True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (13 page)

Guided Reflection: My Top-Ten Hits

Cultivating an alert and friendly
relationship with your “Top-Ten Hits”—the issues and themes that regularly take over your mind—is the beginning of awakening from their grip. Both this exercise and the RAIN meditation that follows build on the basic skill of recognizing thoughts in the “Coming Back” meditation in chapter 3.

For several days keep a journal where you identify and record your primary areas of obsessive thinking. This might include obsessing about

Once you have your list, select two or three obsessions that you know regularly take over your mind and trap you in anxiety, shame, anger, or discontent. Find a name that describes each of these obsessions—several words that are simple, easy to remember, and not derogatory. It could be something like “worrying about my daughter,” “wanting a drink,” “judging myself for doing a bad job.” For example, one of my obsessions is strategizing how I'm going to get everything done. I call this “checking things off list.” Another arises when I enter a cycle of joint pain and physical weakness, and my mind spins with thoughts about what is causing it, what will help, how much worse it will get over time, and how much exercise I can get away with. These are “sickness thoughts.” Yet another obsession is anticipating upcoming stressful events. This is “leaning ahead.”

For the next week or two as you move through the day, try to notice when you are caught in one of these preidentified obsessions. When you become aware that you are circling in the obsession, mentally whisper its name and pause.

In the moment of identifying an obsessive thought, the most important thing to do is offer a nonjudging, friendly quality of attention to your experience.
In fact, the more friendly the better! Gently remind yourself that the thought is “real but not true.” Honor that this is a moment of awakening, of stepping out of virtual reality into the actuality of what is here. In that spirit, take a real interest in what is happening inside you. You might feel the inflow and outflow of your breath as you check into your body and ask what it is feeling. Is there tension in your chest? Knots in your stomach? Numbness? Pressure? Are you aware of fear? Anger? Anxiety? Craving? Breathe with whatever sensations or emotions are there, sensing the energy that underlies obsessive thinking.

Do not try to change the feelings you encounter in any way. Rather, just offer them a respectful, allowing presence. Depending on your situation, this step of attending to your feelings might take thirty seconds to a minute. Then, take a few full breaths, relaxing with each out-breath, and resume your daily activity. Notice the difference between being inside the virtual reality of an obsession and being awake, here and now.

Practice with your first two or three obsessions for as many days, weeks, or months as seems fruitful, and then when you feel inclined, either add or substitute a different set. Use a journal if that helps. You might also find it helpful to team up with an “obsession buddy” for company and support. Let each other know the name of the obsessions you are working with, and find a time each week to check in and share what you are discovering.

Reflect on the following: What helps you to recognize when you are lost in obsession? What do you notice when you first pause? How are you relating to the obsession (kindly? with curiosity? feeling victimized by it? discouraged?)? Have you noticed any changes in the strength and duration of the obsessive thinking? More generally, how has the obsessive thinking affected your life, and how might that be changing?

Guided Reflection: Bringing RAIN to Obsession

Here is a practice for when obsessive thinking arises in the midst of a meditation, or when you are obsessing during daily activity and have the time to stop for a fuller investigation.

Sitting in a posture that allows you to be alert and relaxed, let your attention focus on whatever obsessive theme is appearing in your mind. If you have not already named it, find a few words as a mental label. It might be that you note “anxious about …” or “wanting so and so to …” or “judging …”

After naming the obsession, pause and let the whole experience of obsessing—the images and words, the reality that you've been obsessing, the mood surrounding obsessing—be as it is. You are not trying to fight obsessive thought; rather, you are recognizing what is and allowing it.

With curiosity and gentleness, begin to investigate what is going on inside you. As you attend to the theme of obsession—what you are worried about, what you are wanting—also bring your attention into where that fear or wanting lives in your body. Pay particular attention to your throat, chest, and belly—to the midline of your body. Where is your experience most distinct? What sensations do you notice (heat? pressure? tightness?)? What emotions are you aware of (fear? shame? anger?)?

Continue to investigate by speaking directly to whatever experience feels most compelling. Ask that part of you, “What do you want from me? What do you most need?” Perhaps you are feeling fear, and the fear wants forgiveness for being there or wants to trust that you will pay attention to it. There might be a part of you that is craving food and wants to be soothed, to feel held in love. Listen with an intimate attention to what the emotional energies in your body are asking for under the obsessive thinking.

As you listen to your wants and fears, watch for any words, images, or feelings that arise in response. Perhaps you will feel your heart soften with acceptance or care. Perhaps you will have an image of that vulnerable part of you filled with light or warmth, or feel that place being bathed in loving attention. No need to invent or force anything; simply sense any natural response you may have.

You might find that instead of a tender response, there is another wave of reactivity. Perhaps you'll notice judgmental thoughts (“I don't deserve love”) or fear (“Something really
is
wrong, this won't help”). Whatever arises, recognize it and say yes, including it in your attention. As before, you can investigate by discovering how it expresses in your body and what it needs. Again, sense the possibility of offering it the tenderness, acceptance, or love it might want.

By continuing to investigate and offer a caring presence to the layers that make up obsessive thought, you are enlarging the awareness that heals and frees you. When you rest here, obsession will have less power to obscure who you really are.

Can you imagine understanding, even loving, someone who belongs to a group of people responsible for killing your father or brother or best friend? Can you imagine growing close to someone whose people have driven you from your home, humiliated your family, and turned you into a refugee in your own country? Twenty-two teenage girls from Israel and Palestine were flown in to a camp in rural New Jersey, where they would live together in the face of these questions. As part of a program called Building Bridges for Peace, these young people were called upon to examine beliefs that seemed central to their identity, beliefs that had fueled estrangement, anger, hatred, and war.

Even though they had volunteered for the program, the girls were initially mistrustful of each other, and sometimes overtly hostile. One Palestinian teen drew a line in the sand right from the start: “When we're here, who knows, maybe we're friends. When we return, you are my enemy again. My heart is filled with hatred for the Jews.” In another exchange, an Israeli girl told a Palestinian: “You expect to be treated as a human being, but you don't act like one. You don't
deserve
human rights!”

Yet from this harsh beginning, some of the girls left camp having formed deep bonds, and for most, it became impossible to see each other as the enemy. What allowed for this change of heart? The girls contacted the truth of each other's pain and the truth of each other's goodness. Reality, when we let it in, dismantles the iron grip of our beliefs. As one Israeli girl put it, “If I don't know you, it's easy to hate you. If I look in your eyes, I can't.”

Suffering: The Call to Investigate Beliefs

The Buddha taught that ignorance—ignoring or misunderstanding reality—is the root of all suffering. What does this mean? He surely did not mean to deny the inevitable pains and losses in our lives, but he wanted his followers to grasp how their beliefs about what is happening—their thoughts about themselves, others, and the world—represented a contracted and fragmented view of reality. This distorted view, described by the Buddha as a dream, fueled the cravings and fears that confined their lives.

The Buddha also told an ancient teaching story that we still repeat to our children. A king instructs a group of blind men to describe an elephant. Each man feels one part of the elephant's body—the tusk, the leg, the trunk, the tail. Each gives a detailed—and very different—report about the nature of the elephant. Then they come to blows about who is right. Each man is honestly describing his immediate and real experience, yet each misses the big picture, the whole truth.

Every belief we hold is a limited snapshot, a mental representation, not reality itself. But some beliefs are more fear-based and injurious than others. Like the teens in Building Bridges, we may believe that certain people are evil. We may believe that we can't trust anyone. We may believe that we are fundamentally flawed and can't trust ourselves. These beliefs all arise from the primary fear-based belief that the Buddha identified: that we are separate from the rest of the world, vulnerable and alone. Whether our beliefs arouse self-loathing, trap us in self-destructive addictions, ensnare us in conflict with a partner, or send us to war with an enemy, we are suffering because we are mistaken about reality. Our beliefs narrow our attention and separate us from the living truth of how things are. They cut us off from the full aliveness, love, and awareness that is our source.

The sage Sri Nisargadatta teaches that “illusion exists … because it is not investigated.” If we are attached to untrue beliefs, it is because we have not examined our thoughts. We have not met them with the mindful investigation of RAIN; we have not asked whether they truly represent our current, living experience of reality.
Suffering is our call to attention, our call to investigate the truth of our beliefs.
For the teenage girls in Building Bridges, the call to investigate was the hatred tearing at the fabric of their lives and society. For a parent, the call might be the stranglehold of worry about a child's welfare. For a social activist, it might be exhaustion and despair in face of seemingly endless war and injustice. For a musician, it might be the disabling terror that accompanies performance. Wherever we feel most endangered, most separate, most deficient—that is where we need to shine the light of investigation.

The Portal of Addiction

Jason's call to attention was the addiction that was threatening to destroy his marriage and career. As a lobbyist for an important industrial group, he was constantly scanning his environment for people who might thwart him, and obsessing about the situations that might undermine his reputation as a powerful and connected person. The man who came to see me was fit, attractive, and seemingly confident. Yet, as I learned, he'd been priming himself with alcohol and cocaine in order to get through the many meetings and social gatherings that were essential to his work.

Jason had come to the United States from Argentina in his early teens. He'd thrived academically on scholarships, and over the years had climbed the corporate ladder. He and his wife, Marcella, seemed to be living the American dream, but it was in danger of falling apart.

For about a year, Jason had been an intermittent member of Narcotics Anonymous. But he had recently found a sponsor he really liked and the sponsor invited Jason to join him at my weekly meditation class. After several sessions Jason e-mailed me for an appointment.

At our first meeting, Jason jumped right in. “I'm abstinent right now,” he told me, “but part of me still thinks I can do this my way.” He admitted that cocaine and alcohol had been causing real trouble, but he believed that he could get away with occasional use. Cocaine in particular made him feel competent and in control, an experience that, in Jason's words, “is difficult to swear off.”

But Jason knew he was in a bind. The president of his trade association had insisted that he go into a twelve-step program, and his wife had made it clear that their relationship was at risk unless he abstained totally. After telling me that he was committed to keeping his job and preserving his marriage, Jason shook his head and frowned. “I know this should be a no-brainer, Tara. But it's hard.”

I've worked with many clients and students who've been stuck in similar ways. They are trying to make a life change that seems healthy and wise—giving up smoking, losing weight, abstaining from affairs, refraining from lashing out at loved ones—yet some inner resistance or impulsiveness either makes them unwilling or sets them up to try and fail repeatedly. This is a signal that strongly held beliefs are in control; it is a call for investigation.

When I asked Jason how he felt about his situation he spoke without hesitation. “Right now I'm angry. I can deal with my own problems, so it pisses me off when Marcella and my boss nose into my business.”

“Can you agree to let the anger be here?” I asked. “Just to allow it and feel it?” After a few moments Jason nodded, then added, “I get mad a lot. Mostly when people are getting in my way, trying to control things. “

“Jason, take a moment to remember a recent time when someone was doing that … trying to control things.” He nodded and with a grim smile said, “It happened a few hours ago.”

“Okay,” I said. “Now rerun the situation and stop when you are most aware of reacting.” It took him only a few seconds. “Got it.”

“Bring your attention to the place in your body where your feelings are the strongest … it might be your throat, your chest, your belly … just check in and sense what's happening, what you're feeling.”

Jason clenched his hands into fists. I asked him what he was feeling, and at first he hesitated. “It's … it's … well, my stomach's in knots. It's … fear.”

Why Core Beliefs Are So Powerful

Our core beliefs are often based on our earliest and most potent fears—we construct our strongest assumptions and conclusions about life from them. This conditioning is in service of survival. Our brains are designed to anticipate the future based on the past; if something bad happened once, it can happen again. Our brains are also biased to encode most strongly memories of experiences that are accompanied by feelings of endangerment. This is why even a few failures can instill feelings of helplessness and deficiency, which many later successes may not be able to undo. As the saying goes, “Our memories are Velcro for painful experiences and Teflon for pleasant ones!” We are very inclined toward building our core beliefs out of experiences of hurt and fear, and holding on to them (and the underlying fears) for dear life.

Imagine that you are a child trying to get your mother's attention: You want her to look at your drawing, to get you a drink, to play a game with you. While she sometimes responds to your needs, at other times she explodes in anger at being disturbed. She yells at you to leave her alone and threatens to spank you. Years later, you may not remember most of these incidents, but your brain registered her anger and rejection, and your hurt and fear. Over time, these encoded memories may constellate into negative beliefs about yourself and what you can expect from others: “I am too needy … people won't love me”; “If I bother someone, I'll get punished”; or “Nobody really wants to spend time with me.”

The greater the degree of early life stress or trauma, the greater the conditioning, and the greater the likelihood of deeply entrenched fear-based beliefs. If you grew up in a war zone, your survival fears would ensure that you automatically distinguish between “us” and “them,” and you would easily classify “them” as bad and dangerous. If you were sexually abused as a child, any intimacy might seem dangerous, a setup for abuse. Alternately, you might be drawn to aggressive and domineering people, because the connection feels so familiar or even “safe.” If you are an African American male, you might believe that you will be seen as inferior, held back no matter how hard you try, or unfairly targeted as a criminal. If you were poor and went hungry, you might believe that there will never be enough, that you will never be secure, no matter how rich you become.

Although they're rooted in the past, our core beliefs feel current and true. The thoughts and feelings associated with them filter our experience of what is happening right now, and they prime us to respond in a certain way. If your partner seems preoccupied when you ask her a question, it can set off a very old feeling of not mattering, and that feeling may trigger a reflex to become apologetic, withdrawn, or aggressive. If your boss asks you to redo part of a project, it can set off old feelings of failure and a reflex to give up or to become angry and resentful. Your core belief narrows your current experience to a single interpretation: You are threatened and alone.

This picture is complicated, of course, because current experience may reinforce old beliefs. If, like the Building Bridges teens, you believe that your enemies want to kill you, every suicide bomber, every home destroyed by the army, deepens your conviction. For these girls, danger is a daily reality. But the interpretation of that reality—that the hatred is personally directed at a self, that only by striking back will the self be safe—is not necessarily true. As we will see, if we can attend to the whole truth of our current experience, a space opens up, and we can begin to glimpse other possibilities.

In the Grip of Fear-Beliefs

For Jason, the first step was to investigate the fear he'd discovered underneath his anger. I asked him to try an experiment. “As you feel the fear in your stomach, just allow your face to express it.” Jason's eyes widened and hardened and his gaze fixed on the floor. His jaw was clenched, his mouth pressed tight. “Now,” I said, “see what happens when you look at the situation through the perspective of your fear. What is your fear trying to tell you? What does it believe is going to happen? What does it believe about you, about your life?

“You don't have to
think
about an answer,” I went on. “Actually feel that you are inside the fear and sense how it is experiencing the world.” This is an important reminder, because investigation can easily become a mental activity quite removed from the experience of the moment. Jason seemed to understand that he should stay in direct contact with his feelings: He tilted his head slightly as if he were listening to the frightened place inside him.

When he spoke, it was in a soft, low voice: “My fear tells me that if I don't take control, someone will control me, disrespect me, hurt me.” Again he paused and seemed to look inward. Finally he said, “It believes that I'm a failure, just a bag of hot air … and that everyone will find out how weak I am. Then they won't respect me … or like me.”

By giving his fear a voice, Jason had revealed the core beliefs that were driving his life. During our next two sessions he told me about growing up outside of Buenos Aires. He had been bullied and shamed by an alcoholic father, and then by his older brother. “When I was a kid,” he said, “they were the real men. That's how men were. Tough, always putting down the weaker ones …” He was quiet a moment. “I wasn't like my brother, big and loud. I liked books, even as a kid. And I didn't like to fight. So in front of the whole neighborhood my father would call me
una niña
—a girl. It was the worst when he was drinking … Right after he lost his job he beat me up badly.”

Jason remembered the day he decided to start working out at the gym. His family had moved the year before to live with relatives in the Bronx, and he was a freshman in high school. “My brother and his friends would hang out by a gas station, and I'd have to pass them walking home from school. That day it was raining, and I was walking fast, toting a pile of books. They started hooting at me, making fun of me.” Then one of the boys shoved Jason and he went sprawling over the curb. A car ran over a couple of textbooks, and the others thought this was hilarious. “That was it, Tara,” he said. “I wasn't going to let anyone mess with me again.” Within a year, that skinny kid had changed. “I was ripped,” Jason told me, “and cruising the streets with the older guys. For a while, I was as mean as the worst of them.”