who have the luxury of making changes to our dimming habits because we are not (yet?) addicted to our form of relief. We can wake up one day and say, “Enough.” #s 1 & 2 are particularly relevant at this agency-rich stage of transformation:
1. Clarity: My Life is Better Clear
2. Choice: I Choose What I Consume
But how do we know if we are ready? Maybe we haven’t acclimated enough or are we waiting too long? Abrupt change can be unsustainable—it might not work, make us sick, or simply not last. Yet, waiting too long comes with its own risks. Only you know what those are for you.
In my case, when I paused drinking, I realized I couldn’t have done it sooner. In fact, I’d tried (from the introduction to my forthcoming book):
In an effort to shed a few pounds, sleep better, maintain a more consistent exercise routine, suffer from less hangovers, and to prove to myself that I wasn’t on the path of my late mother, I’d tried to moderate my “social” drinking habits in various ways for years.
Self-imposed, often secret rules included: only drinking on weekends, only drinking after a certain hour, only drinking wine (no hard liquor), and alternating drinks with a tall glass of water. Yet, I was never able to stick with these for very long,
repeatedly stumbling into old patterns.
But then, one day I was ready. I literally woke up, had a conversation with a friend about taking a break, and did. One month. Then two. Then three. Then a year. Maybe that was my acclimation—or maybe it was the years of back and forth leading up to it. In the moment, I wasn’t making a “rest of my life decision,” but I was putting one foot in front of the other.
And, here we are, friends.
We can.
Love.
❤️🩹
Miscellaneous…
💭 Dream-Trotting. It took me too long to (accidentally) figure it out… When we want to return to a dream we’ve just awakened from, one way is to move our body (including hands and feet) into the exact same position we were in when we awakened from it and try to go back. Please let me know if it works for you. I’m kinda stunned by this trick!
⭕️ One Hour of Community Connection via Zoom. Thank you all who joined last week. We had a candid talk about a range of topics, including parts work (based on the IFS model), staying equanimous in the face of difficult moments, and how we might support our best selves showing up when things get tough. The next Sangha Saturday will be Saturday, March 9th, 2025 at 9:00 AM PT / Noon ET. We begin with a brief meditation, set a bit of context, and then the space for shared exploration. While not about “sobriety” or “recovery,” we are all actively exploring a life without dimmers; for many, that dimmer was alcohol. Others include food, generosity, pot, and work. Link for invite here.
💡 Coming soon. A product that’s been in development for >a year to support those taking a break from drinking. Soft launch announcement (and availability) coming in March. Stay tuned.
🎧 Undimmed Podcast Season 2. Pre-production starts next month. Please share guest ideas via response to this email so I can add them to the list. Season 1 here.
🤹🏻 Wisdom 2.0 2025 on “Disruption” is happening in San Francisco May 5-6. Hope to see you there. Info here.
THANK YOU FOR TRUSTING ME WITH YOUR TIME