When pain becomes suffering

We each have a go-to reaction when we don’t get our way. Maybe yours is to flash anger. Maybe it’s to shut down and harbor a grudge. Maybe you pout, feel shame, lay guilt trips. Whatever your version of emotional reactivity, when in these moments, you stand at the juncture where our highest work begins—the juncture between pain and suffering.

How many times have you heard of someone “coming out” of hardship with new understanding; appreciation for life; efforts that have a tremendous impact on those around them, their community, the world? How many times have you heard the opposite: of someone spiraling from hardship into destruction of self, others, the world? Different stories. Same juncture. One person’s pain leads to liberation. Another's to suffering and harm.

Path back to my cabin in NY at night. Scared.

It is up to each of us to work with our own reactive tendencies. To do this, of course we must see them. We must acknowledge that they exist and stop rationalizing. Nobody can hold your own pain but you, and nobody can alleviate your own suffering but you. (But oh boy, much gratitude to those of you willing to hold the space for others as they grow through these intense periods of pain and suffering. You are the ones changing the world.)

Same path in the light. No fear.

To work at this juncture requires an encounter with pain. This really stinks, and no sane person would intentionally invite pain into their life. But nobody has to; we live in a hurting world. On any given day we can have our feelings hurt, panic, get sick, and so on. But we don't have to confuse the situations or people who trigger pain in us as the reason for our suffering. (If only such-and-such would stop, go away, change, I could be happy!) Situations and people don’t cause us to suffer; we do a fine job of that on our own.

And here comes something very cliché: to work on alleviating suffering, we need only 1 thing: kindness. Call it love. Call it caring. Call it, at the least, civil respect. Call it whatever you like. But until we make friends with our reactive tendencies, we’re going to remain on some level an enemy with ourselves and the world. We will continue to suffer.

Kindness when we're hurting always leads us back home.

I remember as a child when my favorite blue dress with white daisies began to cut me under the arms. I wiggled and pulled at the sleeves, which made the cutting and chafing worse. I tugged at it from the bottom, which popped the hem. The more I pulled, the more I hurt. Finally I didn’t just stop pulling; I took off the dress and didn’t wear it again. 

There is likely suffering that it’s time for each of us to stop wearing. If it helps to try it on to convince yourself that it no longer fits, do that for as long as it's necessary. Pull and wiggle all you want. When it's obvious that you've outgrown it, may you put it aside and see once again how lovely you are without it. May you live at ease. 

Saint Francis and the Sow, by Galway Kinnell

The bud

stands for all things,

even for those things that don't flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;

as Saint Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead 

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch

blessing of earth on the sow, and the sow

began remembering all down her thick length,

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine

down through the great broken heart

to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

Be brave: Try

Some of the smallest acts require the biggest efforts: writing the first words on a blank page, stepping up to a microphone, walking onto a dance floor. We could live our whole lives without doing most things that both intrigue and terrify us, and nobody would ever be the wiser. But we’d know. And that’s the kicker.

Longing to try something, while avoiding it like hell, keeps us emotionally stuck: we can’t hold back in one area of our life and not be holding back in others. So today, what would you like to try? If thinking of a sentence helps, try this one:

I would like to ________, but ________.

I met a champion extreme snow skier one winter in Vermont. The mountains were covered with snow and ice, and I asked him to be my walk buddy whenever we went outside. He explained how while he's skiing at breakneck speed, he looks only at the open space on a path, not at objects that might cause him to crash, and that as long as he moves toward space, he doesn’t crash. I spent every walk we took stepping exactly wherever he stepped.

A similar shift in focus might work when we lose sight of space and, instead, can see only what might, maybe, could (but probably won’t) block the path. It doesn’t matter if we’re scared. It doesn’t matter if we’re not a champion at what we’re trying to do. It matters only that we try. One little step. Then another. 

First time clipped into the pedals.

It’s strange to think that taking even a little step toward having a new experience can make us healthier in all areas of our life, but it can. We get braver with each step that we take. And when we’re braver, we’re better able to see the open space that is always so much bigger than what scares us. 

I can't stop staring at what scares me!

This past winter while a group of us were giving timed presentations at a retreat, one presenter froze. He was going along fine, when he suddenly stopped mid-sentence. He turned to the teacher, Pema Chödrön, and said, “I need to stop. I can’t go on.” Her response was soft and her voice was low: She said, “Try.” He took a big breath and spoke a sentence, then another, until he finished his talk. It's a lovely thing to be in the presence of someone willing to try.

Is there something that you want to try, but you can't see beyond what seems to be blocking the way? May you step out into space anyway. May you take a big breath and do something extremely brave: just try.

On Commitment

Until one is committed, there is always hesitancy,

the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness.
Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation),

there is one elementary truth,

the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:

that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help that would never otherwise have occurred.

A whole stream of events issues from the decision,

raising to one's favor all manner of unforeseen accidents and meetings

and material assistance which no man could have dreamed

would come his way.

Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it.

Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.

                                                            -Goethe

Saying YES

I once applied for a job that didn’t interest me all that much. With that “nothing to lose” attitude, I asked for an inflated salary, to work only 30 hours each week but to receive full benefits, and to have an extra week of paid vacation tacked on each year. The representative kept responding that the answer from “above” would certainly be no, but that she would ask anyway. She did ask. The answer was yes. I took the job. 

That was years ago, but I still smile when I remember how lovely it felt to hear Yes. It feels even lovelier when I can provide that answer for myself, in regard to things that actually do interest me. Hearing Yes in the mind can feel so spacious. I don’t know why we accustom ourselves to hearing no instead. 

When I feel stuck in my own no-ness, I sometimes ask: What questions can I actually answer with Yes right now? Can I really just turn off my computer and take a walk?...Can I really ask somebody to help me with a chore that I’ve been dreading?...Can I say yes to saying no when asked to volunteer, simply because I don't want to volunteer right now?

Can I really have 2 carbs at 1 meal?

I’ve decided right here, right now, sitting on the deck with a glass of wine, to continue with this practice of yes-ness. If it makes you smile inside to think of saying Yes, will you actually join me? And then, without giving ourselves time to change our mind, may we get quiet enough to hear ourselves say YES.

God Says Yes to Me, by Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic

and she said yes

I asked her if it was okay to be short

and she said it sure is

I asked her if I could wear nail polish

or not wear nail polish

and she said honey

she calls me that sometimes

She said, you can do just exactly 

what you want to

Thanks God I said

And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph 

my letters

Sweetcakes God said

who knows where she picked that up

What I’m telling you is

Yes Yes Yes

Meditation: Don't take it personally

I swept the deck this morning. By afternoon it was covered over again with pollen. I didn’t take it personally. Our mind works in a similar clear-then-covered-over-again way. We need not take this personally either.

Practicing mindfulness can help us respond to each other and to life situations in a way that feels clear, even when our mind seems anything but. This is because mindfulness is not about finding a fixed state of clear mind; it’s about responding clearly to ever-changing states of mind. (Think Stepford Wives to get a glimpse of what living in a fixed state of mind might look like...scary).

By mindful response I don’t mean deciding not to complain, faking anything, or sucking it up when we’re in pain. Those responses are fueled by suppression (and are also annoying as all get out). I’m talking about a way of responding that is fueled by the clarity that is present even in tough times.

Palmyra Inn, Wakefield, VA: Built 1745. Still needs sweeping today.

I don’t want to make this way of responding sound easy. It’s often not easy. But it can be made easier by an intentional, regular meditation practice. Each time that we get still and quiet, we practice being with ourselves in a very ordinary way. This ordinariness is a key component of the clarity that is always there, with or without us.

Through regular practice we become keenly aware that the practice of mindfulness is personal—that it involves working with our unique situations—but that we need not take the practice personally. The practice is just the practice. Sweeping the deck is just sweeping the deck. And even though we know that the pollen will appear again and again, we continue to get out the broom and sweep.

The Hippo, by Steven Hickman

The hippo floats in swamp serene,

some emerged, but most unseen.

Seeing all and only blinking,

Who knows what this beast is thinking.

Gliding, and of judgment clear,

Letting go and being here.

Seeing all, both guilt and glory,

Only noting. But that’s MY story.

I sit here hippo-like and breathe,

While inside I storm and seethe.

Would that I were half equanimous

As that placid hippopotamus. 

4 gates of speech

There is a meditation practice that involves contemplating slogans to train the mind and wake up the heart. One of the slogans is “Don’t Malign Others.” This means what it sounds like it means: not to speak degradingly about others.

I can’t imagine someone proposing the opposite—that we speak to degrade others—yet sometimes we do speak in a way that degrades. Gossiping certainly does this. So does nitpicking about, or making fun of, the way someone eats, walks, speaks, thinks, lives their life, and so on. This sort of talk usually comes from a desire to highlight ourselves—how clever we are, how right we are, how virtuous we are. 

Even if what we say sounds like helpful advice, words spoken to show off something about ourselves can short-circuit another person's opportunity to come to an even fuller understanding than our words might point them toward. If we're talking in a way that would bring pain to the heart of even one person, we can benefit from examining our speech. 

One practice that might help is called the Four Gates of Speech. It works like this: Before speaking to others, or even to ourselves, we pass through the following 4 “gates” in the order that they are listed below.  

Are the words that I’m about to speak...
1) True?
2) Necessary? 
3) Spoken at the right time? 
4) Spoken in kindness?

If we come upon a NO answer at any of the gates, may we stop there and find peace in silence. If we come upon an I’M NOT CERTAIN answer, may we return to the first gate later on and start over. If the answer is YES at each gate, may we speak with the confidence and clarity of one who is brave enough to love.

Simon guards the gate at Rancho De La Osa, Sasabe, AZ

Ode 314, Rumi

Those who don't feel this Love

pulling them like a river,

those who don't drink dawn

like a cup of spring water

or take in sunset like supper,

those who don't want to change,

let them sleep.

This Love is beyond the study of theology,

that old trickery and hypocrisy.

If you want to improve your mind that way

sleep on.

I've given up on my brain.

I've torn the cloth to shreds

and thrown it away.

If you're not completely naked,

wrap your beautiful robe of words

around you,

and sleep.

2 responses to impermanence

An elderly woman kept repeating Things change as she told me about things that used to be true for her: I used to like french fries, but now I don't have a taste for them...Things change. I used to have coffee every morning, but after my husband died, I stopped that...Things change. I used to be able to drink water whenever I wanted—now I have to wait for someone to come by and fill my cup. Things change.

Her words convey more than an intellectual knowing of impermanence; she now lives this knowing in a way that makes even a drink of water something to be savored.

Nothing in the world is permanent, and we're foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we're still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it. -W Somerset Maugham

We know that impermanence is the nature of life: things arise, they remain for a time, they dissolve. There is never a moment when anything stops. We can have one of two responses to this ongoing cycle: we can 1) appreciate and maybe even find preciousness in the temporary nature of all things, or we can 2) fear change and struggle against it. 

There is a question that I ask myself when I'm fearful and struggling: What most wants to be lived through me in this moment? By asking this question instead of asking "What do I want to happen right now," I can sometimes realign my mind with the dynamic nature of things. Of course this doesn't always work, and even when it does, it doesn't ensure that I won't feel fear. But if I can lean into the fear even a little, I often see that fear too is impermanent—that it also remains only for a time before dissolving.

We all have to decide if we would rather live closely aligned with impermanence, which means experiencing both the sadness and the joy inherent in change, or whether we would rather live in a more controlled, measured way. Perhaps today you can try to notice the three qualities of impermanence—arising, remaining for a time, dissolving—in the spaces of your own life, body, emotions, and so on. 

A precious sad-joy moment for Pat and her father

There is a koan that points to impermanence: What was your face before your parents were born? Contemplating koans can open the mind in ways that conventional thinking usually doesn't. So, what was your face before your parents' birth? What will your face be 300 years from now? What is it right now? And what most wants to be lived through you in this very moment?

Between Going and Staying, by Octavio Paz

Between going and staying the day wavers,

in love with its own transparency.

The circular afternoon is now a bay

where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,

all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,

rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats

the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall

into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,

watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,

I stay and go: I am a pause.

The wonder of not knowing

My father’s father used to take us kids on walks up mountainsides. I can close my eyes and see those mountains now. Mainly it’s my grandfather's long legs that I recall, as I followed his steps so as not to slip on the jagged slate. We’d stop at points and look back down at road, at houses, at where we had started the climb. 

That’s how it is with my life, and I’m guessing that it might be the same for you—that you look back, and that you can trace the path to exactly where you are right now. I don’t see how it could be any other way, really. With my logical mind, many of the steps that I've taken made no sense at the time and caused me pain, but from the vantage point of sitting here this morning, I see that they were the perfect route to what and who I am today.

Pema Chödrön says that looking back is a wise way to see our progress, because if, instead, we measure progress by how much further we have to go, we will certainly be overwhelmed by all the mountain there is left to climb. At the least we would try to minimize encounters with obstacles in order to get to the top the fastest way possible. And while such planning may make for effective mountaineering, it doesn't work as well when it comes to our lives. 

Reminders of the obvious: Slogan wall by stupa at Gampo Abbey

Sometimes we’d stop with my grandfather and pick wildflowers from between cracks in the slate. That such soft flowers grew among hard rock amazed me; I wondered if those flowers had caused the cracks simply by growing. I want to be like those flowers—soft yet resilient. I want to stop to pick flowers, pause to look back at the path that has brought me here, then step out again with sure footing.

The other day I found a small, round stone. It was smooth like a child’s cheek, and I slipped it in my pocket and turned it over and over between my fingers. It stood out because it was the only stone on the asphalt where I walked, and I wondered how it had gotten there. I keep it on my kitchen windowsill to remind me to keep noticing.

I want to keep noticing like this!

Einstein says that it’s a miracle that curiosity survives formal education. The space of noticing, of being curious is where we first encounter knowing and, at the same time, not knowing. I am happy that this space survives in each of us. May we all find ways to reconnect with the wonder of not knowing, and may this lead us to step out in ways that amaze and delight us.

Two Kinds of Intelligence, by Rumi

There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired,

as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts

from books and from what the teacher says,

collecting information from the traditional sciences

as well as from the new sciences.

With such intelligence you rise in the world.

You get ranked ahead or behind others

in regard to your competence in retaining

information. You stroll with this intelligence

in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more

marks on your preserving tablets.

There is another kind of tablet, one

already completed and preserved inside you.

A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness

in the center of the chest. This other intelligence

does not turn yellow or stagnate. It's fluid,

and it doesn't move from outside to inside

through conduits of plumbing-learning.

This second knowing is a fountainhead

from within you, moving out.