True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (26 page)

Now bring to mind someone with whom you have a difficult relationship—perhaps someone who evokes anger, fear, or hurt. First take a moment to bring a kind, nonjudging attention to your own feelings as you reflect on him or her. Then, turning back to this difficult person, try to see past the mask. Look to see some aspect of his or her basic goodness. It may help to imagine this person as a young child, sleeping peacefully—or at the other end of life, as someone who has just passed away. Can you recall something about this person that you admire, some quality of dedication, caring, or creativity? Even if it's difficult to recognize this person's goodness, remind yourself that all humans want to be happy, want to avoid suffering. Remember that life matters to this person just as it does to you. Holding him or her in a gentle attention, begin offering the phrases of lovingkindness that come most easily for you.

Next imagine that you are bringing together all those you have just prayed for—a dear person, a neutral one, a difficult one. Take a moment to include yourself, honoring the goodness and sincerity you've brought to this meditation. Holding yourself and these others in your heart, sense your shared humanity, your vulnerability and basic goodness. Send prayers of lovingkindness to all at once, recognizing that you are in this together.

Finally, allow your awareness to open out in all directions—in front of you, to either side, behind you, below you, and above you. In this vast space, sense that your loving presence is holding all beings: the wild creatures that fly and swim and run across fields; the dogs and cats that live in our homes; the life forms that are threatened with extinction; the trees and grasses and flowers; children everywhere; humans living in great poverty and those with great riches; those at war and those at peace; those who are dying and those who are newly born. Imagine that you can hold the earth, our mother, in your lap and include all life everywhere in your boundless heart. Aware of the goodness inherent in all living beings, again offer your prayers:

Repeat these phrases several times. Then allow yourself to rest in openness and silence, letting whatever arises in your heart and awareness be touched by lovingkindness.

Throughout your day
: There are many ways to weave the lovingkindness practice into your daily life.

Keeping your practice fresh and alive
: Whatever awakens a genuine sense of connectedness and care is a lovingkindness practice. So if your formal practice is feeling somewhat mechanical, experiment with the following:

Even a few moments of reflecting on goodness and offering lovingkindness can reconnect you with the purity of your loving heart.

I'll need some Advil if I'm going to get out for a walk … but I'll get a stomachache if I don't eat something first … and it's too early.
Then the thought
I'm awake,
and as I dislodge the pillow from under my knees and roll slowly onto my side, the stabbing in my hip kicks in. It's another morning, another day of having to live inside a hurting body.

I try not to think of how it used to be. I can let go of the younger me, the one who won a yoga Olympics by holding wheel pose for more than eighteen minutes. I can let go of the woman who ran three miles on most days, who loved to ski and Boogie Board, bike and play tennis. But what about just being able to wander the hills and woods around our home? What about walking along the river?

So much has been taken away. First came an injury to my knees while running. Then knee instability ruled out biking or tennis. I resigned myself to swimming for exercise, only to find that swimming aggravated disks in my neck. Now, even walking is often painful. Sweeping the floor, bending over, or picking up anything heavier than a gallon of water can leave me hurting for days. And I'm losing strength on all fronts, because most ways of strengthening the muscles injure my joints.

Losing the freedom to move easily feels like a kind of death, a separation from the experience of aliveness that I love. But the worst part is looking ahead. I imagine being with my future grandchildren, unable to lift them into my arms, splash in the water, horse around on the floor, or play tag on the lawn. I imagine being a prisoner in a body that hurts.

The Community of Loss

Because my genetic condition is rare and little known, I felt isolated and separate in my pain for some time after my diagnosis. But my illness has gradually initiated me into what one friend calls the “community of loss.” Crossing over into this world has given me an intimate understanding of what it's like for others when something they love is torn away. Clients and students have always told me their stories, but as my own suffering has become more visible, their sharing of vulnerability has become more open and real. One woman told me her loneliness feels like a never-ending death. Another described a fear so great she believes it will cause heart failure.

The Buddha's quest for freedom began when he was confronted with the reality that we will all lose everything we hold dear. As a young prince, Siddhartha Gautama lived a protected life, ensconced in a kingdom that provided him with all earthly comforts and delights. But some inner restlessness moved him to visit the untended outskirts of the kingdom, and there he encountered first a sick man, then an old man, and finally a corpse. Siddhartha was jolted from his trance of complacency. It no longer mattered that he had a beautiful, devoted wife or that he would someday be the king with a great army to defend his people. He became possessed by a single burning question: If suffering and loss can't be avoided, how can we humans find peace and freedom in the midst of our lives?

A friend and longtime Buddhist watched a PBS feature on the Buddha's life while he was recovering from a serious heart attack. After viewing the segment on Siddhartha's three encounters he bolted upright with the thought
There
is
old age! There
is
sickness! There
is
death! Why didn't I know this before?
Of course he'd known it conceptually. But now he really knew. We lose
this
body.
This
loved one.
This
life's continuation into the future.

Defending Against Loss

The Buddha taught that we spend most of our life like children in a burning house, so entranced by our games that we don't notice the flames, the crumbling walls, the collapsing foundation, the smoke all around us. The games are our false refuges, our unconscious attempts to trick and control life, to sidestep its inevitable pain.

Yet this life is not only burning and falling apart. Zen poems and art revere a natural world that is also flowing, flowering, dancing, emanating, and bursting forth. Sorrow and joy are woven inextricably together. When we distract ourselves from the reality of loss, we also distract ourselves from the beauty, creativity, and mystery of this ever-changing world.

I want to say right here that stepping away from the full pain of loss can be an intelligent and compassionate response—it gives us space and time to regain some energy, perspective, and balance. It may not be a false refuge to keep ourselves occupied after a fresh loss—to bury ourselves in work, books, movies, or to surround ourselves with company. The same is true if we need to withdraw from regular activities and social engagements. But our ways of seeking relief are often neither healthy nor temporary. Instead, they become ongoing attempts to control our experience so that we don't have to open to our grief.

The Armor of Blame

Some years ago I worked with a couple that had lost their teenage son, Ron, to leukemia. During the final three years of Ron's life they had desperately pursued and exhausted every medical protocol that the National Institutes of Health offered. Louise, who was my therapy client, quit her job, and her husband, Tony, scaled back to part time. Their life was a rollercoaster, with Ron's periodic upsurges of energy and strength fueling their grim determination to “beat the disease.” When the boy died, they were crushed by their grief. But soon, without their common enemy, they turned on each other. “Just being around Tony reminds me of what I've lost, of this huge gaping hole,” Louise said. “I know intellectually that it's not his fault, but that doesn't make a difference. There's a voice in me screaming, ‘You didn't save my baby!'” Tony was at first stunned, and then hurt and angry in return. They separated within eight months.

With Tony gone, Louise redirected her blame. When we met, she'd tell me how one person after another was letting her down in some way—not standing by her in her split with Tony, not really understanding the monstrous loss she was living with. When she finally began dating, her relationships were short lived. “They just don't know what it's like,” she'd say. Louise was stuck—for her, the suffering of feeling wronged and isolated had been piled on top of the suffering of grief.

Blame is a false refuge that armors our hearts and distances us from the felt sense of grief. Our anger or hatred may fixate on the partner who left us for another woman; the ex-spouse who deprived us of visitation; the teens who have lured our son into drugs. Or we might react to loss with a more global anger like my client Justin.

Justin and Donna met in college when they both volunteered at a community service agency, and they married right after graduation. Donna went on to law school and to teaching law; Justin taught history and coached basketball at a small urban college. With their teaching, their passion for tennis, and their shared dedication to advocating for disadvantaged youth, their life together was full and satisfying.

Donna was away at a conference when Justin received the unexpected news of his promotion to full professor. She caught an early flight back to celebrate with him. On her way home from the airport a large truck overturned and crushed her car, killing her instantly.

Almost a year after Donna's death Justin e-mailed me to ask for some phone counseling sessions. “I need to get back to mindfulness,” he wrote. “Anger is threatening to take away the rest of my life.”

During our first call Justin told me that his initial response to Donna's death was rage at an unjust God. “When I wasn't cursing God, I was shaking my fist at him, demanding answers: ‘She was so good, so kind, so needed on this earth … why her? And me … how could you take her from me? What did I do to deserve this?'” An African American from a working-class family, Justin had put himself through college with the help of a basketball scholarship. He was devoted to his students and team members, putting in extra hours mentoring those who needed personal or academic support. “I loved everything I was doing, but what kept me going, what nourished me most, was Donna. She was my soul mate … and … she's gone. It doesn't matter that I always tried to do my best, be a good person, a good Christian. God turned his back on me.”

In the year after Donna's death, Justin's anger at God morphed into a more general rage at injustice and a desire to confront those in power. He'd always been involved with social causes, but now he became a lightning rod for conflict, aggressively leading the fight for diversity on campus, and publically attacking the school administration for its lack of commitment to the surrounding community. His department chairman had previously been a staunch ally, but now their communication was badly strained. “It's not your activism, I'm all for it,” his chairman told him. “It's your antagonism … your attitude. That's the problem.” Justin's older sister, his lifelong confidant, had also confronted him. “Your basic life stance is suspicion and hostility,” she'd said. “You're carrying a major chip on your shoulder. It's you against the world.” When I asked him whether that rang true, he replied, “When I lost Donna, I lost my faith. I used to think that some basic sanity could prevail in this world. But now … well, … it's hard
not
to feel hostile.”

The pain of loss often inspires activism. Mothers have lobbied tirelessly for laws preventing drunk driving; others struggle for legislation to reduce gun violence; gay rights activists devote themselves to halting hate crimes. Such dedication to change can be a vital and empowering part of healing. But Justin's unprocessed anger had aborted the process of mourning. His anger might have given him some feeling of meaning or purpose, but instead he remained a victim, at war with God and life, unable to truly heal.

The Second Arrow: Self-Blame

After suffering great loss, one of the ways we inflict self-pain is by dwelling on personal failure. We focus on how we failed others: “I should have been with her when she took her last breath”; or “During those last months I was so busy, I really didn't show up with presence.” Or we obsess about our responsibility for our failed marriage, lost job, poor health, or uncontrolled, difficult emotions—adding the second arrow of self-blame to our hurt.

What would make us do this?
We are using self-blame as a way of taking control of our situation.
Loss exposes our essential powerlessness, and we will do whatever is possible to subdue the primal fear that comes with feeling out of control. Much of our daily activity is a vigilant effort to stay on top of things—to feel prepared and to avoid trouble. When this fails, our next line of defense is to whip ourselves into shape: Maybe if we can change, we think, we can protect ourselves from more suffering. Sadly, going to war with ourselves only compounds our pain.

My illness teaches me this over and over. As soon as I realize that I've hurt my knees or back yet again—walking up a steep hill, picking up a heavy bag—a judgment pops up: “I should have known better,” “When will I learn not to push so hard?” I can swing the other way when I feel weak and sick: I blame myself for not putting enough time and energy into getting fit.

During a family vacation on Cape Cod, I thought I had found a great way to get the endorphins flowing: speed walking on the beach. I was wrong. By the time I got back to Virginia I was unable to walk up stairs and had a systemic inflammation through my whole body. The sickness dragged on for weeks and my mood tanked. Jonathan had to take care of me and I was a terrible patient—depressed, self-absorbed, and chronically irritated.

One morning I had a pivotal meditation. I asked myself a question I often find helpful: “What is between me and feeling present?” At first, my awareness settled on the familiar heat and ache and queasiness in my body. Next I felt a wave of anger and frustration—here I was day after day, confined and sick. A voice in my head said, “I hate putting up with this … I hate my life.” Then in the next instance, the voice said scathingly, “I hate myself.”

I hadn't heard that voice of self-hatred for a long time, and it opened my eyes. I began to investigate; who exactly was I hating? I hated the self who was full of self-pity, the self who was humiliated by needing help, the self who was so humorless and grim. But worst, it was the self who was spending so much time just thinking about herself—who was selfish and self-centered.

The self-hate unleashed a flood of desperation. I heard myself repeating “I can't do this any better, I can't do this any better …” It was as if the part of me that was supposed to “do it right” was pleading for understanding. I had tried and tried, but when I felt sick, I couldn't make myself into a nicer, less self-centered person. My heart softened and a wave of sorrow swept through me. By turning on myself, I had cut myself off from my loved ones and I was separated from my own heart. “Please,” I prayed, “may I hold myself kindly as I go through this sickness.”

The Struggle to Be Good

From earliest childhood, most of us learn that being good is the way to get approval and love. And so we fall back on this lesson in the face of loss. If we are good, maybe we won't be punished; if we are good, maybe we can win back the love or safety we've lost; if we are good, maybe someone will take care of us.