Learning to Let Go

So I've decided to stop dicking around and get right to the heart of the matter: Why I am here (blog wise) and why I'm even doing this practice.

Most people who know me know that the last 12 months of my life have been all about loss and change--a lot of it the big, wrenching, sudden changes that leave us face down in the dirt wondering "Why?"

Why now?

Why this?

Why ME?

I think these questions are all normal, and depending on how they're used they can either take us into deeper levels of awareness or keep us locked into the idea of a seperate self. They can either help free us or help us put up new walls between our hearts and the world.

Unfortunately none of the answers to those questions are particulalry ego-gratifiying. At least not the honest ones.

Answering them honestly requires us to be fully accountable and aware of where our responsibilities lie--and where they end--without assigning blame or judgement. Most of the time, in my experience, they asnwers that arise only create more questions.

Accountability. It's a loaded word. When I first started hearing in the context of awareness work/mindfullness I didn't really get it--I thought it was the same thing as responsibility, blame, etc.

It's not, at least not in the context I use it and the way it was taught to me; it's simply an awareness and acceptance of our role in creating our lives. It's the first step towards creating any real change.

It was through program called Powerfuliving that I first became aware of the whole concept. I had been working with a business coach named Michael Goldstein for about 6 months when I took the course. Michael suggested that I try it, since he felt we had hit a bit of a wall with the coaching--I was getting more organized, more successful, more productive, etc., but there was something interal holding me back. I was not happy with...well, anything. Myself, my relationships, my business. Everything seemed to be...stuck. In a holding pattern.

Michael ran Powerfuliving out of his home in Rhode Island. It was a good hour drive from my house outside of Boston.

Now before we go any further, I need to make one thing very clear: I am habitually five minutes late for anything. All the time. Always.

Of course, I always assumed this was OK. And true to form, I got a late start that first day. I left my house at 7:00am or so on a clear, sunny springtime Saturday morning--and I had committed to be there at 7:30.

whoops.

Of course, I drove like a maniac. I sped. I wove in and out of traffic, cursing everyone on the road...who the hell did they think they were, driving 65 mph on a Saturday morning?

And then, of course, I hit traffic.

A little over an hour later I walked into Michael's house. Everyone else (with one exception) was already there--8 other people who had committed the next 8 weeks of their life to this course. I took my seat on the floor with everyone else and started to apologize.

It was a rather shitty and insincere apology. At least that's what Michael made abundantly clear over the next 10 minutes as he grilled me on why I was late--and why I thought it was OK to make everyone else late.

Of course I threw out all my reasons, all of them perfectly reasonable and totally unacceptable to him.

"I woke up late" I protested.

"Ok. Do you do that often?"

"Um, yeah."

"And you knew you had to be here at 7:30?"

"Uh....yeah."

"So why didn't you set your alarm earlier?"

"I don't know, I di---"

Michael held up his hand, a gesture I would see frequently over the next few weeks. As in almost every time I opened my mouth.

"Paul, I don't really want to hear it. This isn't about you--it's about the commitment you made to me and everyone else here. Just sit with it and think about it for now."

I was fuming. My nature is to argue, to be right, to wind and wend my way around everything using logic and data to prove myself in the right. What the hell do you mean I can't talk?

"So" he continued "why else were you late?"

"Um, well...I got a late start. But I tried to get here fast--I sped like crazy--and then I hit all this traffic! And then I got lost driving around trying to find your house."

He held up his hand again.

"Ok, fair enough. why didn't you call?"

"Oh" I said. "I didn't have your number handy."


Whew. How could he fault me on that? I was a busy guy after all, taking a whole Saturday off of selling real estate to be here. I could be making money right now, damn it. Anyway...safe. Traffic and no number! Can't argue with that, can he?

How little I knew.

"Couldn't you have assumed there might be traffic? Or that you might get lost?"

"Uh...yeah, I suppose."

"And you could have saved my number in your cell phone. Or called Anne. She works with you--you must have HER number, right?"

I could feel my face turning red. He had me dead to rights. Man, what an asshole I was.

"Well...yeah. Look, I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

something in my face must have betrayed what was going on in my head--the self-judgement, blame, etc. Michael smiled and said simply "Fine. As long as we're clear on where your accountability lies. And it's not blame; but you made a commitment to be here, and you broke that commitment. Do you see why that's a problem?"

I said yes, of course; anything to get the spotlight of off me. To be honest, I was furious by this point and was planning on leaving ASAP. Fuck this--I had better things to do! I'm important, damn it.

But there I was. For once I couldn't charm or manipulate my way out of something. I had to sit there and deal with what was going on in the moment. I had no choice.

Well, I did--I could have left. But I am almost as prideful as I am arrogant, and pride won out--I decided I'd be damned if I wasn't going to sit through this whole thing. I'd show him, damn it.

Finally, he looked at me and asked "Where else in your life do you think you might do this?"

Ouch. Uh...everywhere?

He held up his hand "Again, Paul--I don't want an answer. Just sit with it."

So that was my introduction to accountability. It sounds harsh, doesn't it? And it was. It had to be, because I was so resistant to the idea that I wasn't in the right all the time.

But the truth is, Michael didn't get angry or assign blame--he just confronted me with my own immense pile of bullshit. I kept on trying to squirm away, to justify, to fib and charm my way out of trouble. And he wouldn't stand for any of it--because he cared too much to allow me to live my life like that any more.

Wow.


It's been almost a year since Michael died. I ended up working with him for over 2 years after that day--both as a student and a fellow coach, helping him run Powerfuliving. In many ways he became a true father figure to me. Through his words, actions, and even his death, he was and is the teacher of the most important lessons I've learned so far.

I think of him every day, of what he taught me, and even now those teachings are just starting to make sense. It took years and so much work on my part--and now those teachings just blossom on thier own.

If it wasn't for Michael, I wouldn't be who I am. I wouldn't have the awareness and understanding I do, the openess, the compassion, the ability (however small) to accept loss and gain with a wise and open heart.

This is the first time I've written about him. And far from the last.

Fear and the Self

So it's been awhile since I posted.

Fear has been fucking with me, hardcore. It's been creeping up on me during meditation, infecting my dreams, tightening my chest with icy fingers.

Fear. Not so much the typical"I'm afraid of X", but the awareness that fear and aversion dictate so many of my habitual reactions--as in pretty much all of them. It's either the fear of suffering (clinging to pleasure) or the fear or pain/suffering (aversion). From these attempts to push away awareness, to keep the present moment at bay, I create more and more suffering. Suffering leads to more and more isolation, disconnection, and fear.

It's a vicious cycle, and one that is repeated over and over again in Buddhist texts and teachings. Suffering is caused when we are attached to pleasure or when we try to avoid pain.

This is a basic tenet of Buddhism, and I've heard and read it...I don't know, a few thousaand times? I've meditated on it, written about it, talked about it...

But I didn't really understand it. I didn't know what it really meant, not on the gut level. Not on the level of awareness, as limited as mine is. And I know I am only seeing a fraction of the truth; that my level of awareness is keeping me from a full understanding. And I suspect that the only way to get through it is...through it.

Right now I'm noting it when I can, naming it. Saying "Hey fear...I see you. I recognize you for what you are: impermanent and arising from my own confusion." And doing so without trying to push it away; simply noting it without judgement and letting it arise and fall away on it's own.

At least that's what I do when I'm on the ball. Other times I might as well be a robot--the fear program kicks in and I'm just following orders. Of course those orders are self-destructive and tend to feed on themselves; unskillful actions create negative karma, and the cycle repeats itself over and over...until finally something breaks, or a second of mindfulness shows me that Mara has caught me again.

But all I can really do right now is be patient, and aware.

I've been reading the Bhagavad Gita again, and along with it Ram Dass' excellent book "Paths to God: Living the Bhagavad Gita". Lately the Hindu practices, chanting and yoga--especially bhakti yoga--have been more and more appealing to me. More involved with the heart, and less in the mind. Something in them resonates deeply with me.

Of course Buddhism grew out of Hinduism, and the two share many practices. But I think this a nudge towards something important; some part of my brain is telling me "You can't do this shit on your own; you need a higher power to break through this fear."

And maybe that's true. Up until recently I considered myself an atheist. More recently, I have come to the understanding that I can't know one way or another--there may be a god, gods, flying spaghetti monster, or nothing at all. I can't know--and neither can anyone else, I think. That's why it's called "faith".

In retrospect, my steadfast belief in no afterlife, no divine beings, etc. is extraordinarily arrogant. I don't mean to say that's true for all atheists--I don't think it is. But for me, it was a trap--the righteousness of knowing "the truth", and the high horse it put me on.

Man, it's easy to look down at all those religious folk. And of course they can be hypocritical and arrogant too...sometimes incredibly so. But then again, they seem to be the same people working at the Pine Street Inn. Or with the Salvation Army. Or with the poorest of the poor in the slums of Calcutta. I, on the other hand, have largely lived my life solely for myself for 33 years or so.

So who am I to judge?

I'm not. I don't have the right, or the awareness, or the understanding of the big picture. For the first time in my life I am aware of just how little I know about anything of real importance.

Maybe that is where some of the fear is coming from --the awareness of my own greed, hatred and delusion. Of my own blindess, my own self-centered-ness.

Something to think about...

Dying Meditation

Part of the Year to Live practice--a large part, it seems--is a meditation on dying. Essentially, you are supposed to become aware of your body (OK), the field of consciousness (OK...), and then slowly...breath by breath...come closer to "death".

Then you take one breath--your last--and let it out. Let it go. Give up the body, all attachments to this life, and "die".

It sounds simple, even easy. How hard could it be to imagine your death? I mean, it's not "real", so what's the big deal?

True. Except that our subconsicous (and to a degree, our conscious) minds can't tell the difference between an intensely imagined and visualized experience and a "real" one. That distinction is made by consciousness itself. If your conscious mind is focused completely on manufacturing an experience...that's real enough your subconscious.

That's one of the reasons why visualization works so well in sports--if an athlete can visualize an outcome in detail--the more the better--they will almost always perform better. In fact, you can do the same thing with almost any skill--playing piano, giving a speech/sales presentation, etc. I've done it hundreds of times in dozens of different contexts.

To be clear, I'm not talking about day dreaming or normal "that would be nice" thinking, but a clear, focused meditation on a process and a desired outcome. If you want to learn more, the book "Psycho Cybernetics" by Maxwell Maltz is the best source; pretty much all sports psychology and related fields grew out of his work.

Anyway, back to the topic: the meditation on death and dying. Did I mention it was scary as hell and I'd been avoiding it for days?

But like most things in life, the fear is worse than the expereince itself. As I got closer to that last breath, I became very focused on each and every part of that process--the air drawing in at the nose, cooling the nasal passages and throat, filling the lungs, expanding the rib cage and belly, and the sensation of it leaving--the relaxation of the muscles of the stomach and the diaphragm, the contraction of the rib cage and the the slow emptying of the lungs, the warmed air passed out of the lungs, up the throat, and out of the nose again.

Each part of it one moment, perfect, eternal, rising and falling away, no two quite the same.

There was an intense feeling of presence, peace, and acceptance. And then fear, worry, contraction, holding...

"I can't do this. It's too much. Too big."

"This is stupid. Why am I doing this?"

"Ok, this is what you're thinking about in the seconds before death? How annoying the person three seats down and to the left is with their sniffling and coughing?"

And so on. And then back to the breath.

So much more intense than my typical breathing meditation. So much more awareness, more presence, more internal quiet.

Fear.

a few days ago a I posted about fear, and how it was coming up for me more and more as I got deeper into the practice.

It's gotten worse. I mean all-consuming kind of bad. And it's not that I'm afraid of everything--it's that I am starting to see clearly how utterly pervasive fear and aversion are in my life. Almost everything I do is touched by it and/or a reaction to it in some way.

Some of these fears are big , like death, suffering, etc.--and some of them are so minute that they are barely noticeable, like rocks in a fast flowing stream.

You may see some of them--the really big ones that actually break the surface-- but what affects the flow of that stream the most are the thousands and thousands of unseen rocks, from boulders to pebbles, that force the water to change course and pick up speed. And the faster the water moves, the less you see.

Of course the flip side of that is that over the course of time, the water always wins. It will always wear down the rocks. Unfortunately, that takes millions of years in some cases.

The Buddha often spoke of his teachings as going "against the stream"; he warned his intial followers that the way he taught was not easy, and that it required constant effort to avoid being swept along with the currents of the mind. But he also spoke of "entering the stream" as the first level of consicious awareness--the state of becoming aware of the nature of suffering and the impermance of the self.

I know that for me, floating along is the easiest thing to do. It requires barely any effort--just enough to stay afloat. And in the good times, it's so easy to fall into--after all, who wants to go sit on a meditation bench for a couple of hours a day when the sun is shining and everything is hunky-dory?

But the truth is those rocks are still there. And we almost never float facing downstream, with a clear view of what's ahead. Even if we do, by the time we realize what's happening, we're usually already deep into the rapids, without a raft or even anything to hang onto. In those cases, all I've been able to do is tuck and cover and hope I don't drown.

And that's one of the things I'm afraid of--more suffering. But mostly I am simply overwhlemed by the contant nature of suffering and the role of fear in creating it. I see it everywhere--in me, in others, in the world at large.

Last fall I had a similar experience of being able to see suffering clearly--my own and others. It was not fun, but very enlightening. At first I felt like everything was slightly out of sync; like I was a little out of step with the rest of the world.

Well, I've always felt that way. :) But this was different. I could see the suffering in people's faces, in their walk, in everything they did. Big suffering--the suffering of obvious physical or emotional pain--and the small kind, the little disconnects in conversations, the walls we put up around parts of ourselves, the isolation I think most of us feel to some degree or another.

And likewise, now I see fear. I see fear of death, fear of rejection, fear of pain, fear of loss, all of it, on large and small scales. I see it in myself in all it's endless forms. I see it in others, too. Or at least I think I do.

Fear is one of the roots of suffering, in Buddhist thought. It's aversion to what is really present in the moment, and it's a sign there is something we need to work with. It can also be the result of clinging to something that is pleasant--an experience, a relationship, an idea of "how it's supposed to be." Aversion and clinging. The two roots of all suffering.

hm. It just occured to me that this is (hopefully) a progression; from the awareness of suffering to the awareness of one of it's causes. That makes me feel good, like I am moving in the right direction.

On the other hand, that means an awareness of desire/clinging is probably the next step. Ugh.

See? There's that aversion/fear thing again...lol. I'm terrified of more awareness...oh, irony. Hilarious.


Stephen Levine once said "If you can't be bored, you can't be Buddhist." I wholeheartedly agree.

But I think a healthy appreciation of irony helps too.