Kelly Newsome Georges
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Thanks, Christine. I agree – using meditation as a practice to sit with whatever arises, I believe, is one of the simplest and most profound ways to get through anything.
I haven’t read this practice but it resonates with me (I love practical, visual, visceral tools). The idea of diving into what’s difficult in a safe way is also right up my alley; and there is something divine about the idea of holding it in one’s hand, almost as an offering to the self. Thank you for sharing this learning, Gwen.
This “difficult emotions” topic, Susan, is one of the reasons I believe I was intuitively directed to this program – and I’m discovering, perhaps, why I’m drawn to the Vajrayana teachings. My knowing that our difficult feelings – sadness and otherwise – are integral teachers and sources of wisdom is so solid and profound, it forms part of the core of my identity. It is lasered into the lenses thorough which I see this world; my work, my parenting, my marriage, my self, this life.
I’m reading Bittersweet by Susan Cain right now (and, of course, 8 other books – so very non-Theravada of me). She discusses throughout the importance of sadness, melancholy, poignancy, minor key music, Leonard Cohen, and more, to who we are as humans. I feel as though I could have written it (I could not have). I am grateful to be reading it (deeply).
All of that said, meditation has helped through difficult emotions consistently. Moment by moment, year by year, season by season. It is one of the most powerful tools I’ve had to be awake in my experiences and, thus, move through the center of them with courage (and a lot of crying). I resisted it for years but, once I finally gave up the effort of not sitting, I found the most profound opening within myself, and it became the first true source of inner strength I’d known. The practice has been the “container,” the way that knows the way, the process that I know how to do even when I don’t know what it’s doing.
And while it isn’t the only tool, it has gotten me through everything so far.
This is such a clear, practical example of how egolessness is accessible to us all – and how so many of us are already doing it. Gracias!
Oh leave it to Leonard to bring on the brilliance. Is there any qoute of this that doesn’t make you want to savor it? That said, I love the idea but I’m not sure – is it that we become happier when we’re less of ourselves? Or is it that we can become happier when we love more of who we are, without worrying about having to be something (someone?) else?
Ironically, I’m reminded of Anti-Hero by Taylor Swift (I blame my pre-teen girl) who repeats “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem it’s me” in recognition of how she has many sides that aren’t ideal, or that cause dissonance within her. Isn’t it our enveloping of the light and shadow that help us feel whole… and thus, happy?
I know, many more questions than answers here. But I think that’s the sign of having read a well-written essay. 😉
A dear girlfriend once told me “you’re only as happy as your happiest child.” I’m not sure that’s true, but I’m not sure it isn’t either. I cannot think of any situation in which I, personally, have been more selfless than with my children. The instinct to give up the last bite on my fork – or, indeed, my life – is a strong force. Relatedly, I note a lessening of ego, less identification on my self, and a feeling of flourishing when they are happy. It’s like I step out of my own way, and when I see that I’ve helped guide them to their happy place, it’s liberating.
That said, I am a self-care teacher who guides women to own our responsibility for happiness, apart from our children – and therein lies a bit of a rub with this question. Must we give up our “selves” to truly feel happy? I hope not. Can we guide others and, in that way, follow in our own enlightenment? I hope so.
AS a former birth and postpartum doula – and mama who delivered both Frank and footling breech girls – I honor your share and story and struggle and peace, Rena. There is no one right way – I know you know this – but there is a legion and lineage of other mothers like me here to remind you.
When I was in Bhutan, I had an incessant need to visit the Tiger’s Nest monastery, which is located on a mountain about 10,000 feet up (about a 4 hour climb). This was way before I had any idea about Buddhism or meditation, really, other than my basic introductory training as a yoga teacher a couple of years prior – but I was adamant that I had to hike up this hill, climb these rocks, sit in this one spot.
Because all tourist travel is meticulously planned in advanced and monitored, I had a mandatory tour guide who had already agreed to take me. Once we finally got to the top, I started peppering him with questions like “so, what do you meditate on up here?” “Compassion.” “Right, but like, how do you practice that.” “We meditate on compassion.” “Okay, but is there a 3-step process or something.” “No, we reflect on compassion.” Thanks.
Fast-forward this film to 15 years later, and I’m here at my home in Provence. A colleague/work friend asks to visit while she’s nearby for a conference, and unexpectedly breaks her leg on the way and is completely bedridden. Short version: I become a full-time nurse for over a week, with complete care, food, health, meds, transport, administrative assistant, cleanup, everything (while taking care of my kids). As lovely a person as she is, for a million different reasons, this was unbelievably (and understandably) intense. Once she finally got back to the US, I was off-center for weeks.
Finally, I asked “why did this happen? I’m sure there is a lesson.” And I heard my Bhutanese tour guide: “Compassion.” I heard it over, and over, and over, like a song on repeat, or a social media meme. “Compassion. Compassion. Compassion.”
And it was only then, in that moment, that I got it. I realized that I had graduated, so to speak. All of those years of tiny micro progresses, and then a full-blown experiencing requiring me to step outside of myself, outside of my heart circle, and care for another human being intimately, though we had no intimate connection.
Compassion. I believe it was, and will continue to be, one of the lessons of my life.
I love how the Universe works – I can only imagine the solace you must have felt reading Pema’s account of her husband walking out and her throwing a book (a mug?) at him, then retreating to her spiritual practice and learning how “indestructible” she was.
How fascinating the degree of heartbreak here, how it’s literally broken so many of us and our lives open, and yet we emerge more whole.
Dear Betsy,
As a 46-year old primary parent of 3 small children (who lives mainly alone with them), I can imagine how a change like that must have rocked your world. There are so many factors, so many variables – and yet somehow you not only survived it, but continue to reflect and learn and release. This is no small feat, I feel.
The idea that we must have a “person” to be happy is one that is perpetuated by our culture; of course, without it, the culture would not survive. But it is not an unrealistic idea; our need for community fuels this idea as well, and I think the best response we can have is one Susan continues to repeat: be ourselves. Be yourself. Know your truth and your needs and your wants. Speak them, share them. Make offerings, ask for blessings, dedicate your practice and (my own additional one here) give thanks in advance – in this way, for this thing. I think it’s all spirit, it’s all spiritual practice, this ordinary “human” stuff. I think, perhaps what we’re learning, that this is the way – all of these hurts help us move more deeply into ourselves.
I hope this one continues to be of benefit for your life.
When I think of my own lineage, I’m first reminded of my human ancestry – particularly the enslaved people who somehow survived impossible circumstances. How could I be what remains of their bewildering endurance and resilience? I have a tee that says “I am my ancestors’ wildest dream” and I do believe my existence honors this notion. I feel a sense of connection when I see raw cotton, or read historical accounts of African American granny-midwives or wet nurses. A knowing ran through my blood while visiting slave quarters off the coast in Ghana – the Door of No Return off of the Cape Coast – standing in cells where human remains literally created the floors from tortuous conditions. To be so far away from this, and sense it so intensely — is that partly what lineage is? Will my children, their children, and their children, feel a hint of my presence in their own cells – some of which are currently contained within my own body today? It’s astounding to consider. On the other hand, my human lineage is complicated by the fact that a great deal of early racial mixing occurred by force or financial plan; this has caused me to grapple with the question about tainted lineage lines, and how to honor the lineage despite its imperfections.
Other than familial legacy, for me, lineage consists largely of a stadium full of spirit guides and deep, dense forests. The trees feel like home, and whatever other spiritual worlds exist feel within reach, as part of who I am, and who we are.
Ooh, this idea that we can’t be without lineage strikes me – you put it so clearly and plainly that somehow, the words make sense to me even though I feel like this message has been shared in class many times before. (Just another example of how different teachers, different language, are all important, perhaps?) When we started and Susan said emphatically that this is a Buddhist practice, and we would be very Buddhist-y about it (without having to become a Buddhist) in order to honor the lineage, I kinda’ got it but not really. Now, I think I understand better – based on this phrase. “We can’t be without lineage” is something that sticks in my mind, while so often, we do believe it is optional.
A pattern I’m seeing for so many of us is that we tend to resist or even balk at the idea of our parents (or close generations) as part of our lineages; but, of course, they are. I’m not sure if it’s because the idea of choosing your family (framily) is so widely accepted, or because generational trauma is so pervasive, or both, or a hundred other things mixed in. But I appreciate how you took a moment to go beyond the instinct to brush off your mother’s comment, and find the true piece within. It reminded me of what Susan said in an early class: “There is no perfect teacher, just perfect teachings.”
That said, who knew there were so many sax players in this group? Shall we start a band?
So I was going to write about childbirth beliefs and their relation to suffering, and how it might be reframed through the THIRD NOBLE TRUTH: cessation of suffering (Susan’s “stop doing that”). But I can’t get past my experience of this reading, which was in itself a source of suffering (though of course not comparable to birthing :).
As I made my way through the document, I couldn’t escape the Buddhism mental flowchart, which for me tends to be so infuriating and distracting that I can’t devour the material. I’m okay with 3 divisions of yanas and 8 folds of the path. But then you add in 5 precepts, 10 deeds, 8 disciplines, 4 principles, 6 perfections, 5 wisdoms, 987 trainings… I mean, I’m a pretty smart cookie, but my brain starts to bend.
So instead of reflecting on misogyny of medical care, or social conditioning and suffering experienced by birthing people, I’ll go with the simple everyday suffering of trying to understand something that feels obtuse or overcomplicated, founded in grasping onto an expectation to understand. Examples: “I read the Economist and Financial Times! I should understand this!” “Is everyone else getting this, but just not me?” “This is bullshit. Shouldn’t the purest truths be easier and simpler??”
If I, myself, stop those beliefs – if I stop doing “that thing” – then the suffering is gone. Then, there are just numbers and words and a hierarchy of categories. Maybe I follow, maybe I don’t, but either way, I don’t feel agitation or annoyance. It just is.
And once I was able to get there, to just see and let it just be what it was, I got to a most interesting place: the end description about the Vajrayana – which resonates so much more profoundly for me than the other yanas, which doesn’t seem hard at all, which feels rich and true and almost like an internal voice as I read it aloud.
And if I had been wrapped up in the suffering, in my grasping to understand; if I hadn’t been able to “stop that,” would I have ever gotten there?
I’m open to this being a completely simplistic and inaccurate representation of the Middle Way, by the way. But here, two classes in, this is my lens.
I admit it’s not nearly as “profound” as Tolle or Tulku, but when I read your reflections, I heard Sabrina Carpenter in my head:
“Don’t swear on your mom
That it’s the first drink that you’ve had in like a month
No, don’t say it was just
An isolated incident that happened once
There’s no need to pretend
I’ve never seen an ugly truth that I can’t bend
To something that looks better
I’m stupid, but I’m clever
Yeah, I can make a shitshow look a whole lot like forever and ever[Chorus]
You don’t have to lie to girls
If they like you, they’ll just lie to themselves”To me, it’s a perfect practical application of your restatement: “The external circumstances may be painful, but suffering is multiplied when we create a story about it that springs from our grasping at what we think should be the case, instead of accepting what is objectively before us.”
It’s a situation that occurs much more often that most people acknowledge in marriage/partnership, I think – and it’s one that begs the question we can all ask ourselves “what happens when I stop lying about this, even to myself?” For me, that kind of honesty is the only way I can move forward with (and, if needed, away from) someone. It seems to me that you’ve done that in your divorce, and it’s deepened not only how loving you can be to yourselves but to others.
