Perfection and Acceptance

Sometimes life has this interesting way of providing us with "learning themes." A particular lesson comes up, quite karmically, and wham -- whether instantly or within a short amount of time, you know, you're in the middle of a hard lesson.

It's hard because it's something that involves a deep habit, a dysfunctional aspect of our personhood that causes us distress, and has been causing us distress for a very long time. Its roots go far into our soils. And it is thematic in that there is a cyclical existance to this lesson that brings it up over and over again, presenting itself at optimal learning times throughout our lives (which we often interpret as the exact opposite: 'I can't believe I'm dealing with this now!'). It returns again and again, with varying degrees of difficulty until there is the necessary insight to dissolve its root cause.

The theme of late has been Perfection. This is no simple issue. That word right there, it's loaded baby! It can mean different things to different people -- some call it a disease, some call it an obsession, some call it an excuse -- but the basic suffering that is created from our particular attachment to it is the same. And it is excruciating.

My own particular Perfection attachment has to do with doing things right, and keeping others happy with me. It becomes sharply augmented when an authority figure is thrown into the mix. This is when my Perfection problem really gets kicked up. It's a real ego trip. The experience of loosing face, of being wrong, of having screwed up, with an authority, a boss of some sort, really burns me bad. It's okay to not be perfect in private, but dear God, don't put me on the stage with my pants down!

Pema Chodron talks about the root cause of this in terms of the Tibetan concept, Shenpa. This article she wrote on the topic is so helpful. It's not enough to merely recognize our illness of Perfection. We must eradicate it at the source. We need to understand the inner functioning.

I really don't think that our problem here is with Perfection at all. When I had the terrible situation come up a few days ago with my professor for whom I work, the first thing I could say in my own defense was, "I'm so sorry, I'm a perfectionist, and having messed up like this makes it really hard." Later, I kept thinking about what I'd said. 'I'm a perfectionist.' So this is why I was in so much pain and turmoil over having misinformed our students about a key thing they would be tested on for their exam? Becaus I'm a perfectionist? So, if I'm perfect then I don't have this experience? Something here just doesn't make sense.

The best thing I have found to do when something is literally haunting me like this, is I carry it around with me. I carry the feeling around, as if it were an invisible child in my hands. I'm very careful with it, very mindful. My attention is always there, even while I'm doing other things. I'm aware of it being there. The feeling in this case was very easy to carry because it was so palpable. It was extroardinarily raw. You know what I'm talking about -- that raw feeling -- like your skin has just been scraped away, and now it's open and burning.

The more I carried the feeling around with me, the more compassion I began to feel towards it. 'Wow, that one really hurts. Gosh, I wish Perfection wouldn't do that to you, my poor hurt child. How excruciating. Here, let me ease your pain.' I was gentle with it. I held it. Opened to it. Breathed it in. Felt all of it. I cried a lot. But the most remarkable thing -- I was so present. Everything slowed down. Everything softened around me. And suddenly I began to have small insights into the problem. Little "Aha!" moments. I began to understand this thing. I could see where it came from in my childhood, how it was learned, how I hid from it, how I preteneded things about it, all of the little ego defenses I danced in regards to it. I saw all of that, and because I had been carrying it around ever so gently and lovingly, I began to find acceptance.

Ah, Acceptance. Like a good, cold glass of refreshing water when you've just taken a very long and arduous hike across a mountain.

The Beloved

Buddhism doesn't bother itself with the concept of "God." The closest it ever comes, seems to be in Tibetan Buddhism, in both the Mahayana and Vajrayana branches. Here the term "God" is not mentioned, but the absolute is -- and true, full realization is impossible without the cultivation of compassion and loving-kindness.

In this respect, one could say that Buddhism does speak of a Godness, if you believe that Godness to be something akin to total, all-encompassing, unconditional love. In Hinduism, the umbrella term for the ancient religion of India, "God" is most often spoken of in terms of the Beloved. Buddhism later grew out of this religion, and so in some ways, it is its mother.

I've been contemplating the Beloved lately. This contemplation has been brought about largely by the spiritual contemplations and ongoing revolutions of my dearest and best friend, as she wrestles with her own beliefs. It has certainly given me a moment of pause and reflection. What do I believe? What do I know, if anything, to be true? Is there a "God" or isn't there?

This has been an oscillating topic for me. Somtimes I find myself prizing the scientific intellect and saying, no, there is no thing that is "God," there is just this masterpiece of a universe... and to say there is God would be to totally discredit Mother Nature for her incredible beauty and genius. Then, I think to myself, 'well, if I take up that view completely, then the mind and "spirit" must fully die at the moment of death. Nothing afterwards. No awareness. No sense of consciousness.' But this doesn't feel entirely right.

Such dualistic thinking! If it's not this, then it must be that. It can't be all, it has to be one or the other. Our western philosophers have taught us to think this way since the time of Aristotle and Plato.

If you think I'm coming close to giving you an answer, however, you'd be wrong. The truth is, I really don't know. But I'm okay with not knowing. The knowing is the journey, in and of itself. And it's not in the finding, either... it's in the looking.

So what if we simply take this term that seems so utterly problematic that is has caused wars, death, famin, torture, genocide, and suffering of all kinds, and throw it out. Why do we have to label it "God" with all of those built-in issues? As if  something as miraculous as "God" could ever be limited in any way by our silly, ignorant little minds, anyway.

Here's what I know then:

- I don't like the term "God." It's far too loaded, and suggests that I know more of it than I do.

- I can only know what I have experienced for myself. This is that the "self" as we think we know it, is not actually so. There is no person that we think we are, this dies at the moment of our death. However, there is something that is indeed lasting, permanent, and real. It is unattached to self-hood, but it is totally aware.

- The only thing I have found at all capable of sustaining me in groundless space, is love.

- Those who have died are still able to communicate with us.

I had this interesting revelation last night when I was meditating. For months I have been struggling with letting go into the groundless space of meditation. To be aware, awake, and at the same time to let go into the present, unattached to thoughts, feelings, etc, seems only to be possible when my heart opens and the experience of love is flowing through me.

I watched a wonderful documentary of Ram Dass last night, called "Fierce Grace." He speaks a lot of the Beloved. He also spoke about his spiritual mentor, or guru, Baba Maharaji. When he showed a picture of Maharaji, the most interesting thing happened -- I started to cry. His face, his beautiful smile, just filled me with love so tender it made me cry. I thought to myself, 'Love. This is the most important thing I can cultivate. This is what brings you close to the Beloved.' When I went to meditate, an hour flew by like a handful of minutes. Meditation was so simple all of a sudden. I settled in, closed my eyes, and felt again that love so tender I wept inside. The barrage of thoughts that usually pour down on me, the fighting emotions, the struggle of calming and quieting, had all simply evaporated. Sure, a thought came here and there, but it wasn't a problem. I simply noticed it, and let it go.

(Baba Maharaji)

They speak a lot about the difficulty in meditation being one's ability to let go and release themselves into a groundless space. How in the world can I not struggle for ground in this groundless space, I've wondered? It has been my constant question, until now. I'm not sure if it's right, but it seems to work at the moment. Opening to the feeling of love allows me to release that very internal need for ground, for certainty, for thought and action, me and my-ness (the "I'm meditating. I need to wash dishes. I am struggling. I am frustrated.")

"But love is not of the mind, it is not in the net of thought, it cannot be sought out, cultivated, cherished; it is there when the mind is silent and the heart is empty of the things of the mind." - J. Krishnamurti

Swimming Upstream

I remember reading once that the Buddha said the path to liberation is like swimming upstream. It's completely against the current. At the time I thought about this statement in an intellectual way. 'Okay, so it's against the norm. Sure, I can see that. Choosing to live your life authentically, to step outside of the herd, so to speak, yes -- that's swimming upstream.'

I can see now that this was small thinking on my part. It's good to remind myself that the Buddha always spoke from experience, not simply from ideas or opinions floating around in his head.

My goal this morning was to sit for an hour. I made it about forty minutes in, which is fine. I'm not so sure the amount of time really matters all that much right now. The fact that I am sitting, this is enough. But sometimes I get this dreaded feeling when I'm getting ready to sit. I know how hard it's going to be, and I start to dread it. Sometimes this dread leads me to avoidance all together, or excuse making, various task-doing until I simply run out of time. It takes a certain real quality of discipline to acknowledge all of that, and still do the insane thing -- sit anyway.

This is what is meant by swimming upstream. I sit anyway. And sure enough, for the first twenty minutes it's as if I were trying to paddle my way upstream, against the current. The current of the stream is the constant thought flow, the desire to go sleep or get up and wash dishes, get lost in thought, think about yesterday or tomorrow, create my grocery list. To swim against this stream is to let it all go.

What's particularly hard about this, what makes it truly swimming against the stream, is that it's also a terrific balancing act. There's a certain amount of effort required to tune into the present moment, to have the mindfulness to return again and again when the mind constantly, out of old deep habits, wanders off down stream. So, I push and I paddle. I get angry with myself. I feel frustrated every time the current takes me. I can feel myself tightening inside -- the breath constricting, my eyelids clamping down instead of easefully shut.

This is now trying too hard. One must let go. Relax. Release. Be gentle. But not too gentle, not too relaxed... because there you go, falling asleep. Where's the breath? Am I even awake right now?

Even though I sat today for forty minutes I could have sat for an hour and the "sit" would have been much the same. This is what they mean when they say the spiritual path is like swimming upstream. If I paddle too hard, I'll wear myself out and drown. If I don't paddle at all, I'll simply be swept down the river with all the other fish.

There are certain virtues that we need to take along with us on this journey. All of the great religions talk about it. To be close to God, whatever you concieve that to be, requires a lot of faith. Surrender. Devotion. And even patience.
(Note: Buddhism, however, is not a religion in this sense. It never speaks of "God" as it is more of an eastern psychology, than an eastern religion.)

I find the notion of taking refuge really helpful at this point in the practice. Taking refuge is like taking solace -- it's a kind of reassurance. For over 2500 years people have struggled, just like I am struggling, to meditate and they've made it through to the other side. When I think of all those that have come before me, who have made this struggle, I feel a sense of connection. This was hard for them too. When I think of Siddartha himself, I am especially encouraged and feel tremendous compassion, as well as gratitude for what he did. I'm fortunate to have the dhamma -- books upon books written by others to help guide me along, to tell me how and what and why. Siddartha had nothing. He didn't even have the method. He had to discover it all on his own. I can't hardly imagine having the insight that if I just sat in one place, with all of these particular qualities at work -- concentration and equanimity -- that this would be the way to liberate the spirit from the cage of the mind. What a miraculous gift he brought into the world! 

Getting Started

Beginning a meditation practice has it's real challenges. As I was sitting this morning, towards the end I began to reflect on the most essential aspects of what keeps me going. The single most important condition, both in my opinion and experience, is to develop a friendship with the practice.

What does it mean to establish a "friendship" with the practice? When you imagine friendship, what is the felt sense that comes up? For me it is warmth, kindness, happiness, joy, laughter, and love. When I go in the morning or in the evening to sit, the first things I say to myself is that I'm going to spend time with my friend. That friend is me. What a cherishable thing it is to have this time, right now, to be with my self! The very first thing I do when I sit is to check in. How does the body feel? Is it comfortable? Is there an ache? If something is hurting there is compassion for that hurting: "oh, my dear friend, you're hurting! That knee is really bothering you." One must develop compassion for themselves, especially at this early stage of meditation, because a neat thing begins to happen. The love in our heart opens. A connection between joy and meditation establishes itself, and if there is no sense of reward then the motivation to meditate will fall apart. It's simple Pavlovian psychology. But it's more than that, too.

We need this kind of love for ourselves early on because it provides a firm basis for compassion. As we go on in the practice of meditation, a lot of things will begin to come up -- a lot of things we may not like about ourselves. Having a sense of compassion and love will make our acceptance, and our letting go of these old worn-out patterns, easier and more fulfilling (and complete!).

As you read into the buddhist literature on meditation, you might come across the concept of anatta, or no-self. At this point, things can get really confusing and it's remarkably easy (and common) for us in the west to totally misunderstand and misinterpret this part of the teaching. My advice as your getting started is to not concern yourself with this aspect just yet. Anatta is a highly complex concept, one that tends to require a lot of practice, prior insight, and years of development to begin to understand.

For now, just focus on loving yourself. Cherish the twenty or thirty minutes you have to pay attention to your own body, mind, spirit. Give it love. Give it the healing beauty of a silent mind. Breath deeply into it. Feel its every feeling. Naturally, the experience of pure gratefulness will arise. And tomorrow when you might try telling yourself "I can't do this, what's the point, I don't have time, I'm not getting anything out of it," remember the feeling and it will naturally draw you back.

Tuning the Lute

Meditation is hard. Sitting, in one place, doing nothing, is perhaps the single most difficult thing to do.

But every day, I try it again. And every day, I am met with new challenges, and new discoveries.

The mind is different every day. Some days it's living in the past, others, the future. Some days there is a remarkable quietness to the mind, and when I close my eyes to begin watching the breath a wide open stretch of space expands. Everything feels deeper, sacred, beautiful, rich and full yet empty... like looking into the night sky. Other days, the mind is chatter chatter chatter, nonstop about this and about that. The breath goes out the window. Space has shrunken down. I'm suffocating in my own claustrophic mind.

Every day is different. Every moment is different. But all of it -- the good, the bad -- is just more discovery to delight in. More ways to know the self. Some habits I've come to realize: I think a lot about what others think of me. I examine myself from many different vantage points, a lot of the time. 'I wonder how so-in-so viewed me when I said yada-yada the other day.' Or, 'I hope so-in-so sees me this way, and if I do this next time maybe they'll like me even more.' I rework past experiences in my mind like they were clay. All of this working to support an ego that I know, deep down, doesn't really exist. Such wasted energy!

But when the mind quiets down, and this secret space begins to open up.... I'm so wonderfully intriqued. What's down there? It's exciting to come across, as if the door to Narnia is in my mind somewhere. It flickers in and out, like a candle, like a plane doing a touch and go. I'm learning to steady myself in this opening. It is so easy to lose the balance. Effort must be just right. The energy applied subtracted by the relaxation of letting go. It's such a precise configuration. Try standing on the tips of your toes like a ballerina for an hour. This is what finding the open expanse of the soul is like. Or, as Buddhas put it, learning to tune the lute. Not too taught, not too loose.

Something from Nothing

Our Nandina has this beautiful ice formation dripping down its berries at the moment.

This winter reminds me a little of New York... It still has a large part of my heart.

I whipped up a little something from nothing today. Roasted golden beets with sauteed swiss chard, smoked gouda, pepitas, and an orange vinagrette. I'm finally beginning to catch on to my creative side with vegetarianism. I get full, this is for certain, but not heavy full. My weight has gone down a solid seven or eight pounds, and stays right where it is now. This is the lighter side of where I was when I was eating meat. I take it as a healthy sign. And, to be honest, vegetables are just so much more interesting!

I've registered for Bhavana's women's retreat this summer and am already looking forward to it. Five days in the Virginia forest, meditating with women, living in silence and simplicity. It's going to be wonderful, and challenging! This is a wonderful article I read this morning on what I expect to be the greatest challenge, yet greatest bliss I'll encounter there in the summer. Ajahn Passano's dhamma talk today on encouraging the falculties of enlightment is bringing me much inspiration on these quiet, winter hours of solitude.

Winter Wonderland

Sledding when you're 27 and 33 years old is not as easy as it was when you were 10.

But the snow is just as beautiful.

Root vegetables have been a huge part of our sustenance lately. I've perfected the art of roasting beets and turning them into delicious little salads with arugala and spinach.

This season has also seen the perfecting of my now infamous White Bean Soup. I'll be incredibly generous with you and share the recipe:

Sautee two tablespoons of garlic with one overflowing tablespoon of smoked paprika, many sprigs of thyme, and two cans of rinsed white beans with olive oil. Once this has all cooked, slowly begin adding vegetable stock. I like to get up to 8 cups of liquid.. Add cherry tomatoes sliced in halves. Simmer for three hours. Throughout this process of sauteeing and simmering you should be adding personalized amounts of salt and pepper, and almost an entire little plastic bulb of lemon juice.  You should shrink your soup down to 4 servings by this point. Throw in a splash of cream. Add whatever chopped green you would like. My favorites are mustard greens and fresh kale. Serve a few minutes after adding greens so that they are still good and chewy.