Kimberly Hillebrand
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Thank you for sharing Altas’s story. A theme of these essays (including yours) is that almost always, it’s easier to see someone else’s idiot compassion than our own. I suppose it’s the same way with other shortcomings, but this reading and essays like yours are a wonderful reminder to work on ensuring, as much as humanly possible, to put an appropriate intention behind every action/word.
David, I’m sure if we thought about it, we could all come up with examples like this in our lives. You handled it beautifully. I especially appreciate your wisdom about how to overcome idiot compassion at the end of your essay. Thank you for sharing this real-life example.
I think idiot compassion occurs when we think about ourselves first and then the perceived object of compassion second. What I mean is – we think we’re wholly compassionate when in reality we’re considering ourselves more than the other person. If our action is compassionate, but perhaps we’re thinking about what others might think of us because we’re doing this action, then the focus is on us and not the person for whom the compassionate action is taking place.
A couple more examples of idiot compassion could be not being truthful to spare someone’s feelings or to avoid conflict. Both examples emphasize how a person who is sparing/avoiding is putting themselves first.
Idiot compassion can be egregious, but I think it can also be very subtle and difficult to catch. One thing I’ve noticed in myself is that, at times, to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, I’ll be truthful, but in such generic and round-about wording that I think what comes across is more acceptance than compassion or truth. This seems to drive delusions instead of breaking them down.
True compassion requires courage because it’s doing something or saying something that’s going to be more difficult than if we simply took the idiot route. Creating boundaries, telling someone they are wrong or hurtful, and telling someone ‘no’ are examples of true compassion. I think I would also add that sometimes simply being present for someone or listening instead of doing/talking could be a form of true compassion.
Kate, your story of “losing it” is one that probably every human being can relate to. That you were able to come back strongly and focused is a testament to your discipline. Even as a teenager!
Karen, I’m so sorry about your brother’s passing. ALS is a terrible disease.
The experience that you shared is one of strength…that you were able to temporarily push away your own feelings to care for your mother. Such an act of strength and love.
Yes, every Tuesday. 🙂 While I was the person managing this process, I did have support, so it was definitely a team effort.
As far as processing afterward, the only specific thing I always tried to do was to ask myself what I needed and to do that as quickly as possible right after the gathering. Maybe it was a walk in the woods, maybe it was a conversation with one of my colleagues who could relate, etc. I remember one time there was an incredibly emotional moment when my colleague at the time, who is Afghani, embraced another colleague whose son died in Afghanistan fighting to protect civilians. This was within a conversation about the Middle East and the US’s involvement there, and my American colleague had never told anyone that his son had died in Afghanistan. It was like time stood still while they held each other and we bore witness to the exchange of spirit. After that gathering, I could make it no farther than the bathrooms, and I sat on the toilet for over an hour, crying and processing everything I experienced.
I guess that’s a long way to say that I think asking myself what I need in the moment and taking care of myself right away is more important than how I fill that need. I hope this is helpful.
I worked for eight years at a non-profit organization whose mission is “to build the spiritual foundation of a loving world.” This organization employed 65+ people, and because of the depth and breadth of the work the staff engaged in around the world, the staff was extraordinarily diverse.
My role at this organization was to organize a three-hour gathering every Tuesday morning for the entire staff. As a staff, we were called a “community of freedom” because the founder of this private foundation aspired to create a work environment in which staff members were comfortable bringing to the table any part of their identity that they wanted to share. To be as authentic as possible and to feel free to be outwardly who we knew we were inwardly. (again, an aspiration….)
To cultivate and support the community of freedom, I organized team-building exercises, invited speakers from a variety of religions, spiritualities, and ways of being in the world to speak, and invited experts to teach us about a variety of embodied practices. I also partnered with staff members to co-create gatherings that honored and celebrated a part of their identity that they wanted to share. At the end of every community of freedom gathering, there was usually 20-30 minutes of open space to discuss what we learned or experienced, to share how we felt about the content, and to ask questions.
This open space part of the session was always the most emotionally difficult for me. Sometimes the conversation was extremely charged. I don’t know how to describe it except to say sometimes it almost felt like I had to temporarily split myself in two…but not really. The part of me that everyone saw was calm, deeply listening, and lovingly guiding – not trying to point the conversation toward resolution but tending the group in a way that offered a continued safe space for whatever was emerging. The part of me that I kept restrained was the part of me that felt everything so deeply, wanting to weep or leave or interject with a differing view. Even though all of this was temporarily held back, the most helpful of these emotions (for the group) did somehow flavor everything I did to maintain a loving space to discuss and process difficult topics. I’m not sure how that happens! So those emotional parts of me were separate from the part of me who was leading these sessions….but not really.
I experienced this as a Dharma Teacher, as well. In a way, I think it’s an emotional sacrifice. You’re surrendering (in the moment) how you feel and what you think for the benefit of others. And as important as it is to do this, I learned the hard way that it’s equally important to give yourself space and time afterward to reintegrate your spirit and process your own experience.
Ginny, I appreciate your transparency about your own experience, how you recognize trauma in yourself, and how you work through it. I, too, am interested in learning more about how to respond to a student who shares about a traumatic event (or how that event is affecting their meditation). I also appreciated how you said that you cannot help someone with trauma or PTSD, but on most days, you can help yourself. It’s taken most of my lifetime to realize that helping myself is also a way of helping others because the more I love and care for myself, the more that naturally translates into how I interact with others. And while the peace (from self-care) we can bring to a difficult conversation about trauma with a student wouldn’t be directly helping that student, and we would still have to discern whether we should refer that student to professional assistance, it is one way to indirectly support them by our way of being in the world. Thank you for that beautiful reminder!
Karen, I appreciate your comment about the nuances between what we see, hear, and feel when interacting with others. Some of the signals/signs are so subtle. I think it’s a lifelong practice to be able to read people in contemplative settings. I appreciate your example about the offered hug…sometimes when the cues we’re receiving don’t align, we almost always have an opportunity to take a step back and regroup.
Betsy, I resonate with what you’ve written here, and I have found that your experience is similar to mine. The difficulty I have sometimes is that I don’t dig deep enough to get at the root emotions that I’m experiencing. For example, if the most recognizable emotion in the moment is frustration but there are other emotions underneath causing the frustration, I might not see any shifting after meditation. I might still see the same version of frustration. At times, I feel like I have to dig down several layers to the root emotion I’m experiencing. If I can do that, then it’s possible that I’ll feel the shift you describe in your essay. But – it takes time. Sometimes longer than my meditation time! Thank you for your beautiful words and practical wisdom, Betsy.
Realize:
As an individual with a traumatic childhood, the effects of that trauma show up in multiple ways. If something unexpected happens close to my face, I tend to flinch. I’m easily startled by loud noises or someone coming up behind me and talking before I know they’re there. Sometimes, fast, heavy footfalls, even if I can see the person approaching, will be a trigger.
Trauma also shows up for me in a heat that is felt in my body but not seen by others, a tightening of my throat, a quickening of my heartbeat, and a strong desire to leave/run from whatever situation I’m in.
Over the years, I’ve learned to calm my reactions to trauma, but I know that trauma still affects me in many ways, both seen and unseen. And I’m only one of many who live with the effects of trauma.
Recognize:
Recognizing the physical fallout from trauma is much easier than the trauma that shows up in the body and is unseen by others. As a meditation teacher, I usually end my own meditation a few moments before I sound the bell so that I can look at the facial expressions and/or body language of the folks who are meditating. It’s amazing what you can observe in the last 60 seconds of meditation.
In writing this, I’ve realized that most of how I recognize trauma is instinctual. I’m going to research more ways to recognize trauma in others.
Respond:
It’s difficult to tell what responses are from trauma or something else (like anxiety).
I remember offering a multi-session intro to meditation class in which one of the students was having a very difficult time. I was teaching a closed-eyes technique. After two conversations with her, I finally figured out that perhaps she had experienced physical trauma in her life. She did not talk at all about this trauma, it was only a guess on my part. I suggested that she sit in the very last row of the cushions with her back close to the Temple wall. This made all the difference to her. Her sense of panic was mitigated, and she could focus more fully on the practice.
Again, I think any responses I’ve had to trauma have been using my own instincts or personal experiences. I would appreciate learning more about the most helpful ways to respond.
Avoidance of Re-Traumatization:
I think avoiding re-traumatization can be mitigated quite a bit by setting expectations about what the experience will be like before the student sets foot into the space and sharing what’s going to happen before it happens during the session. This not only gives interested folks an idea of what to expect if they attend, it gives those who might be triggered by certain elements of the experience an opportunity to self-select out.
For example, in the announcement/invite to the meditation session, you can describe both the practice and the environment. I’ve even written a “for new students” section of a Temple website so that people would know what to expect before they ever set foot in the space.
Here are some ways I’ve tried to minimize re-traumatization in the past:
Environment – Is everyone welcome, no how they self-identify? (Say it!) Are there chairs as well as benches and cushions? How long will the meditation be? How long will the entire session be? What are the components of the session and what is the timing for each? Will the teacher be available afterward for questions? How many people can this session accommodate?
Practice – Offer the practice as an invitation. Let folks know that meditation practice can be difficult at times, both physically and mentally. And that’s normal. But if there’s something in the practice that is deeply uncomfortable to them, let them know that it’s okay not to do it. I typically start and end every meditation with the sound of the bell – three times. Because everyone knows that’s what’s coming at the beginning of the meditation (because I tell them right before we begin) the sound of the bell is not going to be jarring. At the end of the meditation, they will know that the sound of the bell is coming, but they don’t know when. So starting off with the first ring of the bell very softly, and then a little louder, and then normal volume is a way to not surprise those with a strong startle reflex.
“Feel the feelings and drop the story.” That is incredibly powerful. And the idea of unlimited fresh starts. You’ve given me much to think about, Kate. I thank you!
Ann, I relate so much to your thoughts about the election and those close to us who prefer the other candidate. Metta meditation is one of the first structured practices I learned many years ago. It certainly helps me keep a loving, compassionate perspective in situations like we’re facing during the current election season. I appreciate your plug. 🙂
Meditation has helped me more than anything else in working with difficult emotions.
I grew up in an environment in which showing sadness, especially in the form of tears, was considered a weakness. As I was considered a “sensitive child,” I grew up holding so much in, repressing, repressing, repressing.
When I first started meditating, I had no idea what I was doing! I had read a book by Thich Nhat Hanh and was inspired to try to meditate – without any instruction. I remember taking a cushion from my couch, placing it on the floor, and sitting down. All I intended to do was focus on my breath – breathing in, breathing out. And with only a few breaths in and out, I started to cry from the onslaught of feelings that were washing over me.
It was the first time I had created a quiet space to come face to face with all the roiling emotions that were just underneath the surface of what I had carefully cultivated to be a fairly expressionless exterior. It shook me. The next time I sat down to meditate, I tried to identify separate emotions and put the word they represented inside a cloud on a very windy day in my mind. Emotions coming and going, blowing through my mind. I still had no idea what I was doing. But I did realize that the space I created for meditation was a safe space to be real with myself. I could throw away how I was raised and what I believed to be society’s expectations, and just be me. Feel what I’m feeling. And get to know myself in the process. It was at that point that I started searching for a teacher.
What I learned over weeks, months, and then years of meditation is that, for me, it’s more natural than not to squash down feelings. Because I was raised that way, but also because then I don’t have to face what’s happening within my own inner landscape. It not only disconnects me from the feelings I’m experiencing but also from the reason I’m feeling the feeling. For me, it is difficult for compassion and empathy to arise from this place.
Feeling the feelings, even if almost every single cloud floating through my mind is labeled as sadness, not only connects me to my deeper self, but it also ties me to the living beings, places, and ideas that cause the feelings of sadness. And just like Susan’s article describes, this is not only the place from which compassion and empathy can organically arise but it’s also the beginning of the desire to take action to try to relieve the suffering.
It’s been decades since I pulled that cushion off my couch and sat for the first time. My meditation cushion is a little softer, my knees ache a little bit more, but I still learn something about myself every time I sit. I’m deeply grateful for all who came before who have trailblazed a path for us to learn to know our own minds.
Kate, thank you so much for sharing the story about your friend Doug’s suffering and how you comforted him. The way you responded to him was a lovely example of “acting from the best part of ourselves.” I also appreciate your second to last line about “the I who is writing this.” I’m not sure why this sentence impacted me so deeply. Maybe it’s the visual that popped into my mind as I read your words and the connection with an open heart. Lots to contemplate from your wise words. Thank you for sharing them with us!
