More Care In The Tank

What if every twinge of discomfort, every bit of restlessness or heartbreak, was a blinking indicator light? Reminding you to take care, calling you home to yourself.

Jeff Warren

is a meditation instructor and writer, known for his dynamic and accessible style of teaching. He is the co-author of The New York Times best-selling Meditation for Fidgety Skeptics, founder of the nonprofit Consciousness Explorers Club, and co-host of The Mind Bod Adventure Pod. His guided meditations reach millions through the Ten Percent Happier and Calm apps. His Substack – Home Base – is his studio for writing and sharing meditations.

Clank

I used to drive a used 2007 Toyota Prius. Dents on the roof panel, rusted tire wells, upholstery stained with petrified banana chunks. I called him Clank because every time I closed the driver-side door it sounded like banging a cheap heating duct.

Clank!

Clank had an indicator light that never stopped blinking. No mechanic could figure out what was wrong. But Clank had heart. He kept going, protecting my family, and also getting excellent mileage. 

Blink, blink.

Design by The Muse Collaborative

Every time his indicator light blinked, I decided it was a sign that Clank needed love. I’d pat his plastic dashboard and say ‘It’s OK buddy.’ Fill his tank with a little tenderness.

Blink, blink.

You can probably tell where I’m going with this. We all have our own indicator lights, always particular, often overlooked. Maybe a low-level emotional ache that’s often in the background, or a literal pain in the neck, throbbing with each new responsibility. For me, today, it came in the form of agonized rumination about how to problem-solve every part of my life. 

For two hours, I walked around under one of those Charlie Brown thunder-scribbles. In pain, and resisting that pain, because I wasn’t clear enough to notice I was in pain in the first place. And then:

Blink, blink.

Oh. Right. Thanks Clank – my spiritual teacher. I don’t actually need to problem solve everything right now. What I actually need is more care in the tank. So I paused, took a few breaths, and patted myself on the chest: ‘It’s OK buddy.”

Self-compassion is a subject I’d long avoided. When I started doing meditation retreats, I would focus on the warrior aspect of sitting in humorless determination. Which didn’t get me far, although I did get better at noticing my humorless determination. At the time I thought self-compassion was self-indulgent, and happened mostly in spas. Also I didn’t think I deserved it – a rather harsh judgment that itself throbbed painfully in the background of my life. 

Blink, blink.

Then one night, when our first baby was howling through an interminable sleep regression – my own nervous system bolting and seizing – I put a hand on my chest, and noticed my whole body settle. I said, “It’s OK buddy.” My animal body responded immediately to touch. It grounded me, and strengthened me, and helped me find my feet. As I settled, baby settled too. It was a kind of sympathetic magic. Compassion propagates.

When our environment feels hostile, self-compassion is the environment we learn to create inside ourselves. We don’t need to summon any extra energy to do this – we can say a supportive phrase, go for a walk with a friend, or drink a glass of water. Whatever kindness works for our individual system. The implementation itself isn’t hard. What’s hard is remembering. What’s hard is believing we’re worthy of kindness in the first place.

A guided meditation can help break the ice. Like any habit, the more you practice, the easier it gets. In honor of Clank, here’s a short meditation about noticing our own personal indicator lights, and then sending in some love.