True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (4 page)

Suddenly I realized that this inner processing was yet more of the same. I was still trying to control things by figuring them out, by trying more practice, by trying to manage how others might see me. Recognizing these false refuges stopped me in my tracks—I didn't want to stay stuck.

An inner voice asked, “What would happen if, in this moment, I didn't try to do anything, to make anything different?” I immediately felt the visceral grip of fear and then a familiar sinking hole of shame—the very feelings I had been trying to avoid for as long as I could remember. But then the same inner voice whispered very quietly, a familiar refrain: “Just
let it be.
”

I stretched out on my back, took a few full breaths, and felt the weight of my body supported by the futon. Again and again my mind tried to escape into reviewing what I had said hours earlier, or rehearsing what else I could say to explain myself. Again and again the intention to “let it be” brought me back to the fear and shame I was experiencing. Sometime during the night, lying there alone in the darkness, these emotions gave way to grief. I was struck by how much of my life—my aliveness and loving—was lost when I was caught in feelings of unworthiness. I let myself open to that fully too, now sobbing deeply, until the grief gradually subsided.

I got up, sat on my cushion in front of my small meditation altar, and continued to pay attention. My mind quieted naturally and I became increasingly aware of my own inner experience—a silent presence that was suffused with tenderness. This presence was a space of being that included everything—waves of sadness, the feeling of my drying tears, the sounds of crickets, the humid summer night.

In this open space thoughts again bubbled up—the memory of being defensive at the staff meeting and my subsequent attempts to offer a real apology; then a flash forward to me teaching the yoga class that I'd scheduled for the following morning, trying to project a positive, confident energy. This time, as these scenes came into view, I felt like I was witnessing a character in a play. The character was continually trying to protect herself, but in the process, she was disconnecting more and more from herself, from authenticity, from the potential sustenance of feeling connected to others. And in each scene, I saw her perpetually “doing” in order to feel better about herself, “doing” in order to avoid pain, “doing” in order to avoid failure.

As I sat there watching this play, I had, for the first time, a compelling sense that this character wasn't really “me.” Her feelings and reactions were certainly familiar, but they were just ripples on the surface of what I really was. In the same way, everything happening at that moment—the thoughts, the sensations of sitting cross-legged, the tenderness, the tiredness—were part of my being but could not define me. My heart opened. How sad to have been living in such a confined world, how sad to have felt so driven and so alone!

Trance and Awakening Are Both Natural

When we are in trance and caught in an emotion like fear or shame or anger, our inner intelligence knows something is off kilter. For a while, perhaps even decades, we may mistakenly think that “something is wrong with me” or “something is wrong with the world,” that we need to fix our imperfections and somehow prevent ourselves from failing. Then either suddenly or gradually we recognize that
it is our mistaken perception of who we are that's causing the difficulty.
We see how we've been living inside the identity of a small, isolated, deficient self. At that moment of recognition, it's easy to pile on another delusion: “I'm flawed for being repeatedly caught in trance.” And yet any awakening of awareness, of realizing and allowing “what is happening,” begins to dissolve our narrowed identity and relax us into our natural wholeness.

That night by my altar, an old sense of self was falling away. Who was I, then? In those moments I sensed that the truth of what I was couldn't be contained in any idea or image of self. Rather, it was the space of presence itself—the silence, the wakeful openness—that felt like home. A feeling of gratitude and reverence filled me that has never entirely left.

As I've seen since, there are many paths to awakening, and most of them include training our attention, whether formally or informally. One friend took a painting class that taught her to see past the idea of “trees” or “clouds” into a mysterious world of changing forms, shades, shadows, and essence. As she described it, “Rather than being the observer noticing a particular kind of tree, there was simply this subjective intimacy of living textures, colors … I was part of a dance of aliveness.” A parent I know told me how her awareness opened up after she took a course in talking with teens. As she listened to her daughter she consciously noticed and released her ideas of how her daughter should be, and simply took in the sounds of her voice, the look in her eyes, and what she sensed her daughter's heart was trying to communicate. Learning to listen without judgment also enlarged her sense of her own being: “I was no longer trapped in the critical parent … what a breath of fresh air!”

Most reliably, a regular meditation practice trains our attention to recognize the appearance of trance—our deeply familiar stories of failure or blame and the layers of fear, anger, or depression. In the chapter that follows, I'll show how we can practice coming back to presence again and again, and how the realization of who we are will continue to awaken in our consciousness. Over time, we will recognize trance more quickly when we get lost in it, and we will know that blaming ourselves—or others or the world—or striving for control or perfection is not the way out. Rather, the suffering of trance reminds us to come home into this moment and reconnect with the larger truth of what we are.

The experience of waking up to our true self can be hard to describe. As the Indian teacher Sri Nisargadatta says: “On realization you feel complete, fulfilled, free … and yet not always able to explain what happened … You can put it only in negative terms: ‘Nothing is wrong with me any longer.'” When the veil of trance lifts, the pleasures and pains, the hopes and fears of our small, space-suit self still come and go, but they no longer define us. We no longer take things so personally, we no longer feel like “something is wrong with me.” Instead we begin to trust the innocence and goodness of being that our trance had obscured. This turns out to be a tremendous relief, and a taste of freedom.

Guided Meditation: Lovingkindness: Being Kind to Yourself

The lovingkindness (
metta,
in Pali) meditation awakens us to our connectedness with all of life. Often the starting place is an offering of care to our own being. This simple practice is a direct and powerful way to awaken from trance. By regarding ourselves with kindness, we begin to dissolve the identity of an isolated, deficient self. This creates the grounds for including others in an unconditionally loving heart. (See“Lovingkindness: Seeing Past the Mask,”on page 000.)

Sit comfortably and quietly, and relax any areas of the body that might be tense or tight. Take some moments to feel the breath at the heart: breathing in, sense that you are receiving warmth and energy, breathing out, sense that you are letting go into openness.

Silently or in a whisper, begin offering yourself prayers of lovingkindness. To start, choose four or five phrases that resonate for you. They might include:

As you repeat each phrase, open to whatever images and feelings arise with the words. Approach the meditation as an experiment, sensing what words and images best serve to soften and open your heart. You might explore placing your hand gently on top of your heart to see if this deepens the experience of holding yourself with kindness.

Take as long as you like, offering yourself these phrases and reflecting on them. As you end your meditation, sit quietly for a few moments and notice the feelings in your body and heart. Is there a new sense of space and tenderness? Do you feel more at home in your own being?

Throughout the day:
The more you remember to regard yourself with kindness, the more readily you will find a sense of connectedness and freedom from trance. You can practice anywhere, offering yourself the phrases of lovingkindness as you walk, drive, and conduct the tasks of daily life.

If you become agitated or upset:
The prayers of lovingkindness can seem discordant and artificial if you are in the grip of fear, shame, or confusion. At times they may even highlight how undeserving and bad you feel about yourself. Without judgment, include this reactivity in the meditation: “May this too be held in lovingkindness.” Then simply resume your meditation, accepting whatever thoughts or feelings arise.

If the words seem mechanical:
Don't worry if you sometimes find yourself just reciting the phrases. Your heart has natural seasons of feeling open and closed. What most matters is your intention to awaken lovingkindness.

Jeff was convinced he had fallen out of love with his wife, Arlene, and that nothing could salvage their twenty-six-year marriage. He wanted relief from the oppressiveness of feeling continually judged and found wanting. Arlene, for her part, was hurt and angry because she felt Jeff avoided any real communication or emotional intimacy. As a last-ditch effort, she convinced him to attend a weekend workshop for couples sponsored by their church. Much to their surprise, they both left with a glimmer of hope for their future together. The message they took away was “Love is a decision.” While we don't always feel loving, their guides at the workshop had insisted, love is here should we choose to awaken it.

Yet back at home, when their old styles of attacking and defending were triggered, deciding on love seemed like an ineffectual mental maneuver. Discouraged, Jeff sought me out for a counseling session. “I don't know how to get from point A to point B,” he declared. “Like when we were together yesterday … my mind told me to decide on love, but that didn't make a difference … my heart was in lockdown. Arlene was blaming me for something, and all I wanted to do was get away from her!”

“Let's take another look at what happened yesterday,” I suggested. I invited him to close his eyes, put himself back into the situation, and then let go of his notions of who was right or wrong. “Just let yourself experience what it is like in your body to feel blamed and want to get away.” Jeff sat still, his face tightening in a grimace. “Keep allowing the feelings to be there,” I said, “and find out what unfolds.”

Gradually his face softened. “Now I'm feeling stuck and sad,” he said. “We spend so much time caught in this. I withdraw, often without knowing it … that hurts her … she gets upset … then I very consciously want to get away. It's sad to be so trapped.”

He looked up at me and I nodded with understanding. “What would it be like, Jeff, if instead of pulling away during this kind of encounter, you were able to let her know exactly what you were experiencing?” Then I added, “And if she too, without accusing you of anything, were able to report on her feelings?”

“We'd have to know what we were feeling!” he said with a small laugh. “We're usually too busy reacting.”

“Exactly!” I responded. “You'd both have to be paying attention to what's going on inside you. And that runs counter to our conditioning. When we are emotionally stirred up, we're lost in our stories about what is happening, and caught in reflexive behaviors—like blaming the other person or finding a way to leave. That's why we need to train ourselves to pay attention, so that we are not at the mercy of our conditioning.”

I went on to explain how the practice of meditation cultivates our capacity for presence, for directly contacting our real, moment-to-moment experience. This gives us more inner space and creativity in responding—rather than reacting—to our circumstances. When I suggested that he and Arlene might consider coming to my weekly meditation class, he readily agreed. They were both there the following Wednesday night, and a month later, they attended a weekend meditation retreat I was leading.

Some weeks after the retreat, the three of us spoke briefly after class. Arlene said that thanks to their meditation practice, they were learning how to decide on love: “We have to
choose
presence with each other, over and over and over,” she told me. “We have to choose presence when we're angry, presence when we aren't in the mood to listen, presence when we're alone and running the same old stories about how the other is wrong. Choosing presence is our way of opening our hearts.” Jeff nodded his agreement. “I realized that it's not about getting from point A to point B,” he said with a smile. “It's about bringing a full presence to point A, to the life of this moment, no matter what's going on. The rest unfolds from there.”

Taking refuge in presence—choosing presence—requires training. When “point A” is unpleasant, the last thing we want to do is to stay and feel our experience. Rather than entrusting ourselves to the waves, we want to get away, to lash out, to numb ourselves, to do anything but touch what is real. Yet as Jeff and Arlene were realizing, false refuges keep us feeling small and defended. Only by deepening our attention and letting life be just as it is, can we find real intimacy with ourselves and others. In more than thirty-five years of teaching meditation, I've seen it help countless people to reawaken love, relieve emotional anguish, and let go of addictive behaviors. For so many. the commitment to practicing meditation has created the grounds for a deep and beautiful transformation of heart and spirit.

Training Your Mind

When we're in the thick of lifelong patterns of insecurity or blame, it's hard to believe that change is possible. Until recently, scientific evidence seemed to confirm this skepticism. Neurologists thought that once we reached adulthood, the basic wiring of our brain was fixed; we were stuck with our core emotional patterning. If we were passive, anxious, and confused during our first decades of life, we were destined to continue that way. Now, with the help of brain imaging and other techniques, researchers have discovered the brain's inherent neuroplasticity: New neural pathways can be created and strengthened, and the brain and mind can continue to develop and change throughout life. So while we may get caught in very deep emotional ruts, we have the capacity to create fresh ways of responding to life.

Whatever you think or do regularly becomes a habit, a strongly conditioned pathway in the brain. The more you think about what can go wrong, the more your mind is primed to anticipate trouble. The more you lash out in anger, the more your body and mind are geared toward aggression. The more you think about how you might help others, the more your mind and heart are inclined to be generous. Just as weight lifting builds muscles, the way you direct your attention can strengthen anxiety, hostility, and addiction, or it can lead you to healing and awakening.

Imagine presence as a spring-fed forest pond—clear, still, and pure. Because we've spent so much time lost in the woods of our thoughts and emotions, we often have trouble finding this pond. But as we sit down to meditate again and again, we become familiar with the path through the woods. We can find the gap between the trees, we know the roots we've tripped over before, we trust that even if we get caught up in the brush and bramble, we'll find our way.

Regular meditation practice creates new pathways in our mind, ones that carry us home to the clarity, openness, and ease of presence. The Buddha taught many strategies for cultivating these pathways, but he considered the practice of mindfulness to be of central importance.
Mindfulness is the intentional process of paying attention, without judgment, to the unfolding of moment-by-moment experience.
If you get lost in worries about paying bills, mindfulness notices the worried thoughts and the accompanying feelings of anxiety. If you get lost in rehearsing what you'll tell another person, mindfulness notices the inner dialogue and the feelings of excitement or fear. Mindfulness recognizes and allows, without any resistance, all these sensations and feelings as they come and go. The most deeply grooved pathways in our mind are those that lead away from the present moment. By intentionally directing the mind to what is happening right now, mindfulness deconditions these pathways and awakens us to a fresh and intimate sense of being alive. Just as a clear pond reflects the sky, mindfulness allows us to see the truth of our experience.

The primary style of Buddhist meditation that I teach is called
vipassana,
meaning “to see clearly.” In vipassana, the path to mindfulness begins with concentration—a one-pointed focusing of attention. It's difficult to be mindful of your experience if your mind is lost in a continuous stream of discursive thought. So first we collect and quiet the mind by directing attention to a sensory anchor. This might mean following the breath, or scanning the body for sensations, or listening to sounds, or silently repeating a phrase such as, “May I be happy,” or “May I be peaceful.” With practice, whatever anchor you choose can become a reliable home base for your attention; like a good friend, it will help you reconnect with an inner sense of balance and well-being.

Psychiatrist and author Daniel Siegel offers a useful metaphor for understanding how our minds continuously move away from presence while we meditate. Imagine your awareness as a great wheel. At the hub of the wheel is presence, and from this hub, an infinite number of spokes extend out to the rim. Your attention is conditioned to leave presence, move out along the spokes, and affix itself to one part of the rim after another. Plans for dinner segue into a disturbing conversation, a self-judgment, a song on the radio, a backache, the feeling of fear. Or your attention gets lost in obsessive thinking, circling endlessly around stories and feelings about what is wrong. If you are not connected to the hub, if your attention is trapped out on the rim, you are cut off from your wholeness and living in trance.

Preselecting a home base or anchor, like the breath, allows you to notice when you've left presence and to find your way back to the hub more easily. I call this part of practice “coming back.” Once you're back at the hub, the anchor also helps you to quiet and calm the mind. No matter how often your attention flies out to some fantasy or memory on the rim, you can gently return to the hub and ground yourself once again in presence.

As your attention becomes more settled, you will sense that the boundaries of the hub are softening and opening. This is the phase of practice that I call “being here.” You continue to be in touch with your anchor, but at the same time you can recognize and allow the changing experiences on the rim—the sound of a dog barking, the pain in your knee, a thought about how long you'll continue to meditate. Rather than fixating on these experiences or pushing them away, you let them come and go freely. Of course the mind will still sometimes lose itself on the rim, and at these times, when you notice, you again gently return to the hub. It's natural for practice to flow between “coming back” and “being here.”

The more you inhabit the alert stillness at the center of the wheel and include in mindfulness whatever is happening, the more the hub of presence becomes edgeless, warm, and bright. In the moments when there is no controlling of experience—when there is effortless mindfulness—you enter fully into presence. The hub, spokes, and rim are all floating in luminous open awareness.

Remembering What Matters

With so many styles of meditation or contemplative practice being taught today, students sometimes worry about choosing the “right one.” But more than the particular form of practice or set of teachings, what makes the difference in terms of spiritual awakening is your quality of earnestness or
sincerity
. We become sincere when we connect with what most matters to our heart. In the Buddhist teachings, the conscious recognition of our heart's deepest longing is called wise aspiration. Yours might be for spiritual realization, for loving more fully, for knowing truth, for finding peace. Whatever its flavor, the awareness of what you care about energizes and guides your practice. As Zen master Suzuki Roshi taught, “The most important thing is remembering the most important thing.”

It is helpful to start your meditation with a reflection on what matters to you. Some meditation students bring to mind an all-encompassing aspiration, while others focus on a particular intention for the sitting or the day. For instance, you might connect with your aspiration for loving fully or decide to embrace whatever difficult emotions arise during your practice. You might aspire to the truth—to really see what is happening and what is real—or you might have the particular intention to recognize and let go of thoughts. When you begin by asking your heart what matters, you are already on the path to presence.

Cultivating a Wise Attitude

If you currently meditate, take a moment to reflect on your overall attitude toward your practice. Do you think you should be practicing more and having better results? Do you feel like it's too hard, and resign yourself to not doing a good job? Do you put in the time but feel like your efforts are halfhearted? Are you eager to practice? Curious about what unfolds? Relaxed about your progress?

A healthy attitude is one that sincerely cares about presence, yet does not judge what unfolds. Rather, we regard whatever happens with an interested, relaxed, and friendly attention. Making meditation part of a self-improvement project can actually undermine your practice. Most people have an internal template for the kind of meditative experience they consider “good” (quiet, open, clear, loving, and so on) and then judge themselves when their mind wanders or when difficult emotions arise. Truly, there is no “right” meditation, and striving to get it right reinforces the sense of an imperfect, striving self. On the other hand, resigning yourself to a halfhearted effort reinforces the sense of a disengaged, disconnected self.

When Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh was invited to the San Francisco Zen Center in the 1970s, the students asked him what they could do to improve their practice. He had entered a monastery at age sixteen, was an ordained monk, and had endured the horrors of the war in Vietnam. I imagine they expected some rigorous prescription for deepening their spiritual life. Thich Nhat Hanh's response: “You guys get up too early for one thing, you should get up a little later. And your practice is too grim. I have just two instructions for you this week. One is to breathe, and one is to smile.”