True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (7 page)

Of course, we can experience the benefits of sangha even if we are not part of a spiritual group. It's with family and friends that we often experience our most ongoing, challenging, and profound awakenings. Our hearts open wide when we celebrate births and weddings, when we mourn the loss of loved ones, when we gather at a holiday meal, when we confide a difficult truth, and when we help each other through sickness and stress. In the intimacy of these moments, we glimpse who we are beyond the trance of small self.

The refuge of love continues to come alive for me in poignant and simple ways. It happens when I'm silently keeping a friend company in the midst of his or her pain, when my husband, Jonathan, is escorting me and my computer through a technological minefield, when our community's board listens respectfully to each other's conflicting opinions. It happens when I'm working with others for a shared purpose, whether it's writing something, solving a problem, cooking a meal, or helping our world in some small but real way. My sense of “me” becomes looser and more permeable. I'm part of something larger, no longer contracted by the pain and fear of separation.

People often enter our meditation community with the expectation that everyone will be kind, thoughtful, and generous. We're a spiritual group, after all! They can become disillusioned and disappointed when their fellow meditators make insensitive or judgmental remarks, get defensive about being “right,” and lock into conflict. They can also become disillusioned when they come face to face, once again, with their own feelings of woundedness and with their familiar ways of getting offended, of creating distance with others.

But even when habits of blaming or defensiveness arise, something profound can change if those involved bring a committed presence to what is happening. This is when community becomes a refuge—a place of true awakening.

Charlie, a college senior who came to me for counseling, had been neglected by his mother, abused by his father. When he joined Narcotics Anonymous, he found himself unable to trust that his sponsor cared about him or that the members of his local group really wanted him there. I encouraged Charlie to stay and commit himself not just to abstinence but to engaging fully with others in the program. While it took many months of regular meetings, he came to feel he had finally found a real family.

Some of us, like Charlie, have always been on the outside looking in. Others have needed to be in control and have not felt truly close with others. We might feel that we are often in conflict, either overly aggressive or defensive with others. Whatever our history, the capacity to have intimate and authentic relationships remains within us, and it comes alive with practice. This happens as we learn to be purposefully attentive, in the present moment, with ourselves and each other. We can do this in relationships with any person or group where there is a commitment to “staying,” a commitment to kindness, a commitment to awakening together.

Having spiritual friends is not a superficial comfort. It helps free us from a trance of separation so deep that we are often not aware of it. Conscious relationships shine a direct light both on our layered feelings of unworthiness and loneliness, and on the truth of our belonging. We begin to respond more compassionately and actively to the suffering of the world. Our real community, we discover, includes all beings. As we relax and trust this belonging to the web of life, we recognize the one awareness that shines through each being. Our spiritual friends open the way to the inner refuge of unconditional loving presence.

The Gateway of Awareness

Soon after his enlightenment, the Buddha set out to share his teachings with others. People were struck by his extraordinary radiance and peaceful presence. One man asked him who he was. “Are you a celestial being or a god?” “No,” responded the Buddha. “Are you a saint or sage?” Again the Buddha responded, “No.” “Are you some kind of magician or wizard?” “No,” said the Buddha. “Well then, what are you?” The Buddha replied, “I am awake.”

I often share this story because it is a reminder that what might seem like an extraordinary occurrence—spiritual awakening—is a built-in human capacity. Siddhartha Gautama (the Buddha's birth name) was a human being, not a deity. When Buddhists take refuge in the historical Buddha, whose name literally means “one who is awake,” they are drawing on the inspiration of a fellow human who was able to realize his inner freedom. Like us, Siddhartha experienced bodily pain and disease, and, like us, he encountered inner distress and conflict. For those who follow the Buddha, reflecting on his courageous investigation of reality, and his awakening to a timeless and compassionate presence, brings confidence that this same potential lies within each of us. In a similar way we might reflect on Jesus or on teachers and healers from other traditions. Any spiritually awakened human being helps us trust that we too can awaken. You may have already touched upon this outer refuge with a caring and wise teacher or mentor. My eighty-six-year-old aunt, a specialist in childhood blood diseases, traces her love of nature and her determination to be a doctor to a science class in junior high school. Very few women entered medical school at that time, but her teacher, a woman of passionate intellect, conveyed a pivotal message: “Trust your intelligence and let your curiosity shine!” An African American friend who leads corporate diversity trainings found refuge and inspiration in his minister, a leader in the civil rights movement and an exemplar of generosity, humor, and wisdom. I found refuge in my first meditation teacher, Stephen: His great love of meditating, and his own unfolding clarity and kindness, helped awaken my devotion to the spiritual path. We respond to our mentors because they speak to qualities of heart and mind, qualities of awareness, that are already within us. Their gift is that they remind us of what is possible and call it forth. Much in the same way, we are drawn to spiritual figures that help connect us with our inner goodness.

About ten years ago I began experimenting with a simple self-guided meditation. I would call on the presence of the divine mother (the sacred feminine) and over the next minute or so, I would begin to sense a radiant openness surrounding me. As I imagined the mind of this awakened being, I could sense vastness and lucidity. Then, as I imagined the heart of the divine mother, that openness filled with warmth and sensitivity. Finally, I'd direct my attention inward, to see how that tender, radiant, all-inclusive awareness was living inside me. I'd feel my body, heart, and mind light up as if the sunlit sky was suffusing every cell of my body and shining through the spaces between the cells.

I've come to see that through this meditation, I was exploring the movement from outer refuge to inner refuge. By regularly contacting these facets of sacred presence within me, I was deepening my faith in my own essential being.

Realizing who we are fulfills our human potential. We intuit that we are more mysterious and vast than the small self we experience through our stories and changing emotions. As we learn to attend directly to our own awareness, we discover the timeless and wakeful space of our true nature. This inner refuge of pure awareness is our ultimate homecoming. It is the fruition of all spiritual practice, and it gives beauty and meaning to our lives.

Start Where You Are

Whether we are old-timers or new to the path, we need to intuit where best to place our attention at this time in our lives. Depending on your circumstances, temperament, and past experiences, you might find one or another of the outer refuges easier or more natural to enter. Some people feel most enlivened by some form of spiritual support group, others are dedicated to a weekly meditation class, and still others might feel devoted to studying classic Buddhist teachings. You can trust that wherever you start or whatever refuge you emphasize is the right place to be right now.

The biggest illusion about a path of refuge is that we are on our way somewhere else, on our way to becoming a different kind of person. But ultimately, our refuge is not outside ourselves, not somewhere in the future—it is always and already here. As you will see again and again in the chapters that follow,
truth
can only be discovered in the aliveness of this moment.
Love
can only be experienced in this very heart, here and now.
Awareness
can only be realized as we discover the space and wakefulness of our own mind.

Guided Reflection: Remembering the Most Important Thing

We turn toward the refuges of truth, love, and awareness by listening to the call of our heart. Beyond any meditative technique, it is remembering what most matters to us that awakens and frees our spirit. Again, as Zen master Suzuki Roshi taught, “The most important thing is remembering the most important thing.” For most people, realizing and connecting with our deep aspiration takes time and attention. Like peeling back the layers of an onion, we may unfold layers of more immediate wants and fears before we arrive at the source, the light of pure aspiration. As we inhabit this aspiration, it becomes the compass of the heart that guides us home.

Find a comfortable way of sitting, and allow yourself to relax and be at ease. With a receptive presence, become aware of the state of your heart. Is there a sense of openness or tightness? Of peace or anxiety? Of contentment or dissatisfaction? If there is something of particular concern or importance going on in your life, or simply a strong emotion, allow that to express itself. Perhaps at first you will be aware of wishing your partner would treat you differently. You might find that you are wanting to get past a particularly demanding stretch at work. You might long to be free of chronic pain. You may be wanting one of your children to feel more secure and confident.

Whatever arises, allow it to be there, and with interest, ask yourself: “If I got what I wanted, what would that really give me?” Perhaps you imagine if you were treated differently, you'd be less reactive and free to be more loving. Or if you were relieved of chronic pain, you would then be able to relax and enjoy your life more fully.

Continuing your inquiry you might now ask directly, “What does my heart really long for?” It can also be helpful to ask, “What most matters in this life?” Or, “If I was at the end of my life looking back, what would be most important about how I lived today … this moment?” As you pose these questions, sense that you are addressing your inquiry directly to your heart.

After asking, simply listen and be aware of any words, images, or feelings that arise. Try to be patient—it can take some time for the mind to open out of its habitual ideas about life and connect with what is most alive and true. You may need to repeat, several times, some version of “What does my heart long for?” and then listen in receptive silence to what arises. As you listen, stay in touch with the feelings in your body, and particularly in your heart.

Your aspiration will probably express itself differently at different times. You might feel a longing to love fully or to feel loved, to know truth, to be peaceful, to be helpful, to be free of fear and suffering. There is no “right” aspiration. Sometimes you will land on an immediate intention that supports your aspiration. For example, you might become aware of the yearning to write poetry or paint. This would be in service of the deep aspiration to live a creative, vital life. What is important is attuning to what is most true for you in this moment.

The signs of arriving at a clear intention or deep aspiration are a felt sense of sincerity, innocence, energy, or flow. Some people describe an inner shift that gives them fresh resolution, openness, and ease. If there is no real sense of connecting with what matters, that's fine. You might sit quietly and open to whatever naturally arises, or choose to continue this exploration at another time.

If you sense you've arrived at what feels like a pure and deep aspiration, allow yourself to inhabit the fullness of your longing. Feel the very essence of your longing in a cellular way as it expresses through your whole body and being. Let your aspiration be the prayer of your awakening heart.

You can practice reflecting on your aspiration at the beginning and end of each day, and at the beginning and/or end of a meditation sitting. In addition, as you move through the day, try to pause periodically and inquire as to what most matters to you. In any moment that you remember what you care about, you have opened your heart to the blessings of true refuge.

Imagine you just found out that your child was suspended from school.

Imagine your boss just told you to start over on a report you'd worked on for a month.

Imagine you just realized you'd been on Facebook for three hours and have finished off a pound of trail mix in the process.

Imagine your partner just confessed to an affair.

It's hard to hang out with the truth of what we're feeling. We may sincerely intend to pause and be mindful whenever a crisis arises, or whenever we feel stuck and confused, but our conditioning to react, escape, or become possessed by emotion is very strong.

Yes, there are times when being present feels out of reach or too much to bear. There are times when false refuges can relieve stress, give us a breather, help lift our mood. But when we're not connected to the clarity and kindness of presence, we're all too likely to fall into more misunderstanding, more conflict, and more distance from others and our own heart.

About twelve years ago, a number of Buddhist teachers began to share a new mindfulness tool that offers in-the-trenches support for working with intense and difficult emotions. Called RAIN (an acronym for the four steps of the process), it can be accessed in almost any place or situation. It directs our attention in a clear, systematic way that cuts through confusion and stress. The steps give us somewhere to turn in a painful moment, and as we call on them more regularly, they strengthen our capacity to come home to our deepest truth. Like the clear sky and clean air after a cooling rain, this mindfulness practice brings a new openness and calm to our daily lives.

I have now taught RAIN to thousands of students, clients, and mental health professionals, adapting and expanding it into the version you'll find in this chapter. I've also made it a core practice in my own life. Here are the four steps of RAIN presented in the way I've found most helpful:

RAIN directly deconditions the habitual ways in which you resist your moment-to-moment experience. It doesn't matter whether you resist what is by lashing out in anger, by having a cigarette, or by getting immersed in obsessive thinking. Your attempt to control the life within and around you actually cuts you off from your own heart and from this living world. RAIN begins to undo these unconscious patterns as soon as we take the first step.

Recognize What Is Happening

Recognition is seeing what is true in your inner life. It starts the minute you focus your attention on whatever thoughts, emotions, feelings, or sensations are arising right here and now. As your attention settles and opens, you will discover that some parts of your experience are easier to connect with than others. For example, you might recognize anxiety right away, but if you focus on your worried thoughts, you might not notice the actual sensations of squeezing, pressure, or tightness arising in the body. On the other hand, if your body is gripped by jittery nervousness, you might not recognize that this physical response is being triggered by your underlying belief that you are about to fail. You can awaken recognition simply by asking yourself: “What is happening inside me right now?” Call on your natural curiosity as you focus inward. Try to let go of any preconceived ideas and instead listen in a kind, receptive way to your body and heart.

Allow Life to Be Just as It Is

Allowing means “letting be” the thoughts, emotions, feelings, or sensations you discover. You may feel a natural sense of aversion, of wishing that unpleasant feelings would go away, but as you become more willing to be present with “what is,” a different quality of attention will emerge. Allowing is intrinsic to healing, and realizing this can give rise to a conscious intention to “let be.”

Many students I work with support their resolve to “let be” by mentally whispering an encouraging word or phrase. For instance, you might feel the grip of fear and whisper “yes,” or experience the swelling of deep grief and whisper “yes.” You might use the words “this too” or “I consent.” At first you might feel you're just putting up with unpleasant emotions or sensations. Or you might say yes to shame and hope that it will magically disappear. In reality, we have to consent again and again. Yet even the first gesture of allowing, simply whispering a phrase like “yes” or “I consent,” begins to soften the harsh edges of your pain. Your entire being is not so rallied in resistance. Offer the phrase gently and patiently, and in time your defenses will relax, and you may feel a physical sense of yielding or opening to waves of experience.

Investigate with Kindness

At times, simply working through the first two steps of RAIN is enough to provide relief and reconnect you with presence. In other cases, however, the simple intention to recognize and allow is not enough. For instance, if you are in the thick of a divorce, about to lose a job, or dealing with a life-threatening illness, you may be easily overwhelmed by intense feelings. Because these feelings are triggered over and over again—you get a phone call from your soon-to-be ex, your bank statement comes, you wake up to pain in the morning—your reactions can become very entrenched. In such situations, you may need to further awaken and strengthen mindful awareness with the
I
of RAIN.

Investigation means calling on your natural interest—the desire to know truth—and directing a more focused attention to your present experience. Simply pausing to ask, “What is happening inside me?” might initiate recognition, but with investigation you engage in a more active and pointed kind of inquiry. You might ask yourself: “What most wants attention?” “How am I experiencing this in my body?” or “What am I believing?” or “What does this feeling want from me?” You might contact sensations of hollowness or shakiness, and then find a sense of unworthiness and shame buried in these feelings. Unless they are brought into consciousness, these beliefs and emotions will control your experience and perpetuate your identification with a limited, deficient self.

When I first shared the RAIN acronym with students, many of them had problems with the investigation step. Some said things like, “When fear arises, my investigation just takes me into thinking about what is causing it and how to feel better.” Others reported, “I can't stay in my body long enough to investigate where an emotion lives in me.” For many, investigation triggered judgment: “I know I'm supposed to be investigating this shame, but I hate it … and I hate myself for having it.”

All these responses reflect our natural resistance to feeling uncomfortable and unsafe: Thoughts swarm in our head, we leave our body, we judge what is happening. What my students were telling me was that RAIN was missing a key ingredient. In order for investigation to be healing and freeing, we need to approach our experience with an intimate quality of attention. We need to offer a gentle welcome to whatever surfaces. This is why I use the phrase “Investigate with kindness.” Without this heart energy, investigation cannot penetrate; there is not enough safety and openness for real contact.

Imagine that your child comes home in tears after being bullied at school. In order to find out what happened and how your child is feeling, you have to offer a kind, receptive, gentle attention. Bringing that same kindness to your inner life makes inquiry, and ultimately healing, possible.

Non-identification: Rest in Natural Awareness

The lucid, open, and kind presence evoked in the
R, A,
and
I
of RAIN leads to the
N
: the freedom of
non-identification,
and the realization of what I call natural awareness or natural presence. Non-identification means that your sense of who you are is not fused with or defined by any limited set of emotions, sensations, or stories. When identification with the small self is loosened, we begin to intuit and live from the openness and love that express our natural awareness. The first three steps of RAIN require some intentional activity. In contrast, the
N
of RAIN expresses the result: a liberating realization of your natural awareness. There's nothing to do for this last part of RAIN—realization arises spontaneously, on its own. We simply rest in natural awareness.

Applying RAIN to Blame

Some years ago, on the day after Christmas, I found myself surrounded by family and annoyed by every person I'd looked forward to spending time with. No one was really being mean spirited, but I found myself spinning in my own irritable, judgmental orbit. After someone interrupted my father at lunch, he became upset and withdrew into an aggrieved silence that ruined the mood for the rest of us. Then my son, Narayan, skipped out to meet a friend instead of helping wash the dishes as he had promised. My mother complained that Narayan was barely around; one of my sisters was sulking because this meal, like several others, showed insensitivity to her food preferences; and my other sister snapped because she hadn't been consulted about the timing of an outing. Even the dogs were misbehaving—hanging around the table and begging for food. As far as I was concerned, each person (and animal!) was exhibiting his or her well-worn version of being a victim or martyr, of being needy or oblivious. Moreover, my own needs for space and harmony were not being met. Here it was, only two days into our visit, and I was churning with resentment.

During the months before our holiday gathering, it had become increasingly clear to me how my habit of judging created a painful separation from others. Motivated by this suffering, I had committed myself to add a specific focus to my spiritual life: I began to intentionally bring RAIN to my feelings of aversive judgment and blame. For the next several weeks, I tried to notice how my body and heart felt when my mind produced stories that diminished others. Each time my inner critic made demeaning comments, I looked to see what underlying beliefs were speaking. Investigating this experience of judgment and blame opened my eyes to the reality of how many moments I was living with a closed heart. This recognition deepened my commitment: The more I saw the pain of this false refuge, the more I sensed the freedom and openheartedness that lay beyond it.

Despite my new commitment, I wasn't at all in the mood to examine my inner life that afternoon. Grumpy and tired—with all the judgments about my family ricocheting in my mind—I considered burying myself in a good book. But I just couldn't get away from that niggling inner voice reminding me of my promise to bring RAIN to blame.

Grudgingly, I threw on my parka and boots and headed outside into the gray December afternoon to see if I could find my way to more presence and peace.

Walking through the light drizzle, I began to reflect on each family member and to watch my mind poke blame at them. I witnessed my judgments: “You get so indignant and huffy, Dad, when others interrupt. What's the big deal? And you, Narayan, you're so irresponsible, never keeping your word …” So I began to practice RAIN by recognizing my reactivity: I clearly saw how I disliked the way my family was acting, how I found each in some way wrong.

As a way of allowing—the second step of RAIN—I took some time to acknowledge the blaming thoughts and then just let them be. Rather than judging my own judging mind, I made an effort to remind myself, “This is just what is happening.” As I stayed with my experience, I became aware of a tight sore area in my chest. This became a natural focus for the next step in RAIN, investigation. With some interest, I began attending to my body, and soon the tightness turned into a sharply edged knot compressing my heart. While there were many different complaints running through my mind, I noticed that they were all arising from the same irritated, squeezed place.

Now I asked that knotted place a question: “What does life look like through your eyes … from your perspective?” In the past, this type of question had helped me get “inside” an experience. In response to my inquiry came a realization: Buried inside my reaction to each person was the experience of feeling bad about myself. In each case their behavior had triggered my own feelings of falling short—as a family peacemaker, as a responsible parent, as a helpful daughter and supportive sister. My inquiry had started to loosen the knot of blame, and I could now feel what it was masking: a familiar, sinking, sick feeling of personal failure.

Over the past two months, my rounds of RAIN had taught me that when I turn against others, I am also at odds with myself. Yet there is often an initial phase during which I recognize that I've locked onto the “wrongness” of others, but am not yet aware of my self-aversion. Now once again, beneath the blame, I encountered the familiar and painful belief that directly perpetuates the trance of small self. “Something is wrong with me.”

In practicing RAIN, the quality of our attention determines how deeply we can contact our inner truth. Knowing this, I consciously slowed my walking pace and with a gentle, receptive attention, let the sense of not-okay self express itself fully. It felt like a wire net compressing my heart, making it small, hard, heavy. In my mind's eye, I was utterly alone; a self cut off from others. Now I could sense how this holiday experience was simply an exaggerated version of what happened regularly in daily life. I would blame members of our organization's board for doing too little to increase diversity in our community, but really feel pained by how little time I had to devote to the critical issue. I would blame my son for forgetting a homework assignment, but under that, I would be suffering over the belief that I was a negligent mother. I would blame my sister for complaining that I was too busy to see her, but beneath that I would feel guilty about how little unrushed time I spent with her and my niece. Whether I was caught in self-blame or blaming others, what stood out was the familiar sense that I was cut off, all alone with my painfully closed heart.