The Authentic Life (5 page)

For example, if we're anxious, it's natural to want to avoid feeling it. We may stay busy to occupy ourselves, or try harder, or try to figure things out in ways that are not necessary or practical, such as rehashing our childhood. But if we can ask ourselves “What is this?” the only important and real answer comes from the actual physical experience of anxiety in the present moment. Remember, we're not asking what it's
about
, which is analyzing—and the opposite of being physically present. We're simply asking what it actually is.

Asking the question, “What is this?” is the essence of awakening the quality of curiosity, in that the only “answer” comes from being open to actually experiencing the reality of each moment. Curiosity means that we're willing to explore unknown territory—the places the ego doesn't want to go. Curiosity allows us to take a step at our edge, toward our deepest fears. Being truly curious means we're willing to say yes to our experience, even the hard parts, instead of indulging the no of our habitual resistance.

Saying yes doesn't mean we like our experience or that we necessarily feel accepting. It doesn't even mean that we override the no. Saying yes simply means that we pay attention—meticulous attention—to the no. It means we're no longer resisting the people, things, and fears we don't like; instead we're learning to open to them, to invite them in, to welcome them with curiosity in order to experience what's actually going on.

Yet sometimes, when the mind is reeling in the panic of self-doubt and confusion, it is particularly difficult to come back to the heart that seeks to awaken. In these moments, how can we find the willingness to stay present with our own fears—the fears that will always limit our ability to love? When everything seems dark and unworkable, when we've even lost touch with
the desire to move toward the light, the one thing we can do is take a deep breath into the center of the chest on the in-breath, and on the out-breath we can extend to ourselves the same warmth and compassion that we would offer to a friend or child in distress. Breathing into the heart, physically connecting with the center of our being, is a way to extend kindness to ourselves even when there appears to be no kindness in sight.

While remembering that our distress is also our path, and breathing the distressing sensations into the center of the chest—we can learn to stay with the actual unwanted sensations. It's important to understand that being able to ask “What is this?”—and truly reside with what we find there—takes a great deal of patience and courage. Maybe we can only do it a little. But we persevere—even if it's just three breaths at a time. Ultimately, it's awareness that heals. It's awareness that allows us to reconnect with the heart, the heart that is the essence of our being.

Recently I was told that I had to have a particularly unpleasant medical procedure. Combined with the fear around the thought of having the procedure were the memories of painful experiences of prior similar medical procedures, leading to a feeling of dread and morbidity. Over the years I've become free from many of my fears and attachments, but each of us has our own particular edge—that place beyond which fear tells us not to go—so even though I had extensive experience practicing with illness and pain, there was no doubt that this particular set of circumstances put me at my personal edge.

It was helpful to ask the first question—“What is going on right now?”—because that enabled me to see that there was actually no physical discomfort other than the discomfort triggered by believing my fear-based thoughts. It was also helpful to ask, “Can I see this situation as my path?”—pointing to the opportunity to work with my own particular attachments and
fears. As well, asking, “What are my most believed thoughts?” allowed me to see that thoughts such as “This is too much” and “I can't do this” were just thoughts—thoughts that were not the truth, no matter how accurate they felt in the moment.

But the real key to working with the panic and dread came from answering the question, “What is this?” Beyond the thoughts, what is it that experiences? The answer was to come back again and again to the physical experience of the present moment, such as the sensations of tightness in the chest and queasiness in the stomach. Sometimes I could only stay with it for the duration of three breaths. Sometimes the experience was so strong all I could do was breathe the sensations into the center of the chest while remembering all those others who were suffering from the same or similar distress and wishing compassion to all of us.

Staying with the “What is this?” question eventually allowed the self-imposed prison wall of fear to begin to dissolve, and I was able to experience the grace and freedom of surrender. When we can viscerally enter into the question “What is this?” we will see that our experience of “Me-ness,” of being a small-minded separate self, however unpleasant, is constantly changing, and that at bottom, it is just a combination of believed thoughts, physical sensations, and old memories. We realize that the small mind—the mind of “I-as-a-Me”—is not who we truly are. Once we see this, the experience of distress begins to unravel into its individual aggregates rather than seeming so solid. Again, it's awareness that heals.

5. “C
AN
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XPERIENCE
J
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?”

This is not easy to do, because our human compulsion toward comfort drives us to want to fix or get rid of our unpleasant
experiences. To allow our experience to just be usually becomes possible only after we've become disappointed by the futility of trying to fix ourselves (and others). We have to realize that trying to change or let go of the feelings we don't want to feel simply doesn't work. Allowing our experience to just be requires a critical understanding: that it's more painful to try to push away our own pain than it is to feel it. This understanding is not intellectual; it's something that eventually takes root in the core of our being.

Once we can really let our experience be as it is, awareness becomes a more spacious container, within which distress begins to dismantle on its own. Sometimes it helps to widen the container by intentionally including the awareness of air and sounds, or whatever we can connect with that is outside the skin boundary. Within this wider and more spacious container, the distress may even transform from something heavy and somber into pure, nondescript energy, which is more porous and light. The energy may then release on its own, without any need to try to get rid of it.

This final question—“Can I let this experience just be?”—also allows the quality of mercy or loving-kindness to come forth, because we're no longer judging ourselves or our experience as defective. We're finally willing to experience our life within the spaciousness of the heart, rather than through the self-limiting judgments of the mind.

These five questions—“What is going on right now?” “Can I welcome this as my path?” “What is my most believed thought?” “What is this?” and “Can I let this experience just be?”—remind us of the key steps needed to work with our emotional distress. Some students carry little laminated cards with the five questions in their pockets for times when cognitive shock takes
hold, when everything we know is temporarily forgotten. Each time we remember to ask one of these questions, it is like opening a doorway into reality, and we are back on the path of learning to live more authentically.

Remember, though, these questions are just pointers; it's important not to get lost in the technique. From a broader perspective, the reason we ask these questions is that when we have emotional distress, we are usually caught in our small mind, in own self-imposed prison walls—of anger, fear, and confusion. But when our self-imposed prison walls come down, all that remains is the connectedness that we are.

5

Transforming Energy

E
veryone is familiar with the state of being too busy—going, going, going, and doing, doing, doing. The usual result: stressing, stressing, stressing. There's a physical feeling of scattered energy, and even if we sit down to meditate, instead of feeling inwardly settled, we may still feel scattered, with no sense of center or direction. This is why it's so crucial to develop the ability to focus—to rein in and transform the scattered energy into a sense of inner strength and settledness. There's a specific meditation practice that is particularly beneficial in bringing our energy into a more concentrated focus. It's called “
hara
practice” because it pertains to the area right below the belly button that is commonly called the hara, both in Zen and in the martial arts. This particular area is also recognized in acupuncture as a center of strength and energy.

My initial meditation training included the cultivation of the hara through concentrated breathing practices. Over the many years that I did a focused hara practice I had a lot of interesting experiences. Once, after my very first five-day meditation
retreat, after focusing intensely on the hara, it felt like I actually had tentacles of energy coming out of my belly. The day after the retreat I was going to a dawn meditation, at a rural property where you had to go down a steep, rocky path to get to the meditation room. It was totally dark out, but on that morning I was able to run down the path without looking, feeling as if tentacles of energy were guiding me. Don't get the wrong idea—I never had this experience again. It was a onetime free ride. In fact, by the next day the effects of the retreat had mostly worn off. The point is, although having special states of mind is not what spiritual practice is about, it's nonetheless possible to transform our normal scattered energy into a very focused form of concentration. Over time this can develop into a sense of inner strength, and also into a resolve to stay present that carries over into our everyday life activities.

Much of what we know about hara practice comes from traditional Japanese Zen, which originally was closely aligned with the samurai culture. Far from promoting the traditional Buddhist flavor of reverence for life, specific breathing and concentration techniques were taught that centered on strengthening the hara, so that the samurai could shut out all distractions and learn to bear pain and even death with indifference. Although Zen is no longer practiced in this stoic, militaristic way, there is no doubt that the hara—through breathing and special exercises—can be strengthened to the point where it is a source of physical and mental power.

Hara practice is a focused concentration exercise designed to consolidate the scattered energy in the body, as well as the energy that we take in on the inhale, into an inner strength in the area of the belly (hara). The instructions are quite simple: On the in-breath you bring awareness to the belly. The inhale is intentional—long and slow—as you feel the belly fill up. The
out-breath is also slow and long. If it's helpful, you can visualize or sense the belly as a bed of hot coals, and with each in-breath the coals turn red-hot, as if a bellows were fanning a fire. On the out-breath, you breathe consciously through the back of the throat and the nose, making the very slight but inaudible humming sound of
huuuum
. Try this—it probably won't feel at all unusual. On the out-breath, visualize or sense the coals staying red-hot. If this is difficult to visualize, it's fine to simply feel the sense of warmth. As the coals get hotter, and as you make the particular sound of
huuuum,
you can feel the energy and strength consolidate in the hara.

Hara practice serves as a foundation—it strengthens the ability to focus, without which we couldn't stay present, especially when distractions are strong. Yet it's important to understand that hara practice is not a complete practice in itself, primarily because it shuts life out. In fact, when thoughts or emotional reactions come up during the hara meditation, the instruction is to put the thoughts and reactions to the side and return to a focused attention on the breath into the hara. This is the onepointedness of unwavering attention: keeping the focus solely on the breath as it moves in and out of the belly. This is both the strength and the limitation of hara practice, since it doesn't deal with the whole spectrum of our mental and emotional life. But even though it's not a complete practice, it's still a very valuable one.

When doing a hara practice, the biggest barrier is the sometimes unrelenting spinning of the mind, when it insists on staying caught in stories—about what happened, what might happen, about our plans and fantasies, and sometimes stories about things we don't even care about. Intrinsic to all of these stories is a particular quality of energy—the scattered energy of the spinning mind. What makes the hara practice so valuable is
that it can harness and transform this scattered energy, leaving the mind much more calm and stable, thus allowing us to actually live our life with more clarity and awareness. However, the only way for this meditation to be effective is if we can muster the firm resolve not to get pulled into thinking. We may even have to tell ourselves, “Don't go there!” when compelling thoughts arise. But the benefits will become obvious within a reasonable time.

T
HREE
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BY
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HREE

Here are the specific instructions for a guided hara meditation so that you can get an experiential feel for how to do it. It is useful to do a five-minute warm-up meditation, called a “Three-by-Three,” to initiate the process of harnessing the scattered energy. In a Three-by-Three you bring awareness to three different aspects of awareness and hold them in focus for three full breaths. For example, you could be simultaneously aware of the breath, your hands, and the perception of sounds for the duration of three full breaths. Here's a brief guided run-through.

Round One