“Don’t turn away.
Keep your gaze on the bandaged place
That’s where the light enters you”
Rumi
Life is hard. We grow old and face infirmity. We become separated from those, and that, which we love. And, at a time we can never know, we die. Confronted by the uncertainty that this brings, we tend to cling to that which feels pleasant, and to turn away from that which feels unpleasant. When the pleasant experience changes — which it inevitably does – we suffer. When we confront pain, loss and other unpleasant experiences, we suffer again. In Buddhism, this is what is referred to as the First Noble Truth of dukkha.
Turning away from the difficult experiences of our life, rather than discovering a skillful means to be with them is a major cause of suffering. Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. It is, in fact, the ways that we avoid our pain that most separates us from ourselves, each other, and Life itself. Screens, media, busyness, and substance use offer a plethora of distraction in order to ‘not feel’ the discomfort of our moments — thus denying our very humanness. The paradox is that it is only when we turn towards our pain — physical, emotional, spiritual and existential — that we discover a deep well of healing and the true freedom and peace that can only arise from what Chogyam Trungpa referred to as ‘leaning into the sharp points”.
In 2006 my wife, Stacy, and I embarked upon a 2 week meditation retreat led by the venerable Sayadaw U Pandita in a remote forest area in Myanmar. The Burnese tradition of vipassana meditation is quite strict and so men were separated from women, we ate only two simple meals per day, slept in small wooden huts (upon a thin mattress on plywood), and practiced sitting and walking meditation for up to 10 hours per day. I remember feeling drawn to the stringency of this challenge as an opportunity to deepen my practice. I began the retreat with solemn anticipation. And then the pain arrived…. It started on Day 3 as a sharp and tight ache around my left shoulder blade. By Day 5 it had spread to my entire thorax as an intense discomfort that brought a wince to my face and sweat to my brow. I tried all of the tools I had learned to navigate such discomfort. I focused intently upon my breath, invited mantra into my mind, tried to hold the pain in a bigger container of awareness, and shifted my posture and position repeatedly in a subtle desperation to obtain relief. By Day 6 I was exhausted and defeated, spending every moment off of the cushion stretching and massaging, and dreading the bell that invited me back, time and again, to my practice.
At the retreat there was an opportunity to speak with one of the more experienced monastics about my meditation. And so, on that fateful day, I found myself tearfully sitting before a middle aged Thai monk describing the unrelenting pain and difficult suffering arising in my formal sits. The gentle monk, wrapped in orange robes, listened intently. When I was finished he looked at me softly and said,“You are trying to get around and away from your pain… You need to go through it”, While I had the immediate impulse to punch him, I chose instead to respectfully bow with joined palms, and then to return to the cushion that faithfully awaited me.
Within a short time of practice the pain returned and I felt myself brace. It was then that I observed how this tightening only worsened my discomfort, as did all of the stories and beliefs I had about this pain. The injustice of the affliction, my failings as a meditation student, my inability to control the discomfort, and my unworthiness next to all of the seemingly blissful and pain-free yogis around me were like arrows I was shooting at myself, ever increasing the intensity of my suffering, beyond the unfortunate reality of the difficult sensations I was experiencing. A swell of compassion arose within me. While I could not make the pain go away, I could offer love and kindness to this body, and to this person of ‘me’ going through such suffering. I could stop inflicting shame and judgement upon myself. Remembering the Thai monk’s words I began to invite a sense of curiosity to the pain unfolding in my body, leaning in closer to the actual sensations. Much to my surprise these sensations were not as fixed as I had thought, but rather rich with an everchanging dance of movement and volume. I observed how the sensations would expand and then recede, ache and then become sharp or burning. I noticed how when I contracted, my suffering intensified, and how I was able to soften my gaze and my physical body. The pain grew and receded. There were moments where it was hardly perceptable, and others when it would return with renewed intensity. I began to see this pain as the pain of all beings, and felt a wellspring of compassion, connecting me to everyone and everything… I recognized — as an embodied knowing — that I am not my pain… That I am not the changing sensations.., or emotions.., or thoughts arising and passing away. I am the One who can observe these phenomena, with a loving presence that is unconditional and independent of preference.
The retreat continued, and then… ended. The experiences were not always easy, nor pleasant, but I emerged from those 14 days with a fierce courage and a spacious faith in the mysterious belonging of all things. I recall walking the streets of Yangon post retreat, and then the first period after returning home, as a time of profound peace, acceptance and an notable absence of fear that still echoes faintly in my being, even to this day….
Our constant flight from pain, trauma and uncertainty only brings us more suffering. Turning towards such difficulty with compassion and presence offers a sense of ease and equanimity with the inherent wholeness that always contains both pain and pleasure, darkness and light, blessing and challenge… This is the gift and grace of suffering. The freedom, ease and joy we so desperately seek, and which ever remain so elusive in our dopamine-fueled escapes, are awaiting us in this very moment, whatever it offers.
Of course, this does not mean that we should seek for pain or trauma in our lives.. We don’t need to… It is already Here, alongside so much beauty, blessing and wonder. These are all part of the same whole that is your life. Brene Brown once wrote, “You can not selectively numb”. When we turn away from any one part of ourself, we turn away from our whole self. Our love becomes conditional —dependent upon certain conditions — and we only love our body when it is not in pain; love our mind only when it is kind and without judgement; love our heart when it is easeful and happy; and love ourself only when we can finally meet all of our impossible expectations. The divine unconditionality of Love welcomes and honours all things, whether we like them or not. When we can learn to meet all that is Here — people, experiences, emotions — with the same unconditional acceptance, then we are drawn into the fullness of what it is to be alive, and so become one with Life itself. We begin to recognize and understand the preciousness of each moment, each flower, each touch of a hand — even each challenge —because of their fleeting nature. We learn, through practice, to allow each moment its proper place and time, leaning in to all of it, with veracity and love.