True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (9 page)

As before, send the message of “yes,” “I consent,” or “let be,” allowing yourself to feel the fullness or intensity of the difficult experience. As you contact and allow what is happening, what do you notice? Is there any softening in your body and heart? Can you sense more openness or space? Or does the intention to allow bring up more tension, judgment, and fear? Does it intensify or change what you are feeling?

Now ask the place of most difficulty, “What do you want from me?” or, “What do you need from me?” Does this suffering part of you want recognition? Acceptance? Forgiveness? Love? As you sense what is needed, what is your natural response? You might offer yourself a wise message, or an energetic, tender embrace. You might gently place your hand on your heart. Feel free to experiment with ways of befriending your inner life—whether through words or touch, images or energy. Discover how your attention might become more intimate and loving.

As you offer this unconditional, kind presence to your inner life, sense the possibility of relaxing back and
being
that awareness. Like an ocean with waves on the surface, feel yourself as the tender, wakeful openness that includes arising and passing sensations, emotions, thoughts. Can you sense how who you are is not identified by or hitched to any particular wave of fear or anger or hurt? Can you sense how the waves on the surface belong to your experience, but cannot injure or alter the measureless depth and vastness of your being? Take some moments, as long as you'd like, to simply rest in this spacious and kind awareness, allowing whatever arises in your body or mind to freely come and go. Know this natural awareness as the innermost truth of what you are.

Guided Reflection: A Light RAIN: Practicing “On the Spot”

Pausing for brief periods of RAIN during the day is as important in awakening us from trance as a more full-blown session. A brief and cleansing shower of RAIN might take a minute or so. The steps are essentially the same, just abbreviated.

A light RAIN starts by recognizing that you are caught in reactivity—to a perceived slight, unwashed dishes, misplaced eyeglasses, feelings of indigestion, something you regret saying. When you recognize you are stuck, stop everything and take three long, full breaths. These breaths help you disengage from the momentum of your thoughts and activity and make space for your inner experience. Investigate by asking yourself, “What am I feeling?” and bring your attention to your body—primarily your throat, chest, and belly. Notice what sensations (tightness, heat, pressure) and emotions (angry, afraid, guilty) are predominant. Let your intention be to befriend what you notice. Try to stay in touch with your breath as you contact your felt sense of what is happening.

Sometimes it's easy to locate your felt sense, but at other times it might be vague and hard to identify quickly. That's fine. What is important is pausing and deepening your attention. See if it is possible to regard yourself with kindness.

You complete your moments of light RAIN by simply relaxing and reentering activity. As you move into what is next in your day, sense what might have shifted. Are you more aware? Open? Warmhearted? Are you taking things less personally? Is there more access to natural presence, the N of RAIN?

As with practicing the fuller version of RAIN, approach these pauses creatively. You will soon discover what most helps you listen, with a friendly attention, to your inner life.

“What does numb feel like?” I asked. Jane stared stonily at the floor and after a few moments, whispered, “Blocking everything, nothing can get in or out. It's like a blanket around my heart.”

It was the third day of a weeklong retreat, and Jane had come to let me know that she was stuck. She avoided my eyes as she entered the room. Once seated, she frowned and then nervously ran her fingers through her severely cut short blond hair.

“I've been thinking of coming to a retreat for years,” she began, “but I finally signed up because I've felt so hopeless recently … it's like I'm either constantly anxious or shut down and depressed.” For more than ten years she'd been totally immersed in her work as a sociologist, researching and teaching at a large university. But the competition to publish seemed increasingly meaningless, and she'd become aware of an inner deadness. “I was hoping that meditation would help me feel more alive.”

But now Jane feared that it was a mistake to have come. “I'm doing something wrong,” she stated flatly. “In the group this morning, people talked about their hearts opening, feeling buried grief, or having deep insights.” Jane shook her head. “But for me, nothing's happening. I have no idea what I'm feeling. When I meditate either my mind is churning or I'm getting bored trying to follow my breath. I'm just numb.” That's when she described the blanket around her heart.

“Can you say more about this blanket?” I asked. “I hate it!” she blurted out. She shot me a quick look before continuing. “I've done enough therapy to know that not feeling things is screwing up my life. It makes it so that I can't have meaningful relationships. It stops me from knowing what I really want or looking forward to anything.” She shook her head. “I know there's stuff buried inside me, but something in me doesn't want to go there. So here I am, finally at a retreat … and I'm just not getting it.”

“Jane,” I said, “it's important for you to know that you're not doing anything wrong.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You're honestly recognizing and naming your experience as it is,” I said. “And that's an essential part of meditation.”

I had already taught RAIN to the group and I reminded her that by recognizing what was happening inside of her she was practicing the
R
of RAIN. “Would you like us to explore the next steps in using RAIN?” She nodded her agreement. “Good,” I said. “You might begin by pausing and bringing your attention to your body.” I waited a few moments and then asked, “What is happening inside you right now?”

After crossing and then uncrossing her legs, Jane sat back in her chair and rearranged her hands. “I'm restless … as you can probably tell. It's hard to sit here right now. It's like I feel when I'm at home trying to meditate. I want to get up and go online or grade papers … anything but just sit there.” “So there is restlessness,” I said. “Can you agree to let it be there for now? Allow it to be as it is, so that we can investigate a little?” Jane gave a small smile. “Yeah, sure.”

“Good. Now, where in your body are you most aware of that restless feeling?” At first Jane just shook her head, but then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. A few moments later she started rubbing the center of her chest, right over the breastbone. “Jane,” I said, “bring your attention fully to the place where your hand is on your chest … and let me know what you are feeling there.” She responded quickly: “There's an uncomfortable shaky feeling here. It's really unpleasant.”

I let her know that this was a fine example of the
I
of RAIN, investigation. Then I asked, “Are you willing to try an experiment?” Jane nodded. “Okay, just for a few moments, find out what happens if you allow those shaky, unpleasant feelings in your body to be there, just as they are—as if you are simply pausing in the middle of them.” Noticing that she had frozen with her hand on her chest, I added, “Try keeping your hand right where it is, and breathe in and out of where the sensations are strongest. This can help you stay connected with the experience.”

Jane sat without moving, fingers touching her chest. After a minute or so she opened her eyes, looked briefly at me and then at the floor. Her frown was back, and when she spoke, her voice was resigned. “First there was an anxious feeling, but then that disappeared and I was numb again.” She paused for a moment and then shrugged. “As usual, I couldn't feel much of anything.”

Our Chain of Reactivity

When I meet with people at retreats or in counseling sessions, some, like Jane, will tell me they feel numb, lost in thoughts, and disconnected from life. Others might tell me they are overwhelmed by feelings of fear, hurt, or anger. Whenever we are either possessed by our feelings or dissociated from them, we are in trance, cut off from our full presence and aliveness.

Both Buddhist and Western psychology tells us that our trance of emotional reactivity begins with a universally conditioned reflex: Consciously or not, we continually assess whatever is happening as pleasant, unpleasant, or neutral. The smell of fresh baked cookies—probably pleasant. A thought about a recent argument—probably unpleasant. The sound of cars passing outside—usually neutral. “Pleasant” arouses our conditioning to grasp. We may start craving the cookies and fantasize about eating them. “Unpleasant” sensations trigger our conditioning to contract and avoid them. Thoughts of an argument might lead to physical tensing, feelings of anger and plans for proving our point. When something is neutral, we tend to ignore it and turn our attention elsewhere.

While these mental and emotional reactions are natural, it's easy for us to become identified with them, retreating to a space suit self. For instance, as our attention fixates on our craving for cookies—how we want them but maybe shouldn't eat them—we contract and become ensnared in the sense of a wanting self. As our attention fixates on an argument—how insulted we feel and what else we should have said—we contract and become ensnared in the sense of an angry, offended self. Our thoughts and feelings start to loop—the more we think about what is upsetting us, the angrier we get: the more anger we feel, the more we generate angry thoughts. When we are caught in this chain of reactivity, we are in trance. We have pulled away from a larger sense of who we are and what matters in our life.

In Buddhist meditation training, awakening from trance begins with mindfulness of sensations.
Sensations are our most immediate way of experiencing and relating to life. All our other reactions—to thoughts, to external situations, to people, to emotions—are actually in response to physical sensations. When we are angry at someone, our body is responding to a perceived threat. When we are attracted to someone, our body is signaling comfort or curiosity or desire. If we don't recognize the ground level of sensation, we will continually be lost in the swirl of thoughts, feelings, and emotions that make up our daily trance.

Touching the Ground

One of the best instructions I've heard for meditation practice was given by Thai Buddhist teacher Ajahn Buddhadasa: “Do not do anything that takes you away from your body.” The body lives in the present. When you are aware of the body, you are connected with living presence—the one place where you can see reality, see what is actually happening.
Awareness of the body is our gateway into the truth of what is.

This gateway to refuge was crucial to the Buddha's own awakening. When Siddhartha Gautama took his seat at the base of the bodhi tree—the tree of awakening—he resolved to stay there until he found full freedom. He began his meditation by collecting his attention, quieting his mind, and “coming back” to a full and balanced presence. But then, as the story is told, the demon Mara appeared, accompanied by a massive army, and with many deadly weapons and magical forces at his disposal. Mara is a tempter—his name means “delusion” in Pali—and we can also see him as Gautama's shadow self. Mara's intent was to keep Gautama trapped in trance.

Throughout the night Mara hurled rocks and arrows, boiling mud and blistering sands to provoke Gautama to fight or flee, yet he met these attacks with a compassionate presence, and the missiles were all transformed into celestial flowers. Then Mara sent his daughters, “desire, pining, and lust,” surrounded by voluptuous attendants to seduce Gautama, yet Gautama's mind remained undistracted and present. Dawn was fast approaching when Mara issued his final challenge—doubt. What proof, Mara asked, did Gautama have of his compassion? How could he be sure his heart was awakened? Mara was targeting the core reactivity that hooks and sustains the sense of small self—the perception of our own unworthiness.

Gautama did not try to use a meditative technique to prove himself. Rather, he touched the earth and asked it to bear witness to his compassion, to the truth of what he was. In response, the earth responded with a shattering roar, “I bear you witness!” Terrified, Mara and his forces dispersed in all directions.

In that instant of acknowledging his belonging to the earth, Gautama became the Buddha—the awakened one—and was liberated. By claiming this living wholeness, he dissolved the final vestiges of the trance of separation.

For us, the story of the Buddha's liberation offers a radical and wonderful invitation. Like the Buddha, our own healing and awakening unfolds in any moment in which we take refuge in our aliveness—connecting with our flesh and blood, with our breath, with the air itself, with the elements that compose us, and with the earth that is our home. Whenever we bring our presence to the living world of sensation, we too are touching the ground.

Entering the Body

For Jane, finding her way into the world of sensation seemed crucial. Before we ended our meeting, I encouraged her to take some time during her meditations to feel the life of her body from the inside out. It would be easier to do this, I told her, if she started by learning to become aware of neutral or pleasant sensations. To give her a taste of what I meant I asked her to close her eyes. “Let your hands relax, resting effortlessly and easily in your lap,” I suggested. “Now imagine you could place your awareness inside your hands. See if it's possible to soften your hands a little bit more and sense the life that's there.” I paused. “Can you sense the vibrating, the tingling? Can you feel heat or coolness? Can you feel places of pressure where your hands contact your legs, and where your fingers touch each other?”

Jane sat very still, and then with a slight smile she nodded. “Good,” I said. Now try to feel that same aliveness in your feet. Just take a moment and sense the vibrating, the tingling, the shifting sensations in your feet.” After a pause, she nodded again. “Jane, the same aliveness that is in your hands and your feet exists throughout your body. Now try widening the lens of your attention and sense the whole field of sensations in your body. These might be pleasant or unpleasant … just allow them to come and go, noticing whatever is predominant. And to help you stay connected and relaxed, try sensing how your breath is moving through it all.”

When Jane opened her eyes to meet mine, they seemed softer and brighter. She looked around the room as if she was taking in her surroundings—the candles, the clock, the box of tissues—for the first time. “Tara,” she began, “I couldn't feel much through the rest of my body, but just feeling my hands and feet, feeling my breath for a few moments was … well … I felt like I was actually here!”

I let Jane know that when people first begin training in mindfulness of the body, some find it difficult to feel sensations in the stomach, chest, or throat. But with practice and patience, I assured her, our awareness of the body awakens. Over the next few days, her job was to take some time in each meditation to first explore neutral or pleasant sensations by feeling her hands and feet from the inside out; and then to open to as many bodily sensations as possible.

I also suggested a more challenging job: When she encountered a difficult state of mind—restlessness, anxiety, sadness, anger—I urged her to ask herself, as I had, “What is happening inside you right now?” To help her as she opened to the sensations underlying these feelings, I reminded her to keep some of her attention on her breath: “Especially when sensations are unpleasant, your breath can be a safe home base … it's good company.”

Mindful awareness of sensations is the “ground level” in practicing with RAIN. I hoped Jane could discover how a state of mind expresses itself as a felt sense, even before it coalesces into a thought. “Any experience you have is rooted in your body, and contacting that experience—letting yourself feel the sensations—will help you feel more grounded and aware.” I told her.

“Even feeling the blanket of numbness?” she asked with raised eyebrows and a hint of playfulness. “Yes,” I said, smiling. “That too.”

As Jane was to find, whatever arises in the present moment is exactly the experience that can open the door to healing.

If It Feels Like Too Much

Many years ago, when I first started going to vipassana retreats, the instructions we received were fairly uniform. We were given the anchor of the breath, but if something intense or unpleasant emerged, we were told to contact those sensations with a full attention. This included opening to feelings of numbness and terror, despair and rage. While this led to valuable insights for most students, for some I knew—people who were living with untreated trauma—it was harmful. Instead of new insights and greater awareness, they were flooded by emotions and overwhelmed with helplessness. The experience only reinforced their sense of being threatened and powerless. This is one reason why I encouraged Jane to develop her home base; I did not know what her numbness was protecting.