Three stages of compassion

For the first half hour bumping through the clouds in this small plane I’ve been trying to make small talk with the guy sitting next to me. The weather. Is this vacation or work? Where is home? Short questions and answers, then we fall silent. My mind drifts to my son, living in China. This man is around the same age. A mother’s instinct tells me to let him be. I turn my attention to the white and blue sky-scape outside the window.

The Flight Attendant hands us each a coffee and our conversation resumes. Surprisingly, in a leap of a few sentences, we shift gears. Now we’re talking about the goodness of people and the suffering of the world. He held up the palm of his hand:

“One quarter of the people of the world have no peace. They live with bombs. One quarter are starving, all they can think about is food and water. Another quarter– or much less– is getting rich from all that suffering. And then there is our planet, being destroyed by all this…”  Now his words were flowing, a flood of heart-exchange between us. ” And what can we do? Those of us who have peace, have food, who wish to help? Where do we begin?”

Another silent pause.

Feeling. Where is this feeling in my body? Is it in the space between his heart and mine? What is this feeling?  Does it have a name? Despair? Compassion? Anxiety? Deep sadness. I’m in awe that this young man speaks so openly to the deepest part of me, to the warrior heart that has taken a vow to exchange self for others. A vow I forget more often than keep.

” I guess all we can do is to care. Until we have the power to do more, at least we can care. As you do.”

I silently reflect on the Buddhist teachings on compassion. The first stage is being like a mother who’s only child is being swept away by a raging river. It is feeling completely powerless, yet overwhelmed by the need for action. We can’t turn away from the suffering at hand. We’re like the parents of the soccer kids, gathered at the mouth of the cave in Thailand. This first act of compassion is to admit our own powerlessness and call for help. It sounds easy, but how often do we allow our hearts to stay open when we are up against the wall of our own limitations? If we can do this on an everyday basis, like the young man next to me was clearly doing, we are continually re-setting our intentions to stay open rather than to shut down.

Calling for help is the second stage of compassion. We realize our interdependence with others. We admit we can’t do this alone, but we trust that others, the rescuers, might regard our children as their own. In the case of the Thai scuba divers, one man gave his life for these children, as a loving parent might do. Trusting in the kindness of others is the second stage of compassion.

The third stage of compassion is to rejoice in any occasion, no matter how small, when suffering has been relieved. As my traveling companion says, “the big things weigh me down, but the small things lift me up.” It’s important to be lifted up instead of sinking into depression. For every news story about failure and despair, find one that makes you smile.

Feeling… warmth, kindness. Smile

 

 

The Key to Authenticity: Being Vulnerable

Recently a wind storm knocked over one of my favourite trees in our neighbourhood, a large cedar that must have been about 200 years old. City workers moved in with saws to shave the new stump, revealing the wide and narrow rings that tell the story of seasons of drought and nourishment in this tree’s history. The rings spread out around the core of the tree, like a mandala.
It occurred to me that we could envision our own relationship history like the rings of a tree. We’ve survived seasons of the heart that were nourishing and others that were deprived, even traumatic. Although we’ve been hurt and confused by other people in the past, our vulnerable need to be in relationship is a healthy instinct. In fact, vulnerability is essential to being authentically who we are.
We see this healthy instinct in newborn babies who thrive by connecting skin to skin, heart to heart with a loving parent or caregiver. We human beings are born with the capacity to be vulnerable, with a need to be touched and to touch others at the heart level. At the same time, we have a need to protect ourselves, to stay warm during cold weather, to guard against sharp edges that threaten us both physically and emotionally.

Practicing the Green Zone method of mindful communication offers a balance between the openness of vulnerability and the need for self-protection in our relationships. A Green Zone is an emotionally safe social space that welcomes authenticity. In this approach, we identify three kinds of vulnerability, each one requiring a different kind of support symbolized by the slogans of the three traffic lights.

  1. Green light vulnerability:When the light is green, go!”: The first kind of vulnerability is authenticity itself. In a Green Zone we recognize this kind of vulnerability is an inborn intelligence we can rely on. What does it mean to be open, to be receptive? Thanks to the vulnerability of our sense perceptions, our body is awake to the environment around us at this moment. Thanks to the vulnerability of our heart, we feel tenderly responsive to the beauty or sadness in this space. Thanks to the vulnerability of an open mind, we’re inquisitive, willing to learn from the ongoing feedback of new information and ideas.
  2. Red light vulnerability:  ” When the light is red, stop!” The second kind of vulnerability is frozen fear. Like the proverbial ostrich who tries to hide by burying it’s head in the sand, we put on a mask to hide our fear of vulnerability, pretending we can make it go away.  Our mask might be intimidating like a bully in a playground. No doubt we can cause harm when we’re shut down like this. But in a Green Zone we don’t buy into the masquerade. Instead we train to stop, creating space and dropping into our heart. Instead of reacting we simply feel the vulnerable sadness that comes from communication break down. This leads to developing greater power of compassion, unmasking our own frozen fear and helping us to be more responsive to others.
  3. Yellow light vulnerability: “When the light is yellow, take care!”  The third kind of vulnerability is the one we associate with danger, that feeling that it’s unsafe to be who we are. These are the vulnerable feelings like hurt, embarrassment or shame. They’re not yet frozen but they are powerful triggers for shutting down. Most often these feelings originate from bumping into someone else’s red light barrier. We unintentionally absorb that person’s projections without realizing that they have nothing to do with who we really are. It’s deeply wounding to feel reduced to an object. The support we need during this yellow light crisis is to protect the vulnerable feelings we’re experiencing while at the same time listen carefully to the storylines we’re telling ourselves, sorting out what is accurate from what is unrealistic.

A Green Zone is a protective space where we train in mindful communication, listening with compassion and discernment to each other’s stories. By identifying these three kinds of vulnerability we can restore our confidence in what it feels like to be authentic, the wakeful intelligence of our body, the tenderness of our human responsiveness and the wisdom of our mind when it is open.

 

Hearts and Blessings

Blessings and Hearts

 

Today my American family and friends are celebrating Thanksgiving. Internet sites are posting stories about all we have to be thankful for.  In particular, I was reading a text by psychologist Dr. Robert Emmons about the power that gratitude has to transform our lives. His spiritual counterpart is Brother David Standl-Rast, who for decades has been teaching about gratitude. “All prayer is essentially a prayer of gratitude”.

 

One point made by Dr. Emmons caught my attention this morning: a feeling of gratitude changes the words we use when we speak. His research noted that the word ‘blessing’ appears in the conversations of positive thinkers who are grateful. This brought back memories of my grandmother, one of the many resilient women in my family.

 

In the summer that I turned 9 years old, I spent a blissful week in the country with Nana and my grandfather, “Cappie”, and their black lab Kim, who could balance a dog biscuit on his nose and then toss it into the air and catch it. As the oldest of four children, being alone with my elderly grandparents was heaven on earth, never boring. Nana made glue out of flour and water and I cut up magazines for a scrap book. In the afternoon, while she napped, I played on the white scatter rugs in the hallway, imagining that I was floating through the sky on a cloud.  Later, Nana brought out a set of delicate demi-tass cups and saucers and offered me my first taste of tea, delicious with lots of milk and sugar. Then, with the curtains in the dining room drawn from the hot summer sun,  she went to the piano and sang a song to me that I’ve never heard before or since. It was a song about a little black boy who was hurt by the words ‘those white boys say’. In the song the mother soothes her son, saying no matter the color of our skin, the colour of everyone’s heart is gold. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I’d ask her to play it again and again.

 

Nana was elegant, but she wasn’t a goody-goody. When we went to church on Sunday, she’d impishly whisper things like “doesn’t that lady’s pink hat look like our toilet seat cover?” I’d spend the rest of the service trying to stifle my giggles. But in my child sense of time, I’d disconnected from the fact that Nana was grieving the death of her oldest daughter during the summer I was there. This was only one of the many tragic deaths she endured in her life. Years later, I was with Nana the day after my younger brother died in a car accident. He was one of three grandsons who she lost within five years. She was overwhelmed with sadness, saying that death was for her generation, not for the children. But, as I said, she was a woman with tremendous resilience.

 

All of these memories came to me when I reflected on the language of gratitude. Sitting on the front porch shaded by bamboo curtains, listening to Nana chatting and gossiping with her friends, I was struck by a phrase that punctuated their conversations: ‘bless her heart’ or ‘bless his heart’ .  The way she phrased the words was melodic, like a little prayer. In a flash I could hear her song about the heart of gold, my heart of gold, everyone’s heart of gold.

 

It is out of date, a blessing handed down through the mother lineage in my family from the century before the past one. But I’ve decided to say it when I can – ‘bless his heart’, ‘bless her heart’.  And, for me at least, this little prayer has a lot of power, puncturing holes in ordinary mindless speech and reminding me of how grateful I am to have had my grandmother, and so many other gentle teachers, in my life.

 

 

Listening To Joy

Joy slips into my life by surprise.  I click an e-mail attachment and the eyes of my friend’s new-born baby blink open.  The traffic’s stopped in the rain at a construction zone– out of nowhere, a brilliant rainbow!  A spring sparrow’s song filters through my bedroom window.

Last week, the doorbell rang, and a courrier handed me a box. “This is my book! It’s finally here! ”  His wrinkled face broke into a broad grin and we shared this moment of joy like two old friends. As he waved goodbye I opened the box and picked up my new book for the first time. Here it is, after twelve years of work, countless hours of writing and re-writing, indescribable frustrations, despair and occasional breakthroughs.  But in this moment of joy, the first thing I realized was that this book– my book– no longer belonged to me.  What I was holding was the work of dozens of people– the editors, cover designer, publishers… so many hands that passed it along to the courrier who delivered it back to me.  Looking back, was this book ever mine? All the ideas in come from other people– my teachers, mostly.

Because it springs out of nowhere, there is something naturally selfless about joy.   It’s like the rainbow– a surprise that depends on conditions coming together.  I remember holding my son shortly after his birth.  My mind  tried to comprehend what it meant that this baby was ‘mine’.  But the joy blasted through reference points of ‘me’ and ‘mine’ like the infiinite space in a starry sky.  I was left with awe and wonder and a profound humbleness.

Joy penetrates the illusion that things need to make sense.   There is something deliciously meaningless about beauty.  It is something we want to share, not to hoard, like the smile of a child in the grocery store. The gift of joy is that it reconnects us with a much bigger picture, beyond ‘me and mine’ beyond the struggle of our daily routine.  It reveals our interdependence.

Dipping into moments of joy quenches a certain kind of thirst in our lives.  Beauty is there waiting to be discovered in all kinds of insignificant ways.  Practicing mindfulness is paradoxical.  It enables us to drink in the sweet moments of joy and at the same time it shows us that we can’t hold on.  “Touch the joy and let go” as my teacher would say.

It isn’t that easy to listen to joy.  We have a deeply rooted habit of trying to possess joy.  Most of us are addicted to this confused idea.  Before we know it, that moment of joyful surprise has closed and all we’re left with is the craving for more.  Popping that bubble of wishful thinking and coming back to the surprise of the present moment is the best thing we can do for ourselves.  It may be joy or it may be pain or we might find an experience that has no name.  Whatever this moment presents to us, it is a gift.

May your day be full of joyful surprises!

 

 

 

 

Listening to pain

Normally we think of mindfulness as a peaceful experience.  But there is an unbearably painful side to this practice of waking up. For me, this happens when a story from the news comes to life and pierces my heart like an arrow.  The other day I heard details of the rape and murder  of a young girl.  Now, it haunts me, a gnawing background pain that suddenly flashes in the middle of the night, a sharp stabbing sensation.  The pain is so intense I can feel myself trying to shut it down, to go numb.  But simultaneously I feel a mother’s need to bear witness, to stay present, even though the events are unfolding only in my mind.  In my mind I witness this helpless child, the traumatized parents, the deranged couple who committed this incomprehensible crime.  I hear my teacher’s words:  waking up to our lives isn’t about staying comfortable.  I know I’m addicted to turning away from pain.  But at the same time, waking up isn’t about torturing ourselves. Allow the pain just be there like a burning coal in the middle of my heart.

Holding steady, other imaginings arise.  I see myself scooping up this child, embracing her, protecting her.  I restrain those drug-crazed attackers, holding them until they come to their senses.  I envision the parents, and all bereaved parents, being comforted and at peace. Waking up from this fantasy, overwhelmed by helplessness, I remember the mantra, or prayer, of Avaloketeshvara, the compassionate buddha, who symbolizes wakefulness.  It is said that this buddha sees clearly and weeps a million tears, making the vow to liberate all beings from suffering.  At this moment, all I need is enough support to keep my heart open one minute longer.  Making the wish– the promise–to break the chain of violence in this world is the only way I can do this.  Where do I begin?  Poised here on this razor blade of nowness, I trust in the power of bearing witness.  Not closing my eyes and heart is all I can do.  At least for this moment.

 

Listening is love

I’m grateful to have been invited to join the radio program  An Organic Conversation  http://www.anorganicconversation.com/  on March 17.   The topic is  listening as love.  To me, this is the magic of mindful communication. Here’s a simple formula for this:  Stop!   Look!   Listen!

STOP:  The first stage of mindful listening is to work with our speed and distraction.  We need to simply stop, let go, make space.  We spend our lives running away from open space, from the ‘dead air’ of silence.  Before we can listen to another human being, we need to be capable of listening to ourselves.   This is why sitting meditation is so important.  The meditation journey trains us relax and let go of distractions.  We unmask the boredom and restlessness to discover what our minds are really capable of.  Gradually we learn to settle down peacefully, able to listen.

LOOK:  There is a certain moment when our attention shifts from ‘in here’ to ‘out there’.  Imagine that our attention is like a beam of light.  At that moment, it expands outward, illuminating the space around us.  Before we listen to someone’s words, we listen with our eyes, all our senses.  Our natural communication system of Awake Body, Tender Heart and Open Mind tunes into the whole environment, a signal that we are open.

LISTEN:  Now that we’ve opened the senses of our body, the vulnerability of our heart and the curiosity of our mind we’re able to have a fresh experience.  What is this fresh experience?  Being completely open like this, with no hidden agenda is not a dry, empty exchange.  When we’re openly listening to another human being, the space is warm and tender.  Because the ‘me-first’ barrier has dissolved, this space is a mixing zone where you can’t find the dividing line between ‘me’ and ‘you’.  Instead there is awakeness, which lets you be who you are.  There is tenderness, which enables me to feel what you feel.  There is curiosity, which asks you to go on, ‘please tell me more’.  Whether this is a short conversation with a stranger on the bus or a life long conversation with a partner, listening openly like this is what it means to love.

Tune in on March 17 and we’ll see where this goes.

Love to you all.