Lianna Patch
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Erin, I’m so sorry for your loss. It sounds like it was an amazing and challenging retreat, (mostly) full of people who could give you the space and support you needed. <3
I had a great therapist for many years. I was going through a lot (more than I even knew at the time, with fewer tools than I have now, and zero compassion for myself), and she seemed to understand me. Or at least see me.
I remember one session in particular where I had been sobbing, heartbroken and desperate, and we came to the end of our time together. The second hand hit the :50 minute mark, and she stood up and moved to the door.
I felt so abandoned and rushed. In that moment, I felt like just a $130 check to her. Like she didn’t care about me at all.
I held this against her for a long time. I became hyper-aware of how unwilling she seemed to go even a minute or two past our allotted time, and I was angry about it.
But in the years since, I’ve realized that she was enforcing a crucial boundary, not just for me, but for herself. (And how *I* was actually the one pushing that boundary by trying to “get the most” out of each session!)
How exhausting it must be, to be a receptacle or mirror for everyone else’s conflict and trauma. She was totally present to me, but also aware of her own needs — which (hopefully) kept her from burning out, and allowed her to stay present.
David! I love your middle-path response to the note. I found myself in a similar situation last year — only *I* was the jerk! I was actually blocking someone’s driveway, and the note they left me was remarkably polite for the amount of distress they must have been feeling (they were unable to take their wife to a doctor’s appointment, and she had to get an Uber).
My initial reaction was annoyance, and then I realized actually, I was feeling shame. That realization totally took the wind out of my sails. Instead of writing a snarky note back or just leaving the original note on their fence, I wrote an apology, with my Venmo handle so they could request reimbursement for the Uber.
I left still feeling ashamed, but in a clear sort of way, because I hadn’t added to my own shame or anger or guilt by adding to the conflict. (And this comment definitely feels like me patting my own back for doing the “right” or decent thing, but really I just feel relief that I escaped the temptation of stoking the fire!)
Jana, I appreciate your story about your friend, because I’m in a similar situation with one of my oldest friends. I can’t justify the harm she’s choosing just because I love and miss her. So my compassion is trying to remain open to hearing WHY she’s gone down the conspiracy rabbit hole, and offering facts or even arguing with her– for now. I don’t think this approach will be wise for long, or maybe it isn’t even wise now, so I can see myself setting a boundary that hurts both of us, even though it’s for the best. I’m sorry you lost your friend. <3
“Kind but not nice” was the phrase I was looking for in my reflection below. Thanks for reminding me.
(OK, so I feel like I’m cheating, because I’m catching up on last week’s homework after today’s discussion, all about how to be compassionate with those who are directly harming us. But here goes.)
Chogyam Trungpa writes:
“These three karmic processes of pacifying, enriching, and magnetizing are actually gentle compassion. And there’s a tendency which comes up, a hang-up or problem that we mentioned, that one might get fooled, that one might become completely involved in this kind of gentle compassion. There is quite a likelihood that we might fall asleep in this gentle compassion, regarding it as purely a resting place where we could relax and be kind and nice and gentle. This compassion could turn into idiot compassion quite easily, stupid compassion.”
There’s a meme going around that says something like “We can disagree on pizza toppings or football teams. We can’t disagree on homophobia, sexism, racism, or human rights, because those aren’t opinions.”
To me, idiot compassion is symbolized perfectly by the question, “Can’t we just agree to disagree?” when it comes to objective moral rightness.
Idiot compassion brushes conflict under the rug and says that anyone who can’t control their emotional reaction to conflict just simply isn’t enlightened enough, or practicing enough, or deeply kind enough. Idiot compassion is trying to love someone despite the fact that they are causing harm, without bringing up the harm. It’s a lack of courage, a willingness to look the other way, a small failing that paves the way for much bigger damage.
True compassion involves telling truth to power. Being willing to have uncomfortable conversations. Correcting someone for their benefit, and hopefully the benefit of all beings. Caring about the person who’s wrong, without accepting their wrong beliefs or behavior.
For me, both the power and the challenge in this willingness to face conflict is to share my view without getting attached to the idea that I can change THEIR view. Instantly, I feel like “What’s the point? If I can’t make them see that they’re wrong, this is futile.” (And as we all discussed earlier today, we ARE right. Morally, ethically, historically…)
Maybe the willingness to engage in the conflict is powerful on its own. Maybe the demonstration and clear definition of rightness is powerful in itself, even if not a single mind gets changed.
Realize
Recognize
Respond
Re-traumatization (avoid)To me, it feels like the practice of realizing, recognizing, and responding to trauma is deeply connected with right speech. (Can I add a 5th R?? Or maybe this falls under Respond.)
Remembering that so many of us carry trauma — many people without even consciously being aware of it — is the realization part.
Recognizing trauma seems like where many of the practical parts come in. I appreciated T’s note in this morning’s class about the wide range of reactions someone with trauma might have to their trigger(s). That person might freak out, freeze, go deadpan, try to connect more deeply with you emotionally, or even touch you. Or they might show no reaction at all.
I also appreciated Karen Daughtry’s note in her essay about paying attention to body language, and whether it matches the words someone is saying.
Personally, one of my reactions when I feel something has touched my little-t trauma is to make jokes about the topic, or overshare. Later, I’m sometimes left with guilt or shame for my reaction.
There really is huge potential variety in the recognition part, so I hope to become more skillful in this practice.
Responding to trauma makes me think about how I can create a space that feels safe and welcoming for everyone. NOT so people can overshare (because as both Susan and T noted this morning, boundary-setting is an important part of creating safety in a teacher-student relationship), but so the person knows they will not (intentionally, at least by me) be harmed.
If I’m aiming to go through life doing as little harm as possible, then one of my goals is thinking about whether what I say has the potential to harm. To avoid retraumatizing someone, I likely need to be extra thoughtful and precise in my response — in both words and actions.
(I realized this morning that I was meditating before I was meditating, thanks to attending Quaker meeting throughout high school. If you’re unfamiliar, Quaker “church,” AKA meeting for worship, involves a lot of sitting in silence. So it was a fun little discovery to realize that I didn’t start meditating in college — I started years earlier.)
OK, that’s unrelated.
The more I meditate, the more I’m able to access that split second between action and reaction. The more I meditate, the quicker my road rage dissipates (if it even arises at all). The more I meditate, the more I’m able to ask “What other perspectives might there be?”
Even when my practice feels scattered and anxious and stuffed with thoughts — which it does about 98% of the time — somehow just sitting regularly brings a cooler quality to being inside my own head, and an openheartedness that I sense is kind of The Whole Deal Here.
As I’ve worked with opening my heart, my biggest struggle has been feeling my sadness turn into hopelessness. Maybe I’ll get this quote from Susan’s essay tattooed on my face:
“When rooted in hopelessness, we are likely to take refuge in non-action, which also creates confusion.”
Or this one:
“Despair is what happens when you fight sadness. Compassion is what happens when you don’t. It will not feel “good,” it will feel alive and, as such, will be both exhilarating and painful.”
It’s easy to feel like any effort I make is too small in the face of relentless suffering and evil. Hello, despair! But the alternative (giving up, doing nothing, non-action) just makes me numb, confused, and even guiltier than I felt in the first place.
Working with these tough emotions is easier when I’m able to remember that there’s the emotion, and then there’s whatever is observing the emotion: me/my mind/whatever “me” is. If a strong emotion is a temporary state that’s separate from my “me”-ness, maybe I don’t have to identify completely with that emotion. I can retain a sense of compassion for myself, and for the intensity of what I’m feeling — without completely losing myself in what the feeling is inviting me to do or say.
Sometimes, I can see the effects of my practice in conversations with my loved ones and even with strangers. I feel a pause, and then a pull toward gentleness, and then gratitude for the space to choose where to go next.
Karen!! I know exactly what you mean. I was in a car wreck at the end of 2015 and at the moment of impact, I found myself thinking, “Ah, so this is finally happening.” Time slowed, my car spun around a few times, and when it came to a stop, I thought to myself, “I guess I should scream.” It was all very orderly, and kind of funny in retrospect. I wish I could apply the same calm to my own work anxiety!! Like you said– holding out hope for someday.
Ginny, sending a big hug. I think recognizing that you needed movement was such a wise and compassionate choice on your part. I’m also a person who cries all the time, which I used to struggle with (trying to hold back tears, or judging myself for being “weak”). In the last few years, I’ve realized that if I simply allow those big feelings, they often move through me with less complication and fewer “second arrows”. It sounds like you know this about yourself too.
I’ll admit my initial reaction to “letting go of self as a path to happiness” was something along the lines of “Yeah, that’d be great, but so would winning the lottery.”
I also instantly thought of Enneagram 2s, who struggle with being subsumed by service to others while sacrificing their own well-being.
And I thought of what a relief it would be to let go of self, because a lot of the time, carrying myself is pretty heavy. (These two lines stood out to me: “Paramita practice has four characteristics. The first characteristic is that paramita practice overcomes neurotic hang-ups and defilements.” My reaction: Looool, OK, good luck with that, self.)
Unsurprisingly, after reading more about the 5 paramitas, and reading everyone’s essays, I have a lot more to think about.
Like others here, I love the Brussels-sprout-as-ego description. The ego is something to be consumed regularly — and in that consumption, we’re nourished. Maybe the dish doesn’t always taste great (although have you tried oven-roasted, with maple-balsamic glaze?), but we return to eat another plate anyway, because it’s good for us, and everyone else whom we don’t share a bed with.
Disjointed thoughts incoming:
In terms of my own life, nothing is really coming to mind, which might be a key to my entrenchment of self and/or my rejection of “happiness” as a destination that can be reached.
I think I’m struggling to find the line between holding the concepts of self and ego lightly, and still being a person/entity/meat sack who takes action to help others in the bodhisattva way. (I’ve definitely had moments of generosity that felt performative, so I appreciated Chogyam Trungpa’s note that sometimes, intention can follow action.)
And I’m not sure how to connect these points, but another line stuck with me too: “Anything other than bodhisattva activity, in fact, could be regarded as animal instinct.” This seems to say that intentionality is what separates us from “non-sentient” animals — or maybe I’m inserting separation in there? Since we’re all animals anyway?
My main takeaway from this particular reading, and my rapidly deteriorating exploration in these few paragraphs, is the idea that we’re usually working on more than one paramita at once, with a nonlinear or environmental approach. I feel like so much of Buddhism is intertwined in this way — that it’s impossible to talk about one thing without talking about everything. Which is a relief, since I’m always trying to talk about everything everywhere all at once. (I also find it pretty funny that toward the end of this essay, I’ve returned 100% to “me-ness” and my own perceptions. Clearly I haven’t arrived at the other shore just yet.)
Betsy – such a cool moment of seeing the goodness in someone else, regardless of whether you tipped him the full $20 or not. (I bet he’ll remember that you called the car wash and spoke highly of him long after he forgets how much you tipped, if he hasn’t already.) Thanks for sharing this.
I’m so, so, so glad to read this particular essay. I am also someone who, if I try to let in all the suffering of the world, ends up in the fetal position, covered in snot and contemplating locking myself in a closet for 10 years or so. Good to know it’s all part of the work!! (She says, sniffling.)
As for one of my own particularly informative experiences, from 2020-2021, I was going through a protracted breakup of a relationship that never should have happened. I was convinced I was secretly a terrible person — and while this helped fuel my drive to grow my career (so that maybe I could get the validation from others that I couldn’t give my terrible self) — it wasn’t a sustainable way to live. In March 2021, I had to face the idea that either I was unworthy to be on the planet (a solution my parents had a real issue with), or that maybe I was a good person after all.
In the years since, I’ve been able to step much more fully into the shoes of that former partner. I used to feel anger, resentfulness, dismissal toward him… and then the anger mellowed. Now I mostly just feel sadness for how poorly we treated each other (and more recently, I think about how stressed and confused HE must have felt).
It turns out the most compassionate choice in that situation would have been the one I tried to make early on, if I’d been able to stick with it: to suggest we go our separate ways just a few months in. But we didn’t, so we had lots of chances to make each other miserable for the next loooong while.
Years (and many meditation sits, self-help books, and therapy sessions later) I’ve come to see my younger self as a person deserving of compassion. She made a lot of mistakes while thinking she was absolutely right and all-knowing… and she was kind of a condescending B, if we’re being honest.
But she (okay, I) didn’t know what she didn’t know. She did the best she could with what she had at the time.
Thinking about the way this all came to be, it makes so much sense to me that I couldn’t have compassion for my former partner until after I learned to have compassion for myself.
Wow, Helene– what gorgeous imagery you chose for one of the hardest experiences. I could feel the wind whipping around. I love the idea of emotional flags being blown in the wind (feels a lot like my own experience a lot of the time… lol). And “sunshine powder in her eyes” will stick with me.
Kimberly, it’s so heartening to hear that things are opening up for you. I can’t imagine how it must have felt to feel lineage as a burden or a betrayal. I hope this is part of a healing path toward regaining your trust in yourself as a teacher.
Jana, I felt similar resistance at first! It felt very official and stuffy to define a lineage, but this broader context makes it much more inviting.
I also identify with the idea of the natural world being part of my lineage, and my dearest friends. I love that our practice can include honoring the best of the people we know, and don’t know, and who came before us.
