True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (14 page)

Jason had to hide the fact that he studied hard and got good grades. “I just acted bad, and stayed up late at nights, finishing assignments.” Recognizing his potential, two of his teachers steered him toward a scholarship at a prestigious state university. “I was playing everyone,” he confided. “The teachers thought I was ‘clean,' but I was drugging and partying up a storm … and my friends thought I was one of them, but I knew I was leaving the hood.” After a thoughtful pause Jason gave me a level look. “I'm still playing everyone, aren't I?”

Our Beliefs Become Our Destiny—Unless We See Them

Jason had found strategies that gave him a sense of control and temporary security, whether it was building his muscles, getting good grades, drugging, or presenting a “take charge” persona. But now these same strategies, like all false refuges, were backfiring. Constantly manipulating others reinforced his sense of being a flawed person who had to struggle to stay on top. Alcohol and drug use had become addictions that threatened both his job and his marriage. His very efforts to stay in control were preventing him from actually facing and healing his deep insecurity. Jason was caught in a vicious cycle that would continue as long as he bought into his core beliefs.

If we pay close attention, we can see how our beliefs about ourselves and the world give rise to the very behaviors and events that confirm them. If you believe that nobody will like you, you'll behave in ways that broadcast your insecurities. When people pull away, your sense of rejection will confirm your belief. If you believe that others are waiting to attack or criticize you, you'll probably act defensive or aggressive. Then when people push back, your fears will be justified.

The Buddha taught that if your mind is captured by the fear and misunderstanding of limiting beliefs, “trouble will follow you as the wheel follows the ox that draws the cart.” Traditional translations of Buddhist texts speak of the mind as “impure,” but this can be understood as “distorted,” “colored,” or “tainted.” Today, many twelve-step programs draw attention to “stinking thinking,” the deluded self-justifications that are the precursor to relapse. Similarly, a cognitive therapist might help a client recognize the assumptions behind his interpretation of events, and show how they shape his responses. If we are primed to believe that others don't care or understand, how will that affect our search for intimacy? If we believe it is dangerous to stand out, how does that affect our creativity and self-expression? As the Buddha put it, “With our thoughts we make the world.”

There is only one way to free ourselves from the grip of limiting beliefs, and that is by bringing a full presence to the raw feelings that drive them. Yet contacting these feelings—the fear, the shame, the grief—can be painfully difficult, even intolerable. That is why we can spend years or decades reacting to the world out of our beliefs, rather than investigating their emotional roots. For some people it's wise, or even essential, to have the support of a trusted healer, teacher, or therapist as they face those underlying feelings. Yet whether we are working with core beliefs on our own or with support, healing arises out of our willingness to bring the entire interdependent tangle of beliefs and emotions into awareness.

Into the Black Hole

When Jason came back to see me, he was in crisis. During our first three meetings, he'd uncovered the beliefs that had shaped his life. But he quickly began to numb out this awareness. He plunged into a major project with a new client, and then one Friday night he became very anxious and he broke his abstinence by going to a bar after work and drinking several martinis. When he got home, Marcella angrily confronted him. “I hadn't called my sponsor, I hadn't been going to meetings or even meditating. Marcella told me I had destroyed her last shred of hope.” She insisted that he sleep in his study and told him she was consulting a divorce attorney on Monday.

“Marcella and I haven't talked since the weekend. I know what I want to say to her, but I just can't.”

I waited, and he nodded, gathering himself to say the words. “I want to beg her …” His voice cracked, and he took a few breaths. “I want to beg her to give me another chance … but that is so … weak. So pathetic.” Now there was a flare of irritation in his eyes, and stiffening in his shoulders. “If she sees me like that, how could she ever want me?”

“So,” I inquired, “wanting her to give you another chance is weak?”

“Well … it's just that … letting her know that my world would collapse without her, without our life together … that … that I need her.” Jason began tearing up, but then wiped his eyes briskly. His hands clenched again, and he gave me an embarrassed shrug.

“Jason, for a very long time something in you has believed that you are weak and unworthy … I want to ask you, is this the truth? Are you unworthy of respect? Unworthy of Marcella's love?”

“I … I don't know.” He was shaking his head, confused. “Intellectually I understand that I'm worthy, but I just somehow feel too pathetic for her, anyone, to respect or love me …”

As Jason's voice faltered, his body slumped back in the chair. His face seemed to drain of color. I asked him to pay attention to his body, to sense his heart, and to let me know how it felt to believe what he did: that he was unworthy of Marcella's love. He spoke in a low voice. “I feel ashamed. And totally alone.” Again the tears began welling up: “These feelings—shame, loneliness—feel very old …”

“Where are you feeling the shame and loneliness?” I asked. Jason silently brought one hand to his belly and began making small circles. Again I invited him to tell me what it was like. “It's a deep hollowness. Aching. Like I've been building my abs for years to cover this hole.”

As he spoke, I noticed that the circles he was drawing with his hand were getting larger. I pointed this out and he nodded. “It's huge—like a black hole that has pulled in my heart, and everything else.”

I encouraged Jason to simply breathe and let the hole, the ache, the hollowness be as large as it wanted to be. He agreed, his body motionless, his head shaking slightly from side to side.

“It's important to notice,” I said, “that when you believe that you're weak or unworthy,
that's
how the belief is living in your body. It's that feeling of a gaping black hole. And you've been living with
that,
the loneliness, the shame, under the surface, for a long time.” He bowed his head, nodding sadly.

We were silent for some moments, and then I went on. “Take a moment, Jason, and let yourself be aware of how believing you are unworthy has affected your relationships—with Marcella, with your colleagues and friends.” Again he nodded and after a long pause he spoke, his voice so soft that I had to lean forward to hear him. “It's kept me apart from everyone.” Then gesturing toward his chest, “My heart has been lost in a black hole, my life …” He stopped talking and closed his eyes, as if the loss was too much to try to name with words.

I invited him to take his time and just allow the feelings to unfold. He was very still for a few minutes, then said, “It feels like deep pain—a kind of squeezing and ache—from when I was young, and now it's spreading into different parts of my body.” I suggested that he stay with his experience, and if it was helpful, to breathe with it. When he opened his eyes a few minutes later, there was more brightness and life in them. “After the pain spread, it started dissolving … and now it's gone.”

I smiled, honoring his unfolding process, and for a few moments rested quietly with him in presence. Then I asked him a question that invited a shift in attention: “Jason, what would it be like to live without the belief that you are weak and unworthy?
”
As Jason was considering this, I added, “Who would you be if you no longer believed you were weak and unworthy?”

Looking at me directly, Jason responded. “I don't know who I would be.” He paused thoughtfully, and then continued, “But somehow that not knowing feels good … like all of a sudden there's space and I'm more alive.” Jason took a few full breaths, as if he were allowing himself to open to and savor that space. “What is clear,” he said, “what I do know is, if I didn't believe I was unworthy, I could relax
here
 …” Jason gestured toward his heart. “I could trust that Marcella really does care, I could trust enough to tell her the truth … That I love her.”

Jason began weeping, and this time he did not try to wipe away his tears. His hands unclenched as if to allow the enormity and intensity of all these feelings to move through him. As he consciously recognized the raw pain of his beliefs and allowed that pain to express itself, Jason's heart was opening.

When the intensity of feeling had passed, Jason took a long deep breath and sat quietly. We both knew that there was not much more to say. He whispered a sincere “Thank you,” and then added, “My work's cut out for me.” He left with a soft yet determined look in his eyes: Not so bound by his unseen beliefs, Jason now had the capacity to reconnect with his own heart, and with his wife.

The Power of Inquiry

Fear-based beliefs are creatures of the dark. They are sustained outside the light of awareness and they dissipate upon mindful inspection. As author Byron Katie teaches in her groundbreaking work, “You're either attaching to your thoughts or inquiring. There's no other choice.” Inquiry into what is true is central to Byron Katie's work and to meditative practices like RAIN. By inquiry (or in RAIN, investigation) I mean asking questions like those I asked Jason, questions that invite a deepening of attention. The ultimate purpose of inquiry is that it allows us to pause, rather than ride along on the habitual track of our assumptions about reality. In the space of a pause, truth can shine through.

“What am I believing?”

Emotional suffering is a flag that you are in the grip of unexamined, fear-based beliefs. If you are caught in anger or depression, hurt or fear, the simple question “What am I believing?” can reveal what is driving your mood. As I suggested to Jason, this inquiry needs to be directed to the feelings themselves. You are asking, “Sadness, what are you believing?” or “Fear, what are you believing?”

“Is this really true?”

When we assume a belief is truth, there is no room for other possibilities, for new information, for a larger perspective. Pausing and questioning our belief can begin to open the windows of our mind to the fresh air of reality.

One client began to ask himself this question during a painful standoff with his teenage son. He had assumed that if he didn't express his anger and judgment, his son would never become a responsible and productive adult. Asking the question “Is this really true?” stopped him in his tracks. He realized that he really didn't know whether angrily confronting his son was helping. As he continued to ask that question, pause, and listen to what came up, he became increasingly open to other possibilities. “Maybe it's more important that he gets that I trust him … that he's basically a good kid,” he said, “than always hearing from me about what is wrong.”

“What is it like to live with this belief?”

Beliefs are always accompanied by a felt sense in the body. If we pay attention, we can discover how our body feels when we are in the sway of a limiting belief. Is there tightness in certain areas? Heaviness? Hollowness? Cramping? Trembling? Are these sensations associated with particular emotional states? Are we feeling embarrassment? Fear? Anger? Self-hatred? We can also investigate more broadly, asking, “How has this belief influenced my way of relating to myself, to other people, to life?” Our answers to these questions may point to any part of our lives—to a persistent shortness of breath, to our surges of irritation, to an ongoing conflict with our spouse. Body, emotions, thoughts, and behaviors—all express our beliefs.

When I investigate how believing “something is wrong with me” affects my life, I can sense how it blocks me from feeling loving and loved. It creates a tension that keeps me restless, edgy and distracted, and unable to enjoy what I'm doing. It prevents me from being attuned and sensitive to others. Sometimes I become aware of how long I've been judging myself harshly, and of how many moments of my life have been lost to this familiar trance. This often brings up what I call “soul sadness,” a tenderness that is full of compassion. In these moments I am living in a presence that is not confined by my belief.

“What stops me from letting go of this belief?”

Even when you've seen the pain of a belief, it's easy to get rehooked and to buy into its message again. Your newfound freedom may vanish the moment someone acts insensitively toward you or you make a mistake. Sometimes the old belief reasserts itself with a vengeance: “I must have been a fool; no one will ever really understand or care about me,” or “That proves it: If I let down my guard, people do take advantage of me” or “What was I thinking? I'm a fundamental loser. I'll screw up any good thing that comes my way.”

The truth is that people don't always understand, and people do hurt us. The truth is that we will continue to make mistakes. However, it is not true that no one will ever love or understand us, or that “you're bad” or “I'm bad.” Yet our fear-based conditioning holds on tight. The mind gathers evidence to support our limiting beliefs, and it is biased toward fixating on that evidence. When you ask, “What stops me from letting go of this belief,” you shine a light on this basic strategy of self-protection. It is based on another core belief: “If I know what is wrong, at least I can control things. Keeping my attention on this will help me avoid greater pain in the future.” On some level, we believe that our beliefs are serving us.

You can challenge these underlying assumptions by again asking, “Is this really true?” If you hold on to the belief that “no one will ever really care,” will you really avoid more suffering? If you hold on to the belief that “I'm a fundamental loser,” will you start to improve in some way? If you hold on to the belief that “If I let down my guard, people will take advantage of me,” will you really feel safer and more at peace?