It's difficult
to balance
atop
a 100 foot pole.
Clinging tightly
with your feet
waving arms
grasping
at the very space
of which
you are so afraid.
Stepping off
is equally frightening
nothing
to support
apparent
immediate
drop
and then
who knows what?
Consider
the vast space
surrounding the 100 foot pole.
Consider
the tiny top
upon which
you are attempting
to remain.
When you fall
or step
from that tiny place
you find yourself
surrounded
immersed
supported
by endless possibilities
Easier
to find balance
in the space in which
that pole exists
than to cling
tiptoed
to its top.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Becoming your mother
I was emailing a parent, responding to some questions they had about something they had said to their child, and I noticed that it was my experience with children that allowed me to give them advice around this. I realized that I had things to offer this parent because I had been teaching for a while. And I thought that they might feel better about what they had said to their child because of my advice. I also thought that the child might end up feeling better too- that my knowledge of how kids of this particular age see things might help this parent to help their child.
And this reminded me of my mom.
I have a good friend whom I have known since I was two. Her mother and my mother would "babysit swap" for each other. Her mother would babysit for my brother, my sister, and me while my mom did errands and then my mom would watch her and her sister while she did errands. So they knew each other as mothers, as wives, as women raising kids in the seventies.
I mentioned to my friend's mother once that I never really knew my mom, what she was like as an adult, as a person. She shared a bit about my mother and how she always respected her but then she also shared about a moment that she had never forgotten. My friend's mom was going through a difficult time in her life and she said that my mom had been very clear with her about what was important: staying strong and taking care of the kids. She had offered her advice about how she could do that and seemed to convey to her that she was capable of doing this and, in fact, it was what she had to do. And my friend's mom said that what my mom said had been true; and it allowed her to be strong and to focus on taking care of her kids- and so she was able to do just that.
And so when I noticed that I was giving advice to a parent, and that it seemed to be helping them to raise their child, I thought that maybe I was becoming my mom. I thought that maybe who I am now is part of who she was as a grown up; that maybe me-as-an-adult is me-becoming-my-mom: the person who I didn't know.
And I thought about how much I wanted to stay as a six year old, how much I wanted to be a little girl because being a little girl was the only place I had ever been where I knew my mom, and so I didn't want to leave there. But I realized that in staying six, I wasn't becoming my mom. In holding on to that six year old, I wasn't allowing myself to become who I am- and that maybe who I am, is my mom; that the only way I would get to know my mom as an adult is to become myself as an adult.
The next night, I was at a party to which I had brought cookies. It was quite late in the party, the pie had already been served, and so I helped myself to one of the many of my cookies that were still left on the tray on the table.
"What are those?" asked one of the people sitting on the couch in front of the cookie tray.
"Pumpkin spice cookies with special-dark-chocolate kisses," I answered with a smile.
Then someone else in the room asked, "Wait, did you make them?"
"Yes," I answered.
And then anyone within earshot reached for a cookie.
"Oh," I thought. "I wonder if they're eating the cookies now because they know that I made them. I wonder if the idea that they were made by me makes them cookies that people want. I wonder if I have a reputation of making good cookies."
And then I thought about my mom and how many recipe boxes we had in our kitchen. I thought about how often her diary entries started with a detailed description of what they had eaten at the restaurant they had been to that night. I thought about the fact that even though I had grown up only eating food because it was "time to eat," in the end, I ended up really enjoying food and loving to bake things, for others.
"Maybe this is her too," I thought. "It's true that my regular eating time and practical approach to food comes from my dad and how we ate growing up, but maybe me baking for others, enjoying sharing food with friends, maybe that's me becoming her too. Maybe this grownup me is okay- maybe I'm growing into who she was too."
And it made me less afraid of leaving that six year old place. It made me see that that six year old place is limited- it's only vague memories of a little girl and her mom. It's true that I still want that- it's true that I still want a mom, to have grown up with one, and to have one now. But it's not going to happen, it just isn't. I lived past that, continued to live, continued to grow up, whether I wanted to or not. And I am here now. And maybe me now will allow me to connect with her then.
And this reminded me of my mom.
I have a good friend whom I have known since I was two. Her mother and my mother would "babysit swap" for each other. Her mother would babysit for my brother, my sister, and me while my mom did errands and then my mom would watch her and her sister while she did errands. So they knew each other as mothers, as wives, as women raising kids in the seventies.
I mentioned to my friend's mother once that I never really knew my mom, what she was like as an adult, as a person. She shared a bit about my mother and how she always respected her but then she also shared about a moment that she had never forgotten. My friend's mom was going through a difficult time in her life and she said that my mom had been very clear with her about what was important: staying strong and taking care of the kids. She had offered her advice about how she could do that and seemed to convey to her that she was capable of doing this and, in fact, it was what she had to do. And my friend's mom said that what my mom said had been true; and it allowed her to be strong and to focus on taking care of her kids- and so she was able to do just that.
And so when I noticed that I was giving advice to a parent, and that it seemed to be helping them to raise their child, I thought that maybe I was becoming my mom. I thought that maybe who I am now is part of who she was as a grown up; that maybe me-as-an-adult is me-becoming-my-mom: the person who I didn't know.
And I thought about how much I wanted to stay as a six year old, how much I wanted to be a little girl because being a little girl was the only place I had ever been where I knew my mom, and so I didn't want to leave there. But I realized that in staying six, I wasn't becoming my mom. In holding on to that six year old, I wasn't allowing myself to become who I am- and that maybe who I am, is my mom; that the only way I would get to know my mom as an adult is to become myself as an adult.
The next night, I was at a party to which I had brought cookies. It was quite late in the party, the pie had already been served, and so I helped myself to one of the many of my cookies that were still left on the tray on the table.
"What are those?" asked one of the people sitting on the couch in front of the cookie tray.
"Pumpkin spice cookies with special-dark-chocolate kisses," I answered with a smile.
Then someone else in the room asked, "Wait, did you make them?"
"Yes," I answered.
And then anyone within earshot reached for a cookie.
"Oh," I thought. "I wonder if they're eating the cookies now because they know that I made them. I wonder if the idea that they were made by me makes them cookies that people want. I wonder if I have a reputation of making good cookies."
And then I thought about my mom and how many recipe boxes we had in our kitchen. I thought about how often her diary entries started with a detailed description of what they had eaten at the restaurant they had been to that night. I thought about the fact that even though I had grown up only eating food because it was "time to eat," in the end, I ended up really enjoying food and loving to bake things, for others.
"Maybe this is her too," I thought. "It's true that my regular eating time and practical approach to food comes from my dad and how we ate growing up, but maybe me baking for others, enjoying sharing food with friends, maybe that's me becoming her too. Maybe this grownup me is okay- maybe I'm growing into who she was too."
And it made me less afraid of leaving that six year old place. It made me see that that six year old place is limited- it's only vague memories of a little girl and her mom. It's true that I still want that- it's true that I still want a mom, to have grown up with one, and to have one now. But it's not going to happen, it just isn't. I lived past that, continued to live, continued to grow up, whether I wanted to or not. And I am here now. And maybe me now will allow me to connect with her then.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Buddher's Nature
I was doing my breakfast dishes when I came across the knife that my room mate had used to butter his toast the night before. I was annoyed because in order to clean his knife, which had butter on it, I would have to warm up the water enough to melt the butter or use extra soap to wash the butter off. This would take extra time and it seemed unfair that I should have to take extra time to clean his knife when my dishes were so easily cleaned with just water. Yet at the same time, I felt uncomfortable just leaving his knife there. My room mate is a clean guy. I am not so much; but I have learned to appreciate clean, and so now I try to maintain it. Leaving that lone butter knife in an otherwise clean sink seemed to defeat the purpose of cleaning my own dishes.
"This is so unfair," I thought to myself. "The only reason I am cleaning his knife is because he wants our house to be clean. Yet I have to take extra time to clean his knife because it has butter on it. And the butter on the knife gets the sink all buttery and so I have to clean that too. Why is it always butter?"
And I thought about the butter and how much it annoyed me that it spread all over the sink and I imagined my room mate maybe laying the butter knife more gently in the sink so that it didn't spread around so much....
And then I realized the absurdity of this thought.
And I looked at the knife, laying there in the sink, covered in butter but not intentionally spreading itself all over the sink.
And then I realized, that it was just butter. Butter is inherently greasy. It's not butter's fault that it's greasy, it's just butter's nature.
And I thought about my room mate, putting his knife in the sink. And I realized that he wasn't choosing to leave a dish that was difficult to clean in the sink so that I would have to wash it in the morning. He was buttering his toast. He was putting the knife from his toast in the sink so that he could wash it in the morning. That's all- buttering his toast and putting his knife in the sink.
"It's just butter," I said to myself. "Just butter."
And then I thought of the kids in my class and I thought, "Wouldn't it be nice if I could see them as 'just butter' too? If I could see looking-for-a-toy-in-my-backpack-during-the-lesson-on-decimals as just that; instead of avoiding-the-task-at-hand or not-going-to-learn-the-lesson-today or I-will-have-to-teach-it-to-him-one-on-one-during-my-recess or he-will-struggle-in-fourth-grade-because-he-is-missing-two-minutes-of-instruction... My time with the kids would probably be a lot more smooth if I could see all their antics as 'just butter.'
So that's my intention for this week: to see their actions as simply Buddher Nature... Ha!
"This is so unfair," I thought to myself. "The only reason I am cleaning his knife is because he wants our house to be clean. Yet I have to take extra time to clean his knife because it has butter on it. And the butter on the knife gets the sink all buttery and so I have to clean that too. Why is it always butter?"
And I thought about the butter and how much it annoyed me that it spread all over the sink and I imagined my room mate maybe laying the butter knife more gently in the sink so that it didn't spread around so much....
And then I realized the absurdity of this thought.
And I looked at the knife, laying there in the sink, covered in butter but not intentionally spreading itself all over the sink.
And then I realized, that it was just butter. Butter is inherently greasy. It's not butter's fault that it's greasy, it's just butter's nature.
And I thought about my room mate, putting his knife in the sink. And I realized that he wasn't choosing to leave a dish that was difficult to clean in the sink so that I would have to wash it in the morning. He was buttering his toast. He was putting the knife from his toast in the sink so that he could wash it in the morning. That's all- buttering his toast and putting his knife in the sink.
"It's just butter," I said to myself. "Just butter."
And then I thought of the kids in my class and I thought, "Wouldn't it be nice if I could see them as 'just butter' too? If I could see looking-for-a-toy-in-my-backpack-during-the-lesson-on-decimals as just that; instead of avoiding-the-task-at-hand or not-going-to-learn-the-lesson-today or I-will-have-to-teach-it-to-him-one-on-one-during-my-recess or he-will-struggle-in-fourth-grade-because-he-is-missing-two-minutes-of-instruction... My time with the kids would probably be a lot more smooth if I could see all their antics as 'just butter.'
So that's my intention for this week: to see their actions as simply Buddher Nature... Ha!
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Reframing your suffering
I'm guessing that this is a big zen no-no, but I'm doing it anyway, 'cause if it works....yahoo!
So, for the last couple of weeks, I have been sick. When I'm sick, my go-to remedy seems to be to eat whatever appeals to me- regardless of its nutritional content- and to eat as much of it as my body wants (except dairy and sugar which always set me back at least two days in the healing process). About 90% of the time, what appeals to me is protein and soups. Also, I tend to eat these meals of meat and carbs much more frequently than I would normally do. Rather than eating based on the time of day or the meal I am having, I eat based on my desire at that moment. I will often eat an entire bowl of soup and then, because I feel like it, eat another full meal within an hour.
I had always thought that the protein was some sort "feed a cold" remedy or some wisdom on my body's part about needing protein to heal. And I thought that the frequent eating part was because my body was burning so many calories trying to heal itself that it needed to eat more frequently.
But last week, I felt what was going on while I was eating 5 or 7 meals a day of meat and carbs. What I felt, was full. And to me, full, felt cared for, safe, nourished. While sick felt weak, vulnerable, and like I had to fight against some big bad world, feeling full felt like someone was taking care of me, like even though I was going through this cold, I was safe and loved.
"Oh!" I thought. "It has nothing to do with protein or your body's wisdom, you just want to feel warm and safe. Eating big meals fills you up, makes you feel like you don't have to worry about your next meal. It's not about the soup or the meat, it's about your body feeling warm and full- a physical feeling that you associate with warmth and being cared for. It's not physiological, it's psychological."
Then this weekend, after enjoying a lovely Thanksgiving meal with my family, I went on a run. After my run, before my shower, I noticed my body in the mirror. What I noticed was the apparent storage of those extra meals from last week on my lower abdomen and sides.
"I'm not so excited about that extra storage. I'm not all that excited about how that looks in the mirror nor how it feels when I walk around."
And I thought, "I need to start exercising again. I need to get healthy again. I need to get rid of that extra storage on my abdomen and sides."
Now, I have to admit that I have been trying to "be healthy" for awhile. I have told myself that I feel better when I exercise, that this is all about being healthy, that it is really about exercising regardless of the outcome. But then, when I come back from my run, I still look at myself in the mirror and am disappointed- those storage areas (of baked goods, chocolate, macaroni and cheese) are still there. And again, I remind myself that this is all about being healthy, not about how you look, but this time, I was true with myself: you want to look different than you do, you want to lose those storage areas, you just do- admit it.
And so I did- I admitted that I wanted to lose them. In doing that I realized that if I wanted to remove those storage areas, I needed to stop eating those things that get stored (things that your body does not need: chocolate, cheese, Halloween candy). And so I agreed: if I wanted to get rid of those storage areas, I needed to stop eating those things: baked goods, chocolate, cheese.
That afternoon, as dinner time rolled around, I realized that I wasn't hungry. I had eaten several slices of my sister's pumpkin bread, leftover macaroni and cheese for lunch, and a small bag of Fritos in the car ride home from my uncle's house.
"Bummer," I thought. "I was looking forward to making that dish of leftover mashed potatoes and eggs and prosciutto." But then I remembered that I could make it another night, when I was actually hungry.
A couple of hours later, I came back to the kitchen to get a glass of water and had this feeling in my stomach. "Oooh, I'm hungry!" I thought.
But then I felt it a little more clearly.
It wasn't hungry. But it also wasn't full like I had wanted to feel last week when I was sick.
So then I felt it a little more, and it was familiar.
"Oh," I noticed. "This is how I feel when I come back from vacation. This is how I feel when I eat what my body needs and when I am walking around all day seeing new places. This is how I feel when I am kind of in alignment with my body and how it feels, not when I eat based on meal time or eating that treat because it's free or because it's in front of me."
"This... is fit." I thought to myself. "You think this is hungry, you think this is wanting food but when you feel it, it is the feeling of having eaten enough, just enough."
And then I didn't actually want a big meal of leftover mashed potatoes and prosciuttos and eggs. I just wanted water. I was okay, I wasn't hungry, I wasn't needing food. I was just fine.
"This is so cool!" I thought. "I just reframed my feeling of "hunger" into a feeling of "fit." I wonder where else I could do this..."
And I thought, "Oooh, single, not in relationship, alone... how could I reframe that....?"
I thought, "Proud to be alone on a Saturday night"
Nope, that's not how I feel.
"Excited to be finally finishing that quilt that's taken 12 years to finish?"
Sort of, but not really.
"Darnit," I thought. "Apparently you can only reframe your suffering if the new perception of it is more true than the old one- darnit."
But who knows, maybe I can reframe my "suffering" around not being in a relationship by looking at it honestly too.
So, for the last couple of weeks, I have been sick. When I'm sick, my go-to remedy seems to be to eat whatever appeals to me- regardless of its nutritional content- and to eat as much of it as my body wants (except dairy and sugar which always set me back at least two days in the healing process). About 90% of the time, what appeals to me is protein and soups. Also, I tend to eat these meals of meat and carbs much more frequently than I would normally do. Rather than eating based on the time of day or the meal I am having, I eat based on my desire at that moment. I will often eat an entire bowl of soup and then, because I feel like it, eat another full meal within an hour.
I had always thought that the protein was some sort "feed a cold" remedy or some wisdom on my body's part about needing protein to heal. And I thought that the frequent eating part was because my body was burning so many calories trying to heal itself that it needed to eat more frequently.
But last week, I felt what was going on while I was eating 5 or 7 meals a day of meat and carbs. What I felt, was full. And to me, full, felt cared for, safe, nourished. While sick felt weak, vulnerable, and like I had to fight against some big bad world, feeling full felt like someone was taking care of me, like even though I was going through this cold, I was safe and loved.
"Oh!" I thought. "It has nothing to do with protein or your body's wisdom, you just want to feel warm and safe. Eating big meals fills you up, makes you feel like you don't have to worry about your next meal. It's not about the soup or the meat, it's about your body feeling warm and full- a physical feeling that you associate with warmth and being cared for. It's not physiological, it's psychological."
Then this weekend, after enjoying a lovely Thanksgiving meal with my family, I went on a run. After my run, before my shower, I noticed my body in the mirror. What I noticed was the apparent storage of those extra meals from last week on my lower abdomen and sides.
"I'm not so excited about that extra storage. I'm not all that excited about how that looks in the mirror nor how it feels when I walk around."
And I thought, "I need to start exercising again. I need to get healthy again. I need to get rid of that extra storage on my abdomen and sides."
Now, I have to admit that I have been trying to "be healthy" for awhile. I have told myself that I feel better when I exercise, that this is all about being healthy, that it is really about exercising regardless of the outcome. But then, when I come back from my run, I still look at myself in the mirror and am disappointed- those storage areas (of baked goods, chocolate, macaroni and cheese) are still there. And again, I remind myself that this is all about being healthy, not about how you look, but this time, I was true with myself: you want to look different than you do, you want to lose those storage areas, you just do- admit it.
And so I did- I admitted that I wanted to lose them. In doing that I realized that if I wanted to remove those storage areas, I needed to stop eating those things that get stored (things that your body does not need: chocolate, cheese, Halloween candy). And so I agreed: if I wanted to get rid of those storage areas, I needed to stop eating those things: baked goods, chocolate, cheese.
That afternoon, as dinner time rolled around, I realized that I wasn't hungry. I had eaten several slices of my sister's pumpkin bread, leftover macaroni and cheese for lunch, and a small bag of Fritos in the car ride home from my uncle's house.
"Bummer," I thought. "I was looking forward to making that dish of leftover mashed potatoes and eggs and prosciutto." But then I remembered that I could make it another night, when I was actually hungry.
A couple of hours later, I came back to the kitchen to get a glass of water and had this feeling in my stomach. "Oooh, I'm hungry!" I thought.
But then I felt it a little more clearly.
It wasn't hungry. But it also wasn't full like I had wanted to feel last week when I was sick.
So then I felt it a little more, and it was familiar.
"Oh," I noticed. "This is how I feel when I come back from vacation. This is how I feel when I eat what my body needs and when I am walking around all day seeing new places. This is how I feel when I am kind of in alignment with my body and how it feels, not when I eat based on meal time or eating that treat because it's free or because it's in front of me."
"This... is fit." I thought to myself. "You think this is hungry, you think this is wanting food but when you feel it, it is the feeling of having eaten enough, just enough."
And then I didn't actually want a big meal of leftover mashed potatoes and prosciuttos and eggs. I just wanted water. I was okay, I wasn't hungry, I wasn't needing food. I was just fine.
"This is so cool!" I thought. "I just reframed my feeling of "hunger" into a feeling of "fit." I wonder where else I could do this..."
And I thought, "Oooh, single, not in relationship, alone... how could I reframe that....?"
I thought, "Proud to be alone on a Saturday night"
Nope, that's not how I feel.
"Excited to be finally finishing that quilt that's taken 12 years to finish?"
Sort of, but not really.
"Darnit," I thought. "Apparently you can only reframe your suffering if the new perception of it is more true than the old one- darnit."
But who knows, maybe I can reframe my "suffering" around not being in a relationship by looking at it honestly too.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Renunciation (giving up your boyfriend's sweater)
So, you know that time in a relationship, when you're all lovey-dovey, and just the thought or hint or smell of that person is like them being there with you? And so you keep their sweater or sweatshirt or some other article of their clothing and just having it with you is like having them there? And you cuddle with it or look at it and you have all this affection for it?
And then there's that part in the relationship when you break up. And that very same sweatshirt is now repulsive and stinky and all you want to do is figure out a way to get it out of your house and out of your life?
Same sweatshirt, completely different feeling, right?
Right.
So, I'm going to suggest that renunciation is actually like this- but not quite in the way you might be thinking about it.
I think that when most people think about renunciation, they think of it as "casting off all worldly possessions" or "giving up material objects" or "living a life free of desires or excess."
And I think that some people can take some pride in this, some "look at me for not having a car, a house, fancy clothes... I'm all good because I don't need all those material objects that the rest of you seem to need."
Or there can be some aversion to this: "Are you kidding me? How can I live without a car? I need a house. I like to dress up, what's so wrong about that?"
But I don't think renunciation is giving up, at all... except in giving up the associations that you have with these objects.
And I'm going to talk about this, using Ho Hos.
Ho hos, for me, were a great desire. They were what I ate when I was lonely. They were my "treat" when I had a bad day. They were, without fail, a source of comfort for me. I would even narrate my consumption of them: Ahh, the sweet rip of plastic as I opened of the wrapper, the luscious ooze of cream filling as I took my first bite, and the guaranteed feeling of there-is-always-enough-for-you when I would finish the first one and see yet another one in the package. (there are always TWO Ho Hos in a package).
If you had asked me to give up Ho Hos I would have said, "Why would I do that? They make me happy? What's so wrong about that?"
But I have learned some things about Ho Hos in my practice over the past two years. I have actually studied my relationship with Ho Hos; and what I have found is that Ho Hos used to mean a lot of things to me. At first, Ho hos were the forbidden food that I could not have as a child but could buy as a grownup (my dad would never buy Ho Hos). Next, they were the food that I remember eating when I was in Indiana as a child in the summers (my Grandma, my mother's mom, always had a full box of them in the kitchen and we could eat as many as we wanted). And then, as I looked closer, felt closer, I started to feel that those Ho hos were always eaten at either my Grandma's lake house or my Aunt's house, in town. And then I started to see that those Ho hos were always eaten when I was surrounded by loved ones and family.
See, we spent our summers in Indiana, with my mom's side of the family. And her side of the family was big: she had three younger brothers and they had kids and we all hung out at my Grandma's house where she, basically, doted all over us. We were never alone in Indiana and we spent our days eating whatever meal my grandma could come up with that she thought we would like: home made doughnuts, perfect little sandwiches on paper plates with cheezballs and chips, and Ho hos. It was a kid's storybook life.
But I never really remembered that part of it, I just remembered the Ho hos.
And so, when I was feeling lonely, I would buy Ho hos. Looking back on it now, it makes total sense that I would eat Ho hos when I was lonely- Ho hos were what I ate when I wasn't lonely, when I was surrounded by family, when I was the best thing in the whole wide world to my grandma. But I thought it was the Ho Hos that made me happy, so that's why I bought them. And that's why, if you had asked me to give up Ho hos, I would have thought you were stupid- why give up something that gives you comfort?
But now, after studying my relationship with Ho hos, I see that it isn't the Ho hos that I want when I am lonely. It is the love of family, the being surrounded by cousins, the not-being-alone that I am looking for. And, in seeing this, I can see that Ho hos don't give me that. They used to, or at least they used to on the surface. I would eat them with the expectation that they would give me comfort and love. But, in reality, after eating Ho hos, I never really did feel all that much better.
So now, if you asked me to give up Ho hos, I'd say "Sure, go ahead, take them away. I don't actually want them anymore because they're Ho hos. They are oil and fat and chemicals. They don't give me pleasure anymore because the delusions that I had with them, the associations that I had with them of love and family, are just that- delusions. Now that I see a Ho ho for a Ho ho, I don't mind giving it up. It has nothing to offer me anymore."
And so that's what I think asceticism or renunciation is about. It's not about giving up those things that you want, it's about no longer wanting those things that you thought you did. It's not like you're all great for giving up your desires, it's more like you're letting go of things that you no longer want. And the reason you no longer want them is because you see them as they are- see that it's not the things you wanted all along, it's the feeling you had associated with them. Once you see that you made up that feeling, you no longer want the thing.
Ho hos, sweaters, they're things. Our associations with them can change. Renunciation comes from seeing our relationship with things. Once we see that, letting go of them has nothing to do with giving them up, we've already let them go.
And then there's that part in the relationship when you break up. And that very same sweatshirt is now repulsive and stinky and all you want to do is figure out a way to get it out of your house and out of your life?
Same sweatshirt, completely different feeling, right?
Right.
So, I'm going to suggest that renunciation is actually like this- but not quite in the way you might be thinking about it.
I think that when most people think about renunciation, they think of it as "casting off all worldly possessions" or "giving up material objects" or "living a life free of desires or excess."
And I think that some people can take some pride in this, some "look at me for not having a car, a house, fancy clothes... I'm all good because I don't need all those material objects that the rest of you seem to need."
Or there can be some aversion to this: "Are you kidding me? How can I live without a car? I need a house. I like to dress up, what's so wrong about that?"
But I don't think renunciation is giving up, at all... except in giving up the associations that you have with these objects.
And I'm going to talk about this, using Ho Hos.
Ho hos, for me, were a great desire. They were what I ate when I was lonely. They were my "treat" when I had a bad day. They were, without fail, a source of comfort for me. I would even narrate my consumption of them: Ahh, the sweet rip of plastic as I opened of the wrapper, the luscious ooze of cream filling as I took my first bite, and the guaranteed feeling of there-is-always-enough-for-you when I would finish the first one and see yet another one in the package. (there are always TWO Ho Hos in a package).
If you had asked me to give up Ho Hos I would have said, "Why would I do that? They make me happy? What's so wrong about that?"
But I have learned some things about Ho Hos in my practice over the past two years. I have actually studied my relationship with Ho Hos; and what I have found is that Ho Hos used to mean a lot of things to me. At first, Ho hos were the forbidden food that I could not have as a child but could buy as a grownup (my dad would never buy Ho Hos). Next, they were the food that I remember eating when I was in Indiana as a child in the summers (my Grandma, my mother's mom, always had a full box of them in the kitchen and we could eat as many as we wanted). And then, as I looked closer, felt closer, I started to feel that those Ho hos were always eaten at either my Grandma's lake house or my Aunt's house, in town. And then I started to see that those Ho hos were always eaten when I was surrounded by loved ones and family.
See, we spent our summers in Indiana, with my mom's side of the family. And her side of the family was big: she had three younger brothers and they had kids and we all hung out at my Grandma's house where she, basically, doted all over us. We were never alone in Indiana and we spent our days eating whatever meal my grandma could come up with that she thought we would like: home made doughnuts, perfect little sandwiches on paper plates with cheezballs and chips, and Ho hos. It was a kid's storybook life.
But I never really remembered that part of it, I just remembered the Ho hos.
And so, when I was feeling lonely, I would buy Ho hos. Looking back on it now, it makes total sense that I would eat Ho hos when I was lonely- Ho hos were what I ate when I wasn't lonely, when I was surrounded by family, when I was the best thing in the whole wide world to my grandma. But I thought it was the Ho Hos that made me happy, so that's why I bought them. And that's why, if you had asked me to give up Ho hos, I would have thought you were stupid- why give up something that gives you comfort?
But now, after studying my relationship with Ho hos, I see that it isn't the Ho hos that I want when I am lonely. It is the love of family, the being surrounded by cousins, the not-being-alone that I am looking for. And, in seeing this, I can see that Ho hos don't give me that. They used to, or at least they used to on the surface. I would eat them with the expectation that they would give me comfort and love. But, in reality, after eating Ho hos, I never really did feel all that much better.
So now, if you asked me to give up Ho hos, I'd say "Sure, go ahead, take them away. I don't actually want them anymore because they're Ho hos. They are oil and fat and chemicals. They don't give me pleasure anymore because the delusions that I had with them, the associations that I had with them of love and family, are just that- delusions. Now that I see a Ho ho for a Ho ho, I don't mind giving it up. It has nothing to offer me anymore."
And so that's what I think asceticism or renunciation is about. It's not about giving up those things that you want, it's about no longer wanting those things that you thought you did. It's not like you're all great for giving up your desires, it's more like you're letting go of things that you no longer want. And the reason you no longer want them is because you see them as they are- see that it's not the things you wanted all along, it's the feeling you had associated with them. Once you see that you made up that feeling, you no longer want the thing.
Ho hos, sweaters, they're things. Our associations with them can change. Renunciation comes from seeing our relationship with things. Once we see that, letting go of them has nothing to do with giving them up, we've already let them go.
Holding out for another reality
It turns out
that I am holding out
for a different reality.
For some reason,
I think I can change mine.
And I think I can change it
by refusing
to see it.
I
am a 42 year old woman.
My mother
died when I was six.
But I don't want to accept that.
I want to have a mother.
I want to have had a mother
want to have grown up with one.
And so I am staying at six.
Refusing to see my grown up self
Because my grown up self
is a 42 year old woman
without a mother.
Funny that I
am holding out.
Waiting
staying
at 6
Genuinely believing that if I stay there
She will suddenly appear
and I will live a life
with her.
But it's what I am doing
It's why I am afraid
to be
myself
Because myself
is without
her.
You cannot be a daughter
if you are older
than your mother.
Grown women don't get
to be little girls
with mothers.
And apparently
that's what I want.
I know.
She will not come back
by my refusing to embody
this 42 year old woman
And I know
that this is who I am
But I also know
that this is what I'm doing
Holding out
for a reality
that is different
than mine.
that I am holding out
for a different reality.
For some reason,
I think I can change mine.
And I think I can change it
by refusing
to see it.
I
am a 42 year old woman.
My mother
died when I was six.
But I don't want to accept that.
I want to have a mother.
I want to have had a mother
want to have grown up with one.
And so I am staying at six.
Refusing to see my grown up self
Because my grown up self
is a 42 year old woman
without a mother.
Funny that I
am holding out.
Waiting
staying
at 6
Genuinely believing that if I stay there
She will suddenly appear
and I will live a life
with her.
But it's what I am doing
It's why I am afraid
to be
myself
Because myself
is without
her.
You cannot be a daughter
if you are older
than your mother.
Grown women don't get
to be little girls
with mothers.
And apparently
that's what I want.
I know.
She will not come back
by my refusing to embody
this 42 year old woman
And I know
that this is who I am
But I also know
that this is what I'm doing
Holding out
for a reality
that is different
than mine.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
It's not your fault
I was at the zen center this morning, doing something that I now can't remember, and this thought popped into my head: "It's not your fault."
I wondered about this, wondered what this was referring to, and then the thought came up again: "It's not your fault that she died. It's not your fault."
And this feeling immediately came up in me- a sadness, a sorry, a recognition that in fact, I had felt like it was my fault that my mom died.
I've never consciously thought this. But hearing that it wasn't my fault brought up some feeling in me that it had been (my fault). I don't know why I would ever think it was my fault that my mom died- it doesn't make sense in any way, shape, or form. But I know that when I hear that phrase- it's not your fault- I feel a mix of guilt, disbelief, and then...an emerging, an "it's okay, it wasn't you."
And I picture a little six year old, feeling responsible for the world, feeling like she had done something to make it happen. But then someone puts her arm around her and lets her know that really, it wasn't her.
And then the conversation continues:
It's not your fault that you were little and needed to be taken care of.
It's not your fault that your dad took care of you and your brother and sister.
It's not your fault that everyone was so young when all this happened.
None of it is your fault- it just happened.
Things happen.
But I think often, we think it was. I think in general, we believe that we are responsible for things. I think we think there is a cause and effect to everything and that we are responsible for most things. I don't think I consciously thought that I made my mom die, I never thought that. But within a context of a cause and effect world, something must have made her die, and so part of me must have felt responsible.
And I think we're stuck in a lot of suffering because of this. On the one hand, we have this great desire for control, for agency, for the comfort that comes from believing that we can make things be one way or another. But with this belief comes this frustration: things don't always turn out the way we wanted them to, and because we think we made them happen, we feel pretty bad about it. We think that if we had just done this, or remembered to do that, or acted this way, or said that, everything would have been fine. And so it becomes our fault that things turn out bad- when really it actually had nothing to do with us.
But on the other hand, we have a great deal of suffering in accepting that we don't have agency in this world. We don't want to be at the hands of the universe, we don't want to live our lives with absolutely no idea of what's going to happen next- that's terrifying for us. And so we go back to believing that we can make things happen, which feels good at first, but leaves us feeling like failures, or leaves us hating the universe for not going along with the plan.
I don't really know what to say about this except that, it isn't your fault. I mean, nothing in me thought that I made my mom die, nothing. And yet, here I am, 36 years later, seeing that, in fact, I actually felt responsible for an event that had absolutely nothing to do with me, my mom, my dad, or anyone. It was cancer- no one is responsible for that. But I still felt responsible. And I think I felt that way because I thought there was a cause and effect to things, I thought I could control the universe, I thought I was in charge of how things worked out. But I'm not, no one is.
I'm not saying I'm accepting this. I just... after I saw that I felt responsible for my mom's death, I thought about so many people who feel responsible for things that are related to them: an argument with a loved one, a misplaced promotion or privilege, even a simple forgetting of something that leads to catastrophe. All of these things are related, we do play a role with our actions and decisions but these are so small compared to the workings of the universe. We do have a say, we do make choices, but we're still living within this greater universe with rules that don't necessarily follow our desires or needs. And I guess I just want people to know that mostly, it's not your fault. You really did try your best, it's just that you're in this universe, and there are things that happen, way beyond your control. It might feel like you're in charge, but you're not; and even though that feels like a bummer, it's still the truth and, well, good news... it's not totally your fault.
I wondered about this, wondered what this was referring to, and then the thought came up again: "It's not your fault that she died. It's not your fault."
And this feeling immediately came up in me- a sadness, a sorry, a recognition that in fact, I had felt like it was my fault that my mom died.
I've never consciously thought this. But hearing that it wasn't my fault brought up some feeling in me that it had been (my fault). I don't know why I would ever think it was my fault that my mom died- it doesn't make sense in any way, shape, or form. But I know that when I hear that phrase- it's not your fault- I feel a mix of guilt, disbelief, and then...an emerging, an "it's okay, it wasn't you."
And I picture a little six year old, feeling responsible for the world, feeling like she had done something to make it happen. But then someone puts her arm around her and lets her know that really, it wasn't her.
And then the conversation continues:
It's not your fault that you were little and needed to be taken care of.
It's not your fault that your dad took care of you and your brother and sister.
It's not your fault that everyone was so young when all this happened.
None of it is your fault- it just happened.
Things happen.
But I think often, we think it was. I think in general, we believe that we are responsible for things. I think we think there is a cause and effect to everything and that we are responsible for most things. I don't think I consciously thought that I made my mom die, I never thought that. But within a context of a cause and effect world, something must have made her die, and so part of me must have felt responsible.
And I think we're stuck in a lot of suffering because of this. On the one hand, we have this great desire for control, for agency, for the comfort that comes from believing that we can make things be one way or another. But with this belief comes this frustration: things don't always turn out the way we wanted them to, and because we think we made them happen, we feel pretty bad about it. We think that if we had just done this, or remembered to do that, or acted this way, or said that, everything would have been fine. And so it becomes our fault that things turn out bad- when really it actually had nothing to do with us.
But on the other hand, we have a great deal of suffering in accepting that we don't have agency in this world. We don't want to be at the hands of the universe, we don't want to live our lives with absolutely no idea of what's going to happen next- that's terrifying for us. And so we go back to believing that we can make things happen, which feels good at first, but leaves us feeling like failures, or leaves us hating the universe for not going along with the plan.
I don't really know what to say about this except that, it isn't your fault. I mean, nothing in me thought that I made my mom die, nothing. And yet, here I am, 36 years later, seeing that, in fact, I actually felt responsible for an event that had absolutely nothing to do with me, my mom, my dad, or anyone. It was cancer- no one is responsible for that. But I still felt responsible. And I think I felt that way because I thought there was a cause and effect to things, I thought I could control the universe, I thought I was in charge of how things worked out. But I'm not, no one is.
I'm not saying I'm accepting this. I just... after I saw that I felt responsible for my mom's death, I thought about so many people who feel responsible for things that are related to them: an argument with a loved one, a misplaced promotion or privilege, even a simple forgetting of something that leads to catastrophe. All of these things are related, we do play a role with our actions and decisions but these are so small compared to the workings of the universe. We do have a say, we do make choices, but we're still living within this greater universe with rules that don't necessarily follow our desires or needs. And I guess I just want people to know that mostly, it's not your fault. You really did try your best, it's just that you're in this universe, and there are things that happen, way beyond your control. It might feel like you're in charge, but you're not; and even though that feels like a bummer, it's still the truth and, well, good news... it's not totally your fault.
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