Kornfield says “Meditators who have trained their mind to be concentrated, steady, clear, and transparent will examine the heart, search for the latent roots of suffering there, and release them.” That is the practice for this month, coming out of chapter eleven of The Wise Heart. In doing this practice, meditators will bring up images and ideas of “what they most deeply fear or hate or crave.” We are not free (i.e., calm, peaceful, happy, creative) until we are liberated from these three unhealthy roots of suffering.
The trouble is, of course, we are amazingly skillful in refusing to admit what we fear, hate, or crave. And so we continue to act unconsciously, bouncing from grasping for one thing that may sooth us momentarily, running from another thing that we think will harm us or make us uncomfortable, or convincing ourselves that we in some fashion have figured things out. This is me. And I’d like to give a very personal example of this.
Just recently I had an epiphany about my status as a person without a partner, and I only last night expressed this epiphany out loud to Karen. So by writing about it here, I am sort of locking in the learning that grew out of yet another great conversation with Karen, my amazing spiritual guide. Seven years ago this month I left a twenty-year marriage. For the next four years I set about getting my life as a single person together: making a home, constructing a life, directing myself in productive and meaningful ways. As the trauma of divorce lessened, my life did indeed become full and happy and productive. I had a strong network of amazing friends; I enjoyed my work as a teacher; I was healthy in body and secure in home; I was happy in my own company. It seemed I had made the transition to a new state of being in the world: the mature single woman.
And then, for complicated reasons not necessary to explain here, the desire to be with a partner re-emerged in my mind and in my body. And so, with varying degrees of confidence and trepidation, I began turning my intentions toward being with men in personal and intimate ways. The story of the next three years is tumultuous—sometimes ecstatic, sometimes funny, sometimes disappointing, sometimes heartbreaking, always instructive, and rarely satisfying. The stories are juicy, but as I said, not really necessary for my point here. And that point is that whatever state I’ve inhabited with regard to men over the last three years, the one common denominator has been my own lack of ease about the state of “being partnered.” I have yearned for partnership, bemoaned not having partnership, struggled to understand partnership, believed growth happens best in partnership, felt left out of partnership, and more. And when I wasn’t experiencing one of those uncomfortable attitudes about partnership in my life, I was pushing the idea of it aside and convincing myself (or trying to convince myself) that I have a good life as a single person, and that is enough. You know the game: bouncing back and forth between grasping and deluding. I’m a master of that game.
So a few days ago, something happened as I came out of a meditation practice. On a beautiful sunny morning when all seemed right with the world, I watched great sadness rise up inside of me. And I cried a bit. It was a very quiet sadness, seeming small and soft in nature. I sat with it and let it work its way in and around my body. “Here it is,” I thought. “This sadness that you are not sharing life with a partner. Someone who will share experience with you, someone to grow with. This is the way it is.” And by some sort of grace, I didn’t resist this notion at all. Sadness exists in my heart. I can go on and live and grow, but I must stop resisting or bemoaning or trying to reframe this sadness. It is here and I will let it be. No more adjusting. No more justifying. No more effort to change things or deny what is. I will allow this sharp sliver of sadness to reside along side all the other experiences of my life.
In yoga, we are taught to become comfortable with discomfort. I experience extreme discomfort in the pose called parivritta parsvakonasana, or revolved side angle posture. Revolved side angle: just the name sounds challenging, doesn’t it? From a standing position, you step your right foot forward into a deep lunge. You place the left elbow on the outside of that forward-lunging leg, making sure to keep the left leg straight and grounded into the mat behind you. You bring your right arm straight over your ear and look up to the inside of that arm, striving for a nice, long, straight line from fingertips to toes. It’s a beautiful sight to see. But. . . my thighs burn; my knees throb; my shoulder aches as I try to twist more deeply into the position. Sweat drips off my face as I struggle to hold the pose, and I fidget, trying to find a position that hurts less.
But my teacher cautions against such fidgeting. Be in the discomfort, she says. It will not hurt you. And after years of practice, a yogi does begin to view these moments of physical challenge in new ways. When you stop resisting the discomfort, stop trying to find a way out of it, your body moves to a place of equanimity. The discomfort doesn’t go away; it’s just that your bodily experience of discomfort becomes much less imposing, less threatening. It is simply another experience.
And so, after three years of fairly strong aversion to this sadness that seems to lurk peevishly in my mental corridors, I’m wondering if I’ve moved to a new place with regard to the discomfort it has caused me. I’m wondering if I have brought a new steadiness and clarity to my mind and thus released what has been a latent root of suffering for me. I’m wondering if sadness can be in my life without being a marker of my life. I wonder.
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