True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart (19 page)

I mirrored back what he had said. “So … behind the anger is a feeling of not being respected or cared about … and some
shame
about that … that it means something really must be wrong with you.” Sam nodded slowly, taking in the realness of his own insecurity.

“Okay, now take a moment to view yourself as if you could see all this through the eyes of a friend, someone who really cares about you and understands that you are feeling demeaned and ashamed.” I paused to give Sam some time to bring this to mind.

“Now,” I said, “with that kind of view, begin to send yourself some words of forgiveness and compassion. It might be ‘I forgive you,' or ‘forgiven, forgiven,' or maybe, ‘I care about this suffering.' Offer whatever words communicate understanding and care.” Sam practiced silently for several minutes, and when he opened his eyes, they were calm and bright. “Something unclenched, and space opened up,” he told me. “It was as if my heart was holding the place in me that gets angry, the place that is insecure … and holding my dad as well.”

We sat quietly together for a few moments, appreciating this space of kindness and presence. Before leaving Sam said, “For the first time, I'm feeling terribly imperfect, but not
bad
. The anger is part of the mix, but I'm more …” He gave me a thoughtful look and then tapped his heart. “I guess I'm opening to the possibility that there's a decent human being in here.” Sam and I would work together for many months to come, but in that moment's opening to inner goodness, he had begun to experience the freedom of a forgiving heart.

Seeing Beyond Our Faults

Contacting the truth of our own suffering is what cracks the heart open to self-compassion and forgiveness. For Sam, this recognition came when he uncovered the feelings that fueled his anger. For Vanessa, a prisoner in a maximum-security prison, it was first awakened through a poem.

Vanessa attended a Buddhist meditation course taught by one of my friends. Standing over six feet tall, Vanessa was a powerful, sinewy woman with hair dyed bright red and tattoos all over her body. Known in her ward as a bully, she protected some women and relentlessly insulted and intimidated others. During the meditation classes, while other participants joined for discussions, she just sat there silent and scowling. But she never missed a session during the eight-week course. At the final class, my friend asked for feedback. After others spoke, she turned to Vanessa. “Well,” she began uncertainly, “I couldn't follow some of those Buddhist words.” Then she looked around, almost shyly. “What was that one … buddhisat …?” The instructor said, “Oh, do you mean ‘bodhisattva'—an awakening being, one with compassion?” “Yeah,” said Vanessa. “That one. I liked that … and that poem about the pirate.”

The pirate appeared in a poem by Thich Nhat Hanh that my friend had read at the prior class:

“Well, that got me thinking … made me know something,” Vanessa said. Then she spoke so softly that everyone had to strain to hear her. “I always thought I was bad, the problem one, the one that made others suffer. Now I know
I am suffering too
.” Vanessa had tears in her eyes, but most everyone was looking at the floor, just respecting her words.

After that group “graduated,” my friend continued to teach at the prison, and she heard by word of mouth that Vanessa had changed in a deep way. She was no longer a bully. She was a sadder and much quieter person, slowly coming to terms with the reality of her own suffering.

When I heard Vanessa's story I remembered a line from an African American spiritual that has always moved me: “God looks beyond our fault and sees our need.”

What if we could recognize our faults and look to see what is beyond them? What if we could see, with great tenderness, the painful unmet needs that have shaped our behaviors? For many of us, this process is the work of a lifetime, one that requires the active support of loved ones, therapists, spiritual teachers, or healers. Yet it begins the moment that we are willing to look at ourselves through the eyes of compassion.

A Parent's Heart

Marge, a woman in our meditation community, was in a painful standoff with her teenage son. At fifteen, Micky was in a downward spiral of skipping classes and using drugs, and he had just been suspended for smoking marijuana on school grounds. While Marge blamed herself—she was the parent, after all—she was also furious at her son. The piercings that she had not approved, the lies, the stale smell of cigarettes, the earphones that kept him in his own removed world—every interaction with Micky left her feeling powerless, angry, and afraid. And the more she tried to take control with her criticism, with “groundings” and other ways of setting limits, the more withdrawn and defiant Micky became.

When she came in for a counseling session, Marge told me, “It's been months since my son and I have had a civil conversation. Basically, he won't talk to me.” But she mostly wanted me to know why the entire situation was really her fault. An attorney with a large firm, Marge felt she had let her career get in the way of attentive parenting. She had divorced Micky's father when the boy was entering kindergarten, and her new partner, Jan, had moved in several years later. More often than not, it was Jan, not Marge, who went to PTA meetings and soccer games, Jan who was there when Micky got home from school. Recently, the stress had peaked when a new account increased Marge's hours and demands at work.

“I wish I had been there for him more,” Marge said. “I mean, I love him, I've tried, but now it is impossible to reach him. Tara, I'm so afraid he is going to create a train wreck out of his life.” I heard the despair in her voice, and when she fell silent, I invited her to sit quietly for a few moments. “You might notice whatever feelings you are aware of … and when you are ready, name them out loud.” When she spoke again, Marge's tone was flat. “Anger—at him, at me, who knows. Fear—he's ruining his life. Guilt, shame—so much shame, for screwing up as a mother.” As she named shame her voice became low, almost inaudible.

“Marge,” I said softly, “let's take some time and investigate the shame … Is that okay?” She nodded. “You might start by agreeing to let it be there, and sensing where you feel it most in your body.” Again she nodded, and few moments later, put one hand on her heart and another on her belly. “Good,” I said. “Keep letting yourself feel the shame, and sense if there is something it wants to say. What is it believing about you, about your life?”

It was awhile before Marge spoke. “The shame says that I let everyone down. I'm so caught up in myself, what's important to me. It's not just Micky … it's Jan … and Rick (her ex-husband) … and my mom … and … I'm selfish and too ambitious … I disappoint everyone I care about.” She stopped and slumped back on the couch.

“How long have you felt this way … that you have let everyone down?” I asked. Shaking her head, she said, “As long as I can remember. Even as a little girl. I've always felt I was failing people, that I didn't deserve love. So now I run around trying to achieve things, trying to be worthy … and I end up failing those I love the most!”

“Take a moment, Marge, and let the feeling of failing people, of being undeserving of love, be as big as it really is.” I paused and after a few moments she said, “It's like a sore tugging feeling in my heart.”

“Now,” I said, “sense what it's like to know that even as a little girl—for as long as you can remember—you've lived with this pain of not deserving love, lived with this sore tugging in your heart. Sense what that has done to your life.” Marge grew very still and then began silently weeping.

Marge was experiencing what I call “soul sadness,” the sadness that arises when we are able to sense our temporary, precious existence, and directly face the suffering that has come from losing life. We recognize how our self-aversion has prevented us from being close to others, from expressing and letting love in. We see, sometimes with striking clarity, that we have closed ourselves off from our own creativity and spontaneity, from being fully alive. We remember missed moments when it might have been otherwise, and we begin to grieve our unlived life.

This grief can be so painful that we tend unconsciously to move away from it. Even if we start to touch our sadness, we often bury it by reentering the shame—judging our suffering, assuming that we somehow deserve it, telling ourselves that others have “real suffering” and we shouldn't be filled with self pity.
Our soul sadness is fully revealed only when we directly, mindfully contact our pain.
It is revealed when we stay on the spot and fully recognize that this human being is having a hard time. In such moments we discover a natural upwelling of compassion—the tenderness of our own forgiving heart.

When Marge's crying subsided, I suggested she ask the place of sorrow what it longed for most. She knew right away: “To trust that I am worthy of love in my life.”

I invited her to once again place one hand on her heart and one hand on her belly, letting the gentle pressure of her touch communicate care. “Now sense whatever message most resonates for you, and send it inwardly. Allow the energy of the message to bathe and comfort all the places in your being that need to hear it.”

Marge sat very still, her face intent. After a couple of minutes she took a few full breaths and rested her hands in her lap. Her expression was serene, undefended. “This feels right, Tara,” she said quietly, “being kind to my own hurting heart.” Marge had looked beyond her fault to her need. She was healing herself with compassion.

Before she left, I suggested that she pause whenever she became aware of guilt or shame, and take a moment to reconnect with self-compassion. If she was in a private place, she could gently touch her heart and belly, and let that contact deepen her communication with her inner life. I also encouraged her to include the metta (lovingkindness) practice for herself and her son in her daily meditation: “You'll find that self-compassion will open you to feeling more loving.” Marge's eyes glistened with tears, and I could sense her longing to awaken her heart.

Six weeks later Marge and I met again. “Something happened,” she told me, “something I wouldn't have thought possible.” At the end of her daily meditation, Marge would do some metta for herself. She'd remind herself of her honesty, her sincerity, her longing to love well. Then she'd offer herself wishes, most often reciting, “May I accept myself just as I am … May I be filled with lovingkindness, held in lovingkindness.” After a few minutes she'd then bring Micky to mind: “I would see how his eyes light up when he gets animated … and how happy he looks when he laughs. Then I'd say ‘May you feel happy … May you feel relaxed and at ease … May you feel my love now.' With each phrase I'd imagine him … happy … relaxed … feeling held in my love.”

Their interactions started to change. She went out early on Saturday mornings to pick up his favorite “everything” bagels before he woke up. He brought out the trash unasked. They watched several episodes of
The Wire
together on TV. They laughed together when their elderly golden retriever had a “puppy moment” at play with a neighbors' dog. “And then,” Marge told me, “a few nights ago, he came into my home office, made himself comfortable on the couch, and said nonchalantly, ‘What's up, Mom? Just thought I'd check in.'”

“It wasn't exactly an extended chat,” she said with a smile. “He suddenly sprang up … told me he had to meet some friends at the mall. But we're more at ease … a door has reopened.” Marge was thoughtful for a few moments and then she said, “I understand what happened. By letting go of the blame—most of which I was aiming at myself—I created room for both of us in my heart.” Marge gave me a wistful look. “I wish I could have seen this sooner … but it's not too late.”

When We've Caused Harm

Saturday Night Live
comedian Jack Handey once wrote: “The first thing was, I learned to forgive myself. Then I told myself, ‘Go ahead and do whatever you want, it's okay by me.'” That just about captures our fears about self-forgiveness: Pandora's box will open, unleashing our basest, most destructive instincts. Certainly there are false forms of self-forgiveness—ignoring the hurt we've caused, justifying our grasping and aggression—that indulge ourselves at the expense of others. But self-compassion and forgiveness are healthy when they emerge from an honest engagement with our own suffering.

As Marge was discovering, self-compassion is entirely interdependent with acting responsibly and caringly toward others. Forgiving ourselves clears the way for a loving presence that can appreciate the goodness of others, and respond to their hurts and needs. And, in turn, our way of relating to others affects how we regard ourselves and supports our ongoing self-forgiveness. I watched this process unfold in Sam.

A month after our retreat, Sam met with me for a private session and told me about a recent incident. He had gotten tickets for a concert at the Kennedy Center, and at the time he and his wife had agreed to leave, she still had not returned home. No message, nothing, and she wasn't answering her cell phone. When she rushed in ten minutes later, Sam was, as he put it, “In madman mode.” “She apologized, told me her phone was out of juice, traffic … all that … but I still wanted to go on the attack. I mean, she knew leaving on time was important to me. If I mattered, she would have made it her business to be home on time!”

But Sam had forced himself to keep quiet—a part of him wanted to hurt her, but a deeper place knew otherwise. During their drive into town together, he watched his outrage, and the underlying feelings of being disregarded, of his needs not mattering. “As I said to myself ‘forgiven, forgiven,' the feelings turned to powerlessness—I couldn't control her, I couldn't control me—and then to shame. I kept trying to be kind and forgiving toward what was coming up in me. It was like the weather … just happening.”