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Updated segments:

Listen to this episode of my podcast, Intuitive Public Radio • IPR •••, February 20, 2019 Intuitive Public Yogas
https://anchor.fm/intuitive/episodes/February-20--2019-Intuitive-Public-Yogas-e38rsu

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Yep! I had the same feels about the “separation of contact with suffering” - I included it because I found that interesting, and very much yes to the different methods and concpets of how to be with suffering from different schools (plus ofc, there is the sloppy reality of translations into English - so perhaps it is the fault of the translator that the sentence is structures and is understood in that way).

From my practices with Buddhist schools, it’s about being present with the suffering - neither running from it, or getting deply wrapped in it, but being with it like one would with a friend who just wants to be with your compassionate presence without fixing anything.

From that place, the means and motivation and answers to solving the roots causes of suffering are said to arise naturally.

Environmental illness made me too sick to live inside | Aeon Essays
https://aeon.co/essays/environmental-illness-made-me-too-sick-to-live-inside?fbclid=IwAR3o5_hInG9T_5Nv-wj0Ob693IWkBqRZV2enFD8CQeaMQwbp_K4FAocgHIY

'I was ‘tilted’, to use the acronym coined by Claudia Miller, a physician and environmental health specialist at the University of Texas. TILT stands for toxicant-induced loss of tolerance – a condition in which the immune system sustains too extreme or prolonged an exposure to toxins – man-made or natural. The individual, rather than recovering, suffers a strange breakdown, and becomes exquisitely sensitive to low doses of chemicals.'

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' But I could smell mold everywhere, and a few days later, we fled. Now what? We were homeless, it was winter, and Paul said: ‘Why don’t we camp for a few weeks?’

What the heck. We already had two backpacking tents, having tried it for a few nights in the Georgia mountains. We could view it as a vacation while we figured out our next move. So we drove to the nearest RV park and set up our tents alongside the fancy rigs.

And there, in that park, lying on a thermarest mat in a tent pitched on grass, my life took an unexpected turn. Because, quite simply, I felt better.

In one sense, I was about to discover an utterly simple answer (fresh air) to an unutterably complex condition (environmental illness). I had suddenly lightened my toxic load. As Bill Sothern, an indoor air quality expert and the founder of the Microecologies firm, told The New York Times last May: ‘The air indoors is 10 times more contaminated than the air outdoors at any given time.’ I didn’t have to test for, or calibrate, or catalogue, the innumerable potential contaminants, since they varied from place to place – fresh paint, synthetic carpet, formaldehyde, mold overgrowth, flame retardants, fabric softener, pesticides, second-hand smoke. I needed only to leave it all behind: to live, temporarily, outside.

But living outside changes you. You slowly unspool from civilisation, and the more you embed yourself in nature, the deeper the alchemy. Most of us sense this; it might be why camping, hiking and wilderness adventures seem to be an ever-greater obsession.

A few weeks later, we drove into 200,000 acres of national forest in North Florida. The drive from the forest edge to the campground itself takes about half an hour, through the choiring strings of gaunt loblolly pines rising like endless throngs of organ pipes reaching for the light. The hidden campground, on a spring-fed lake, is a moist and lush wonderland festooned with live oaks, pines and Spanish mosses. One lone cypress grows on a spit of land in the lake. Everybody loves it for its anomalous, gnarled, stubborn insistence on living where it unfortunately landed.

We chose the loop with water and electric. There, fitful insomnia gave way to deep sleep. (Yes, research from the University of Colorado confirms this effect; camping for one week, away from electric light, resets even the most stalwart night owl’s circadian rhythms.) My constant, aching muscle tension eased because, I guessed, I was nearly off grid, far from electrosmog. I ate fish an hour after it was caught from that pristine lake, and discovered that my body liked pure food. In short, the frisson of reactivity I had lived with for years was gone. I gazed up at a cerulean sky – a blue so blue it seemed an invisible hand had peeled wax paper off the stratosphere. I taunted the crazed mosquitoes banging against the mesh of my tent. I got stronger. We took long constitutionals, my old-fashioned choice of word for walks. A sunny day was laundry day: I heated water in a Le Creuset pot and washed my clothes by hand, hanging them to dry on a nylon line strung between trees. I loved to bury my face in their fresh scent.

Excerpt continues: https://t.me/IntuitivePublicYogas/343

Continuing from excerpt: https://t.me/IntuitivePublicYogas/341

Most striking, however, was my shift in mood. Rumination and anxiety seemed to melt away. And it was not simply the cliché of being in nature, for all nature was not equal. Over the next few years of frequent camping, I found I could always correlate clean air with clarity of mind and mood, as if my body was a pollution-sensing device calibrated to detect tiny shifts.

I discovered invisible ecosystems all around me, pockets of goodness and pockets of badness, carried on prevailing winds, borne on clean or polluted lakes and rivers, emanating out of untouched or developed land, shifting with the seasons. At every campground, high on a hill always felt cleaner. The sunnier sites grew no mold. The lakes where you were allowed to fish as much as you wanted felt good. The lakes in which agricultural run-off led to algae blooms made my body ache and pummelled my mood. I learned to walk around a campsite and simply stand in the middle, feeling my body’s response, before I chose the place to pitch my tent. '

https://aeon.co/essays/environmental-illness-made-me-too-sick-to-live-inside?fbclid=IwAR3o5_hInG9T_5Nv-wj0Ob693IWkBqRZV2enFD8CQeaMQwbp_K4FAocgHIY