It occurred to me this evening that I owe you an apology and a thank you. The apology will have to wait because I'm unable to decide what it is I need to apologize for. Basically, I want to apologize for being harsh toward you. But then something goes off in my mind saying, "I don't think you were really harsh with her," and I don't really disagree with that. So maybe it's more that I wasn't helpful. Though I believed in the content of what I said, I'm not sure I believed it would actually be helpful to say it. I'll ponder this some more in hopes that something more useful will congeal.
I owe you my thanks because when my marriage and my world was crumbling around me and resisted my best rebuilding efforts I searched for ideas and philosophies that would help my emotional state. Some of the concepts I ran across were very helpful, such as practicing compassion and embracing groundlessness. For various reasons, however, I back burnered those practices. As my situation became more resolved (or has at least given me that illusion) I have felt little need to return to them. But a couple of things you have written:
"I just want to feel better more of the time."
"Still trying to get back there... looking for the Secret Door in the Wall..."
...made me realize its time for me to revisit those theories. A great many of them came from two books:
The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama and Howard Cutler, and When Things Fall Apart : Heart Advice for Difficult Times by Pema Chodron
This is a blurb from the second book that illustrates a bit of what I'm rethinking:
I read somewhere about a family who had only one son. They were very poor. This son was extremely precious to them, and the only thing that mattered to his family was that he bring them some financial support and prestige. Then he was thrown from a horse and crippled. It seemed like the end of their lives. Two weeks after that, the army came into the village and took away all the healthy, strong men to fight in the war, and this young man was allowed to stay behind and take care of his family.
Life is like that. We don't know anything. We call something bad; we call it good. But really we just don't know.
When things fall apart and we're on the verge of we know not what, the test for each of us is to stay on that brink and not concretize. The spiritual journey is not about heaven and finally getting to a place that's really swell. In fact, that way of looking at things is what keeps us miserable. Thinking that we can find some lasting pleasure and avoid pain is what in Buddhism is called samsara, a hopeless cycles that goes round and round endlessly and causes us to suffer greatly. The very first noble truth of the Buddha points out that suffering is inevitable for human beings as long as we believe that things last -- that they don't disintegrate, that they can be counted on to satisfy our hunger for security. From this point of view, the only time we ever know what's really going on is when the rug's been pulled out and we can't find anywhere to land. We use these situations either to wake ourselves up or to put ourselves to sleep. Right now -- in the very instant of groundlessness -- is the seed of taking care of those who need our care and of discovering our goodness.
I remember so vividly a day in early spring when my whole reality gave out on me. Although it was before I had heard any Buddhist teachings, it was what some would call a genuine spiritual experience. It happened when my husband told me he was having an affair. We lived in northern New Mexico. I was standing in front of our adobe house drinking a cup of tea. I heard the car drive up and the door bang shut. Then he walked around the corner, and without warning he told me that he was having an affair and he wanted a divorce.
I remember the sky and how huge it was. I remember the sound of the river and the steam rising up from my tea. There was no time, no thought, there was nothing -- just the light and a profound, limitless stillness. Then I regrouped and picked up a stone and threw it at him.
When anyone asks me how I got involved in Buddhism, I always say it was because I was so angry with my husband. The truth is that he saved my life. When that marriage fell apart, I tried hard -- very, very hard -- to go back to some kind of comfort, some kind of security, some kind of familiar resting place. Fortunately for me, I could never pull it off. Instinctively I knew that annihilation of my old dependent, clinging self was the only way to go. That's when I pinned that sign up on my wall.
Life is a good teacher and a good friend. Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it. Nothing ever sums itself up in the way that we like to dream about. The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don't get caught and we can open our hearts and minds beyond limit. It's a very tender, nonaggressive, open-ended state of affairs.
To stay with that shakiness -- to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge -- that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic -- this is the spiritual path. Getting the knack of catching ourselves, of gently and compassionately catching ourselves, is the path of the warrior. We catch ourselves one zillion times as once again, whether we like it or not, we harden into resentment, bitterness, righteous indignation -- harden in any way, even into a sense of relief, a sense of inspiration.
That's not the best or even the most appropriate part of the book, it's just what struck me tonight.
I hope things are going well for you, Lil, and at the very least I apologize to you for hardening at your expense.
Stop WaitingFeel EverythingLove AchinglyGive ImpeccablyLet Go
