True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (24 page)

The good news is that we can unblock and activate our compassion networks. This happens as we intentionally turn toward the refuges of truth and love. Mindfulness directly engages the parts of our brain (the insula and anterior cingulate cortex) that are key in reading others' emotions. When we mindfully recognize that another is hurt or afraid, we naturally feel the tenderness of compassion. That tenderness blossoms fully as we find ways to express our care. This alchemy of letting ourselves be touched by another's pain and of responding with love is the essence of Buddhist compassion practices.

One such meditation training, the Tibetan practice of
tonglen
, literally means “sending and receiving.” (A version of tonglen is on page 000.) The breath is used as a support and guide: Breathing in with deep receptivity, we take in the pain of others. Breathing out, we offer our care and blessings, sending whatever will bring relief and space and happiness. This practice goes counter to our tendency to shut down in the face of suffering. As my mother discovered, the more fully we let ourselves be touched by suffering, the more we soften and awaken our heart. The more we offer our love, the more we discover our belonging to all beings, and to loving awareness itself.

The starting place in tonglen is an intentional relaxing of the armoring around our heart. Each of us has been wounded, and in reaction, has erected defenses to protect us from experiencing further harm. We don't want to be vulnerable or available to pain. Yet before we can be tender-hearted, we have to be tender. As poet Mark Nepo writes,

Breathing In: “Ear of the Heart”

Most of us consider listening a great virtue. We love having others listen to us with interest and care, and we hope to be good listeners ourselves. But it's hard. To listen well we must become aware of the mental static that runs interference: aware of our emotional reactivity; aware of all the ways we interpret (and misinterpret) each other; aware of our haste to prepare a response; aware of how we armor ourselves with judgment. Learning to listen involves stepping out of our incessant inner dialogue, and using what St. Benedict called the “ear of the heart.” This deep listening, a form of “breathing in,” offers a compassionate space for healing and intimacy.

Kate was a meditation student who discovered the power of listening in her relationship with her mother, Audrey, who was a wealthy, successful, brilliant, and narcissistic woman. Those who knew her well kiddingly referred to her as “the center of the known universe.” A well-known writer, Audrey treated other people as orbiting satellites, audiences to regale with stories; their role was to let her shine in her own reflected light.

Audrey could be lively and charming when holding forth, but she was exhausting to be around. As soon as they could, both of her daughters settled on the opposite coast. Kate's older sister rarely returned for visits, and while Kate came for holidays, she kept her stays brief. Their stepdad loved his wife, but he and Audrey had drifted into a routine that lacked intimacy. Some of Audrey's friends still tolerated being a captive audience, but as she aged she became increasingly isolated.

Kate came to my Conscious Relationship workshop to focus on her marriage, not on her mother. But by the time she left, she'd become acutely aware of her mother's woundedness, and of the possibility that deep listening might lead to healing. Her inspiration was the image of a fountain.

During the workshop, we envisioned our inner life and spirit as a fountain that becomes clogged with unprocessed hurts and fears. As we ignore our painful feelings or push them away, they impede our flowing aliveness and obscure the pure awareness that is our source. By not listening to our inner life, we cut ourselves off from reality. What remains is a diminished self, an unreal other.

But when we confide in someone and they listen to us, really listen, the debris naturally begins to dissolve, and the fountain of aliveness is again free to flow. And when we listen, really listen, to another, we help them come home to this same aliveness.

It's important to remember that this process takes time. As we begin to listen, we often come face to face with the distasteful tangles, the jealousy or self-consciousness or anger that have been clogging the fountain. The conversation might seem superficial or dull, nervous or self-absorbed. A dedicated listener hangs in there without getting lost in resisting or judging. This unconditional presence is a healing balm. It gradually helps the speaker's tangled defenses relax so that his or her natural vitality and spirit can emerge. Perhaps you've noticed this when someone is really listening to you. You feel calmer, whole, “more like yourself”—more at home. Like an unclogged fountain, the deeper waters of humor, intelligence, creativity, and love begin to flow.

Kate left the workshop with the intention of experimenting, and when an opportunity to attend a professional training session near her mother's home presented itself, she decided it was time to try deep listening with her. She made arrangements to stay for ten days, her longest visit with her mother since she'd left for college.

Now, Kate really listened during their time together. As we had practiced, she listened inwardly to her own tension without judgment when she felt resistance, and then reopened to whatever her mother was saying. In the same way, when she felt unimportant, impatient, bored, or judgmental, she brought mindfulness and kindness to her own experience. Then she was able to bring that same open, clear space of presence to her mother.

At first it was hard. “I had a panicky sensation,” Kate told me later. “It was like I would drown if I didn't get away, if I didn't find a way to have some of my own space. She takes up so much room!” But she found that if she kept a sense of humor about it, she could breathe, forgive her own reactions, and keep coming back. Then she would coach herself to deepen presence: “Now … what is happening … my mother is talking. I am quiet. There is endless time. I hear it, every word … and what is beyond the word … I hear who she is.”

It got easier as Kate listened for what was behind her mother's words. She began to hear desperation, as if her mother was insisting over and over, “I am here, I matter.” Taking in her mother's pain, Kate felt her heart soften with care. Through her own quiet, steady presence, she communicated, “You're here, you matter.” And her mother started to relax. Kate knew this because there were longer pauses between the stories and commentary—her mother sat back more in her chair, she looked out the window, slowed down, and seemed more reflective.

Several days before Kate was scheduled to leave, her mother began to tell her that she felt alone and unappreciated. Kate responded, sincere, gentle, and honest. “Mom, it's because you don't listen to people.” Her mother froze, but she didn't get defensive. Kate had been so truly present, she had offered such uncritical sympathy, that a trust had emerged—this was not an attack, but a caring reflection of truth. Her mother wanted to know more: “Please tell me, I need to know.” Kate told her. She explained how it had been for her sister, for their dad, and now, for her stepdad. “When you don't listen, people feel like they don't matter, that they are not known. And it's true—you can't know them if you don't listen. You can't be close.”

Audrey looked at her daughter with a sorrow and understanding that pierced Kate's heart. Something changed in that moment. Maybe the pain of alienation had broken through her defenses, maybe this was simply her time. Audrey started to listen. Others noticed. After her sister's next visit, she told Kate, “For the first time in my life I felt like I was a real person to her … that I existed!” The change was most poignant with her husband, Kate's stepfather. They began to enjoy the long dinners and evening walks that had been abandoned shortly after their marriage.

Audrey was no longer speaking to demand the world's attention. She was speaking and listening in order to belong with other people, to share their lives. Because Kate had listened and let her heart be touched, her mother's fountain had begun to unclog. Her life could flow again from its source.

Speaking and Receiving Difficult Truths

As part of my wedding vows to Jonathan, I read these lines from Rainer Maria Rilke:

In my mind, the path of intimacy meant having the courage to reveal whatever I didn't want another person to see. This has proven to be no small task. I'm great at being open and real until I start feeling vulnerable—ashamed of myself—or critical of Jonathan. At those times I postpone talking, I get withdrawn, manipulative, or aggressive. It's not so easy to stay clear in his sight.

Only two years after we married, the extent of my health problems became clear. Many of the activities we loved doing together—mountain hiking, biking, skiing, Boogie Boarding—were no longer possible for me. The future didn't look good. My body would only become less and less fit and desirable. He, on the other hand, was young for his age and healthy. I sank into a swamp of shame about my condition, shame about his being stuck with an aging, sickly woman.

For weeks I felt unable to say this out loud, to have him see my shame and insecurity. Keeping those feelings to myself was toxic—I was increasingly fearful, distant, and grim.

When I finally told him, he did what good listeners do. He made sure I said everything I wanted to, and then mirrored back the words I had used, letting me know he understood. After that, he communicated a love that was not tied to my being any certain way.

Of course, as he'd readily admit, he's not always that good. He's told me that when I say, “Honey, we need to talk,” his first thought (only partially a joke) is, “Oh God, I'm going to die!” followed quickly by, “Okay, what did I do wrong now?” He can start off defensive and tense, and as I feel his resistance, my criticalness amps up. But we're practicing open communication. And we keep rediscovering something essential: No matter how much we don't want to do it, it's worth taking the chance to be vulnerable. It's the only way we can come to trust our love. Poet Adrienne Rich writes,

Of course, in some situations it is neither wise nor appropriate to speak your emotional truths. The timing might be off, or the others involved might not have the skill or emotional capacity to listen well. Especially if you are dealing with trauma, finding the right therapist or teacher who can hold the intensity of your experience with you is essential. Even if you are not working with trauma-based feelings, a “container” for truth telling—another person or group of people who are committed to mindful speaking and listening—is necessary. You need to feel a degree of safety. And yet I use the word “degree” on purpose. Embedded in feeling ashamed and vulnerable is the belief that others will not receive you well. You might not feel safe, yet taking the chance may leave you feeling safer and more loved than you did before speaking.

The Buddha described wise speech as speaking what is true and helpful. The simplicity of this description belies its layers of nuance. What is true? Certainly not all our evaluations and commentary about what is happening. The best we can do is become very present to our actual feelings and name them without the second arrow of judgment. And what is helpful? If we sincerely want our words to serve greater mutual understanding and care, that intention will guide us.

There's great power in sharing a difficult truth. Letting your vulnerability be seen by a trusted, attentive other can start unraveling a lifetime of shame. Naming painful feelings without blame can deepen and strengthen mutual attunement and compassion. Relationships become more vibrant. Finding the courage to “take the risk”—to speak what is true—enlarges you. You become more real to yourself, more intimate with others.

Breathing Out: Offering Our Care

The intimacy that arises in listening and speaking truth is only possible if we can open to the vulnerability of our own hearts. Breathing in, contacting the life that is right here, is our first step. Once we have held ourselves with kindness, we can touch others in a vital and healing way.

Richie and I became friends when we were juniors in college. A shy, thoughtful African American man, he was known for carrying his camera everywhere, listening as others poured out their stories to him, and running through the snow wearing gym shorts. Although we lost touch after graduation, I had heard that he was working as a photojournalist in New York. Then, nearly fifteen years later, he called and asked to consult with me on an upcoming visit to Washington, D.C. He explained that he'd recently married Carly, a Caucasian woman he'd met at a meditation class, and he wanted to talk with me about his wife's family. “I knew what I was getting into … country club, conservative, the whole nine yards … but I had no idea it would be this hard.”

“From the start,” he told me when we met, “Sharon [his mother-in-law] was dead set against me and Carly getting together.” While Carly's father seemed willing to support his daughter's choice, her mother had fought the marriage vehemently..”She warned Carly that we were too different, that we'd end up divorced and miserable. Well …” he said grimly, “we love each other deeply, but she is succeeding in making us miserable.”

On their third and most recent visit, Sharon had refused to go to a community theater production with them. She later told Carly that she couldn't bear to encounter her friends from the club: “As soon as I'd turn my back,” she complained, “they'd start gossiping about you and Richie.” At dinner she ignored Richie's compliments about the salmon, and gave vague, noncommittal responses to his questions about a recent trip to Italy. When Carly confronted her privately upstairs, Sharon acknowledged her behavior. “I admit it, I'm being awful. But I can't help it, Carly. He's a good person, an intelligent person … really, he is … but you're making a terrible mistake.”