True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (21 page)

But Amy had told me that she was afraid to allow her anger to be there, so we started by paying attention to her fear. I encouraged her to check in with it. Was the fear willing to let this rage be here? Could the fear step aside enough so that she could be present with this rage? Amy was quiet for a few moments and then nodded. The fearful part agreed that she could continue “being with” rage.

Now Amy could begin to investigate the emotional energy beneath the blame. But I knew that for her to do so, she'd need to step outside of the seductive sway of her resentful stories. She had spent much of her life consumed by these stories, circling around and around in blaming thoughts. We had talked about the stories, respecting them as windows into her pain. But the anger also lived deeper in her body—in a place beyond thought. The next step was for her to widen and deepen her attention so that she could fully contact these embodied energies.

I asked Amy to notice what she was feeling in her body. She closed her eyes and paused for a moment. “It's like a hot pressured cauldron in my chest.” What would happen, I asked, if she said yes to this feeling, if she allowed the heat and pressure to be as intense as it wanted to be. “Tara,” she said, shaking her head, “it wants to explode …” Again, I encouraged her to let be, to allow her experience just as it was.

Amy was absolutely still for some moments, and then she spoke haltingly. “The rage feels like it is bursting flames … like a windstorm spreading in all directions. It's blasting through the windows of this office.” She stopped and looked at me. “It's fine,” I said. “Let it be as much as it is.” She went on in a low voice, “It's spreading through the East Coast. Now it's destroying all life forms … ripping through the continent, oceans, earth.” She continued telling me about the rage's fury, how it was spreading through space. Then she became very quiet. Speaking in a soft voice she finally said, “It's losing steam.” She sat back on the couch and let out a deflated, tired sigh. “Now there's just emptiness. No one is left in the world. I'm utterly alone, lonely.” Then in a barely audible whisper, she said, “There's no one who loves me, no one that I love.”

Lowering her head and putting her face in her hands, Amy began weeping. Inside the rage, she had found an empty place, a place that felt loveless. Now what was revealing itself was grief: grief for the loss of love in her life.

Widening Circles of Compassion

The poet Rumi writes, “Be crumbled, so wildflowers will come up where you are.” Amy's armoring of resentment had crumbled, exposing her feelings of being disconnected, cut off from the love that is the very source of feeling at home in life.

When I asked Amy what the grieving part of her most needed from her, she knew right away: “To know that I care about this pain, that I accept and love this grieving place.” I guided her in gently placing her hand on her heart, and offering inwardly the message her wounded self most needed to hear. She began repeating a phrase that had resonated for her at retreat a year earlier: “I'm sorry, I love you.” “I'm sorry” wasn't an apology. Rather, it was a simple expression of sorrow for her own hurt.

Amy whispered the phrase over and over to herself, and then began rocking side to side. She told me, “I'm seeing the little girl in the bath, and feeling how uncared for she feels, how alone. I'm holding her now, telling her ‘I'm sorry, I love you.'”

After a few minutes, Amy sat upright, relaxed her hands in her lap, and took a few full breaths. She looked at me with a fresh openness and brightness in her eyes. “Tara, I think I understand,” she said. “I've been angry for so long that I abandoned her—the inner part of me—just like my mom abandoned that three-year-old.” She paused, then continued. “I just have to remember that this part of me needs love. I want to love her.”

Compassion for oneself is the very essence of a forgiving heart. Yet sometimes it is not possible to hold our own being with kindness because the intensity of our anger, as well as the fear or hurt beneath the anger, is so overwhelming. Those who, like Amy, have experienced deep wounding or trauma are wise to seek the help of a therapist, teacher, or healer to guide them. Because the process of forgiving uncovers deep vulnerability, it requires much patience, whether it is done alone or with support. Especially when we're in an ongoing relationship with someone who has hurt us, we can be wounded over and over again, and it's hard not to feed the angry wolf with thoughts of blame.

Amy anticipated this. When she started talking about seeing her mother later that day, she noticed an anxious tightening in her chest. She told me, “I'm afraid I will close down around her.” But then Amy said “Wait!” and sat back, closing her eyes. She again put her hand on her heart, whispering, “I'm sorry, I love you. I'm sorry, I love you,” sending the kind message to her own anxiety. After some moments, she took a few full breaths and smiled. She spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing her words. “When I investigate and catch on to what's happening … like this fear … and offer it love, I'm no longer hooked.” Then she added, “The fear hasn't gone away, it's part of me. But the presence, the loving, lets me know I'm so much larger than that fear.”

Offering a compassionate and clear attention to her vulnerability had connected Amy with a vastness of being that could include her pain. This natural awareness, the
N
of RAIN, is the fruition of an intimate attention. When we are resting in this presence, we are inhabiting the refuge of our own awakened heart and mind.

“Amy,” I observed, “you've found a beautiful way home to who you really are.” She smiled, saying, “Yes, that's just how it feels.”

Many people in my classes and workshops have found that when they stop feeding the angry wolf and instead open to their own vulnerability, it does feel like a homecoming. As one person put it, “Instead of focusing on the person who hurt me, I started down a path of freeing myself.” We can either “get back” at someone and let the wound fester, or attend to self-healing. Feeding the angry wolf may come more easily, but learning to stay present with our inner life connects us with our goodness.

Some weeks later, Amy started our meeting by reading me her morning's journal entry: “There is more room in my heart.” The night before, after her mother had complained for the third time that her soup still wasn't salty enough, Amy felt the familiar rising tide of irritation and resentment. She sent the message “I'm sorry, I love you” inwardly to herself, giving permission to the annoyance, to the edginess in her own heart. She felt a softening, a relaxing of tension. Looking up, she was struck by her mother's grim, dissatisfied expression. And just as she'd learned to inquire about herself, the thought came: “What is my mom feeling right now?” Almost immediately, she could sense her mother's insecurity and loneliness. Imagining her mother inside her heart, Amy again began offering caring messages. “I'm sorry,” she whispered silently, “I love you.”

She found herself feeling genuinely warm toward her mom, and evidently her feelings were contagious. The evening was surprisingly pleasant for both of them. They joked about her mom doing a “mono diet” of potato chips, not so different from some of the other crazy diets—all fruit, all protein, all liquid—she had tried over the decades. Mother and daughter went online together and ordered a bathrobe and then had fun watching
The Daily Show
on TV.

At our last meeting Amy told me how, several days earlier, her mother had woken up in the morning hot and sweaty. Amy took a cool cloth to her mother's forehead and cheeks, arms and feet. “Nobody's ever washed me,” her mom had said with a wistful smile. Amy immediately remembered the little girl in the bathtub, the few inches of water, and felt tears in her eyes. She and her mom had both gone through much of life feeling neglected, as if they didn't matter. And right now, each in her own way was tasting the intimacy of care. They looked at each other and had a moment of uncomplicated love. It was the first such moment that Amy could remember, one she knew she'd cherish long after her mom was gone.

How Would a Buddha Respond?

Amy's anger and armoring softened after a deep and focused process of self-compassion, but sometimes all that's needed for forgiveness to unfold is a new, wider perspective.

Imagine you are walking in the woods and you see a small dog sitting by a tree. As you approach, it suddenly lunges at you, teeth bared. You are frightened and angry. But then you notice that one of its legs is caught in a trap. Immediately your mood shifts from anger to concern: You see that the dog's aggression is coming from a place of vulnerability and pain. This applies to all of us. When we behave in hurtful ways, it is because we are caught in some kind of painful trap. The more we look through the eyes of wisdom at ourselves and each other, the more we cultivate a compassionate heart.

Joshua was inspired by Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, and particularly by his teachings on forgiveness. He came to me to ask for my help in responding to a situation at work. Joshua was director of marketing for a large computer software firm, and he valued the company's team-centered approach. But he was feeling growing antagonism toward an executive who was part of his unit. “He doesn't play well with others,” Joshua said wearily, “and I'm having a hard time being around him.” I asked for specifics. “He brags, he reinvents history, makes it sound like he's the driving force behind anything successful in our unit … and he's always making snide jokes about other people. As Joshua summed up: “Phil's smart and valuable, but he's addicted to putting himself up and others down …” After a pause he added, “and I'm sucked into his game. I want to put him in his place … at least a few notches down!”

I asked Joshua to review a recent occasion when he'd felt particularly irate. It was during a team meeting, debriefing a difficult project. “Phil reported on cost overruns and with a scornful smile suggested that the group had, as he put it, caught the virus—'Joshua's overly sunny outlook may have been contagious,' Phil had said. In fact, everyone had agreed this would be a good gamble.” Joshua told me that he'd defended himself, reminding Phil of memos he himself had written encouraging investment in the project. “I was probably wasting my breath; he just sat there with that smile, nodding.”

I suggested we try a short visualization and Joshua eagerly agreed. “First, remind yourself of his smile and tone of voice as he talked about your sunny outlook, and take a moment to feel what your heart and body is experiencing.” I waited as Joshua let his attention go inward. “Got it,” he said. “My face is hot.”

“Now,” I said, “imagine that you could press the pause button and freeze the action. And that you could invite Thay (the familiar name for Thich Nhat Hanh among his followers) to step in and fill your being with his consciousness. You might recall the brightness and kindness of his eyes, remind yourself of the sound of his voice, and then let him take over for you. You can rest on the sidelines and just bear witness to what unfolds.” I gave Joshua a few moments to imagine this. Then I asked some questions, pausing a bit after each:

“How does your body feel, with Thay's consciousness filling you? What is it like to witness Phil, and the whole situation, through Thay's eyes? With Thay's heart? How might Thay handle the situation?” Again I paused. I ended the visualization with a final reflection. “Feel yourself back, fully inhabiting your own body and consciousness. Sense that Thay's right by your side and he has an important message for you, something that can guide you in this kind of situation. What is the message? Just listen … you might hear it as words … you might see a visual image … you might just have a felt sense in your body. Whatever you notice can be helpful.”

Joshua was quiet for a while and then he opened his eyes. “Well …” he said, “that was interesting!”

“Please, what did you notice?”

“I was struck by the shift in my body,” Joshua said. “I hadn't even realized how clenched my stomach gets around that guy! When Thay stepped in, everything loosened … it was like his consciousness just made space.”

Joshua took a few breaths and then went on. “Looking from Thay's perspective, what stood out was that Phil is insecure. Otherwise he wouldn't have to constantly sell himself or make others look diminished. And he doesn't feel likable—that others want to be around him. Just seeing that … really letting it into my heart that he's living with that … makes a difference.”

I nodded and then asked him how Thay had responded to Phil. “He just let that comment about me come and go … no defense needed. And as we were walking out of the room, he gave Phil a smile and a friendly pat on the back. The guy looked surprised … and confused … and … touched. He wants me to like him.” Joshua paused and then shared the message Thay had given him: “It was to remember that other people want to feel important and loved. Just that.”

Joshua could now see that Phil was caught in a painful trap, but he still had some concerns. “I'm worried that by focusing on Phil's insecurity and being more kind, I'll be giving him a message that it's okay to mistreat me and others.” I agreed that this question was important, and I asked again, “How do you think Thay would respond?”

After reflecting for a few moments, Joshua said, “Compassion extends to everybody's needs. One person is not free to step all over others. But if we remember that someone is really hurting, we'll give feedback and draw boundaries more kindly.”

Joshua left energized, and with a new confidence about challenging situations: “What excites me is that in any moment I can call on Thay—really, on my own heart—to get a bigger take. That feels radical!”