True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (22 page)

It is radical—cutting through to the root—to call on the wisdom of our hearts. You might try this simple practice the next time you're caught in a reactive pattern. Think of a wise, kind being whom you admire. This could be a person you know, a spiritual figure, a deity. Then imagine that his or her consciousness is within you, that you are looking through that being's eyes, with that being's heart. Let this person or being help you respond. Listen for a message. You may discover that you are really tapping into your own most awake, intelligent, caring self.

Forgiveness Is Not Passivity

My book
Radical Acceptance
came out soon after the United States launched the 1993 invasion of Iraq. As I traveled from city to city, many people asked me whether we were supposed to be radically accepting of our country's militancy. “How can acceptance and activism go together?” they'd say. It's a good question. If we only feed the compassionate wolf, will we ignore the wrongdoing in our world? How will anyone be motivated to stand up against injustice, to speak truth, to stop wars, if they don't feel angry or outraged?

I often responded with my own story. In the weeks before the invasion, I read the newspapers with an increasing sense of agitation. I couldn't stop thinking about the men in our administration who were responsible for what seemed an inevitable next step in the global escalation of violence. Just seeing their pictures in the paper would arouse huge waves of anger and hostility.

Then I became increasingly aware of how creating an enemy in my mind was yet another form of violence. So I decided to start a newspaper meditation. I'd look at the headlines, read a bit, and then stop. In that pause I would witness my thoughts and allow myself to acknowledge my growing outrage. Then I'd investigate, letting the feelings express themselves fully. Almost every day, as I'd open to anger and feel its full force, it would unfold into fear—for our world. And as I stayed in direct contact with the fear, it would unfold into grief—for all the suffering and loss. And the grief would unfold into caring about all those beings who were bound to suffer from our warlike actions. My country was feeding the aggressive wolf, and the pain of that was heartbreaking.

Sitting with the feelings that arose in my newspaper meditation left me raw and tender. It reminded me that under my anger and fear was caring about life. And it motivated me to act, not from an anger that focused on an enemy, but from caring.

I was not alone. A growing interfaith peace movement was committed to feeding the wise wolf. On March 26, 2003, a week after the start of the Iraq war, a large group of us gathered in front of the White House. We carried posters showing Iraqi mothers weeping over bodies of wounded children; young American soldiers whose lives would be endangered; Iraqi orphans; men, women, and children from both societies who would suffer. After the designated speakers were finished, a mike was handed around so that anyone who felt moved could offer a prayer. A young girl perched on her dad's shoulders spoke into the attentive crowd: “The Iraqi kids are just like our kids.
Please, please
 … don't let them be hurt.” We were a nonviolent protest, with poems, songs, and pleas to hold all humans in our hearts. The mood was contagious. When the police arrived to arrest us they were friendly, respectful, and kind. As we were loaded into the paddy wagon, I was given a boost and help with my backpack. In another van sat a bishop and a minister, both in their clerical gear. A policeman poked his head in and said cheerfully, “Ah, white-collar crime.”

We can feed the wise wolf if we care about peace and learn to pause. Mattie Stepanek, a thirteen-year-old poet who has since died of muscular dystrophy, wrote about this possibility on the day after September 11:

A Shattered Heart

I'm often asked how we can awaken our potential for compassion when we are personally under fire. What if we or our loved ones have been repeatedly threatened, demeaned, or violated? How do we forgive then?

In
Tattoos on the Heart,
Jesuit priest Gregory Boyle writes of the human tragedies and potentials playing out in one of the Los Angeles neighborhoods most torn apart by gang violence. Soledad, a mother of four, was proud when her second oldest son, Ronnie, got his high school diploma—something few in the hood accomplish—and went into the Marines. Back home on leave after serving in Afghanistan, he went out one night to pick up some fast food. Awaiting his return, she could hear the voices in the street challenging Ronnie. Then she heard the shots. It didn't matter that he had never belonged to a gang, that he was minding his own business. Ronnie died in her arms right outside the kitchen door.

Soon afterward, her oldest son, Angel, who had belonged to a gang, also graduated from high school. One day, six months after Ronnie's death, Angel set about helping his mother past her immobilizing grief. He pleaded with her to put on some colorful clothes, have her hair done, and be a mom to her three remaining children. He got through to her, he reached her heart. When she made the effort to dress up, he let her know she looked gorgeous. Later that afternoon, while sitting eating a sandwich on their front porch, Angel was shot dead by kids from a rival gang.

Boyle writes that he found Soledad later that day “sobbing into a huge bath towel … the few of us there found our arms too short to wrap around this kind of pain.” Soledad was locked in the anguish of separation. Boyle spent many hours with her over the next couple of years. He recalls a meeting when he asked how she was doing. Soledad told him, “You know, I love the two kids that I have. I hurt for the two that are gone.” Then crying from bottomless grief, she admitted, “The hurt wins … the hurt wins.”

Several months later, Soledad went to the emergency room with chest pains. As she lay there, a kid with multiple gunshot wounds was rushed in on a gurney and put into the spot next to her. No curtain was drawn, and she was witnessing him fighting for his life. Recognizing him as a member of the gang that killed her boys, Soledad knew that her friends might say, “Pray that he dies.” But that's not what happened.

As she heard the doctors yelling, “We're losing him” something in her cracked open. “I began to cry as I have never cried before,” she told Boyle, “and started to pray the hardest I've ever prayed. ‘Please … don't … let him die.' I don't want his mom to go through what I have.'” The boy survived, as did Soledad's capacity for loving. She had grieved her way into forgiveness, and she had reconnected with life.

When I read about Soledad, it reminded me of a teaching about forgiveness I often share with students. It's a story told by a character in the film
The Interpreter
:

The storyteller then concludes, “Vengeance is a lazy form of grief.”

Vengeance
is
a lazy form of grief. It is a lazy form of fear, of shame. Vengeance becomes our false refuge because it is easier to blame and push another out of our heart than to feel our own hurt, loss, and powerlessness. Soledad knew this. She lost both of her boys to vengeance. Grieving was more painful than revenge, yet it was the only pathway to healing, to loving again.

The Freedom of a Forgiving Heart

The choice of presence and forgiveness—feeding the wise, compassionate wolf—is the evolutionary current that carries us humans toward peace and full spiritual freedom. True heroes are those who, like Soledad, show us what is possible.

When I was in my teens, Nelson Mandela caught my attention and won my heart. A spiritual activist, Mandela personified the transformative power of a forgiving heart on a national scale. He was imprisoned in 1962 for his antiapartheid activism and spent twenty-seven years of his life in jail. For eighteen of those years Mandela was held on the notorious Robben Island near Cape Town where prisoners were segregated, deprived of food, subjected to countless indignities, and forced to do hard labor. Yet during this time, he managed to befriend a number of his jailers. Mandela believed that people were kind at their core “if you could arouse their inherent goodness,” and he did just that: One warden risked his job by sneaking in Mandela's new grandchild, so that, with tears in his eyes, Mandela could hold and kiss the baby.

When Mandela was elected president of South Africa after his release, he riveted the world's attention by inviting one of his white jailers to the inaugural ceremony. His dedication to seeking understanding and reconciliation pulled South Africa back from the brink of civil war and allowed the country to make the transition from the racial tyranny of apartheid to a multiracial democracy. In my eyes, Mandela exemplifies our human potential: He stepped beyond the reactivity of hatred and vengeance, and responded to his world with an inclusive, forgiving heart.

Releasing the armor of anger—stopping the war and opening to vulnerability—takes tremendous courage and dedication. Perhaps it also takes imagination. What makes it possible is our innate longing to be whole and loving and free. As Zen teacher Joko Beck writes, “Our failure to know joy is a direct reflection of our inability to forgive.” Whether we are present with garden-variety blame, the aversion that arises from abuse, or the rage that is a legacy of historic injustice, we have the capacity to step out of trance and come home to our awakened heart. It was possible for Mandela with his tormentors, for Soledad after losing her boys, and for Amy with her mother. It is possible between people of different races after generations of violations, and it is possible between family members who have been painfully estranged. Whatever your situation and history with others, it is possible to decide to no longer push anyone out of your heart. You can't will forgiveness but you can be willing. If it is your sincere intention to forgive, the door is already open.

Guided Meditation: A Forgiving Heart Toward Others

This reflection is based on the traditional Buddhist forgiveness practice in which we first ask forgiveness from others, then offer forgiveness to ourselves, and finally to those who have caused us injury.

Asking for Forgiveness

Sitting comfortably, close your eyes and allow yourself to become present and still. Rest your attention on the breath for a few moments, relaxing as you breathe in and relaxing as you breathe out.

Bring to mind a situation in which you have caused harm to another person through your words, actions, or neglect. Take some moments to remember the circumstances, and sense the hurt, disappointment, or betrayal that person might have felt. Allow yourself to feel your own sorrow or regret.

Now, holding this person in your awareness, begin asking for forgiveness. Mentally whisper his or her name and say, “I understand the hurt you have felt and I ask your forgiveness now. Please forgive me. Please forgive me.” With a sincere heart, repeat several times your request for forgiveness. Then take some moments of silence and let yourself open to the possibility of being forgiven.

Forgiving Ourselves

Just as we have caused injury to others, we have harmed ourselves. Reflect on ways that you have judged or punished yourself, ways you have violated or neglected yourself, ways you have withheld your own care. Remember and visualize the situations, and allow yourself to feel the pain that you continue to carry from harming your body, heart and mind. As you reflect on this, and on the sorrow and regret you feel for hurting yourself, offer the following words of forgiveness: “I see and feel the ways I have caused myself harm, and I forgive myself now.” If you're not yet ready to forgive, say, “It is my intention to forgive myself when I am able.” Your intention to forgive is the seed of forgiveness—this willingness will gradually relax and open your heart.

Forgiving Others

In the same way that each of us has hurt ourselves and others, we each have been wounded in our relationships. Bring to mind an experience in which you were deeply disappointed or rejected, abused or betrayed. Without judging yourself, notice if you are still carrying feelings of anger and blame toward the person who hurt you. Have you shut this person out of your heart?

Recall with some detail the specific situation that most fully reminds you of how you were wounded. You might remember an angry look on a parent's face, harsh words from a friend, the moment you discovered that a trusted person had deceived you, your partner storming out of the house. Be aware of the grief or shame, anger or fear. With acceptance and gentleness, feel this pain as it expresses itself in your body, heart, and mind. Take some moments to hold the hurt places with compassion. Placing your hand on your heart, offer a tender presence to this woundedness. Take as long as you'd like to rest in self-compassion.

When you feel ready, look more closely at this other person and sense the fear or hurt, the guilt or shame, the inner pain that might have caused him or her to behave in a hurtful way. Experience this being as an imperfect human, vulnerable and real. Now, staying connected with the place of your own pain, mentally whisper his or her name and offer the message of forgiveness: “I feel the harm that has been caused and to the extent that I am ready, I forgive you now.” Or if you feel unable to offer forgiveness at this moment: “I feel the harm that has been caused, and it is my intention to forgive you.” Remain connected with your own feelings of vulnerability, and repeat your message of forgiveness or intention for as long as you like.