I love this book. What I love most about it is that it’s not even a book, really – more the literary equivalent of yellowcake uranium, meant to blow the mind open to ultimate reality. This is book as verb, not noun – book as instigator of awareness.
The Heart Sutra is a classic text of Mahayana Buddhism, recited daily in Tibet, China, Japan and Korea. Profound and pithy, it summarises the truth of emptiness in a few brief paragraphs. Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form, go its most famous lines. Emptiness is not other than form. Form is not other than emptiness.
Author Ken McLeod takes this enigmatic text, and in a spare 150 pages provokes the reader into a direct understanding of the essence of wisdom. His unorthodox commentary opens up the work in a way that’s playful and inviting, never dogmatic. He aims not to explain the truth of emptiness, but to elicit a direct experience of it – something far less simple and far more valuable. He succeeds brilliantly.
McLeod approaches the sutra with improvisatory freedom. With each page he takes a few lines and riffs on the subject, pulling in references to Rumi, Nietzsche, Springsteen, Chuang Tzu, Lewis Carroll -- Zen koans, Tibetan texts -- whatever it takes to transform this 1,900-year-old text into a living, breathing experience. Here’s a quote he pulls from Henry Miller: “Reality is not protected or defended by laws, proclamations, ukases, cannons and armadas. Reality is that which is sprouting all the time out of death and disintegration.”
This is a book to ingest in nonlinear fashion. Pull it off the shelf, open to any page, read a few lines, pause, breathe, and allow concepts to collapse. It’s a direct hit of reality, as bracing as a plunge into a glacial lake. The illustrations, pen-and-ink sketches of a wildly playful arrow and its target, somehow amplify the inexpressible.
In the Dzogchen school of Tibetan Buddhism, the natural state of every being is pure primordial awareness. Meditation in Dzogchen involves removing the obstacles to this knowing, then simply resting in the natural state. By generating a gap in ordinary thinking, a space is recognized in which emptiness arises in direct experience.
Humorous, playful, profoundly subversive, An Arrow to the Heart has the power to open up your mind in a whole new way. In true Dzogchen fashion, it strips the mind bare of concepts, nakedly exposing the essence. When we drop the subject/object framework, we find the naked awareness that is always naturally present.
Perfection of Wisdom, inexpressible, inconceivable, indescribable,
Not created, not restricted, just like the sky,
The experience of pristine awareness, knowing itself:
To the mother of the buddhas of the three times, I bow.
Here's a link to the book on Amazon.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Therapeutic Myths
A few popular myths I've encountered over the years that seem to inform people's perception of therapy. Unfortunately, they are not true.
Pushing through things is the way to go: "If I can just talk about my problems enough, think about them enough, figure them out with my head, they'll eventually be solved." Endurance is the main virtue espoused by this perspective, and while there is something to be said for persistence, it is a fallacy to imagine that intellect alone can resolve everything. If it could, everyone in our exceedingly smart society would have become problem-free a long time ago. This myth ignores the power of the unconscious, intuition, silence, the felt sense, and everything below the neck.
Trauma needs to be talked out: "If I repeat the story often enough, it will lose its effect on me." While desensitization therapy can help reduce certain phobias, simply talking about trauma is a blunt instrument for a delicate job. Sometimes telling the story over and over again reactivates the stress, wearing the grooves deeper. Working with the physiological charge of trauma in a more skillful and intuitive way (see Somatic Experiencing) can truly rewire the nervous system , releasing the frozen experience that is the essence of trauma.
If I can just understand why I do something, that knowledge will solve the problem: This misconception -- that intellectual understanding is the silver bullet-- is the source of a great deal of disappointment. I can't count the number of people I've worked with who, thanks to years of therapeutic work, are able to intelligently articulate the sources of their problems, yet still wrestle with them.
What comes next? Often it's being with the body, listening to what it has to say. A more skillful, nuanced approach to one's inner world brings the ability to listen at a different level -- to sensations, symptoms, dreams, images, internal voices. We bring in open, nonjudgmental awareness, the most single powerful agent for change. And compassion, opening the power of the heart to oneself.
All a therapist has to do is listen: Note how this fits hand in glove with the above myth, that talking alone will solve the problem. Nonjudgmental, open awareness is a fundamental attribute of therapy, but it doesn't always equate with silence. Again, I've heard too many stories from individuals who faithfully reported their story, worked their process, examined and explored and puzzled over their feelings -- for years -- with therapists who said little more than 'mmmm-hmmm' and the occasional "I see."
There is a tremendous power in silence, a deep art in letting the client go over her own edge into the unknown. But that is no excuse for years and years of coasting.
Experience should be pathologised rather than worked with: The medical model currently applied to therapy reinforces the tendency to view symptoms as manifestations of disorder/disease, rather than the efforts of a highly intelligent and well-organised system to heal itself. I think that every problem, every symptom, has a very good reason for being there. Often that's one of our first tasks in therapy -- to figure out what that might be.
Symptoms, whether they are mental or physical, are doorways into inner reality. Simply labelling something as screwed up is deeply unhelpful, and can create a great deal of self-blame and despair. At root, it is deeply unskillful -- in fact, impossible -- to attempt to change anything we haven't first accepted. James Hillman writes eloquently about this.
My problems are the result of my character faults: I'm just too lazy, disorganised, uncommitted, or stupid to do things differently: Well, maybe you are. On the other hand, if you're paying a therapist a fair sum of money to work on them every week, and managing to make it to your sessions, you are clearly not any of the first three. Maybe there's more going on than meets the eye.
Personally, I am blown away by the under-diagnosis of trauma in individuals, families, communities. I see its effects everywhere, in depression, anxiety, ADD/ADHD, addictions, loneliness, anger, relational problems. So often people are unaware of the cause of their pain. They may not even have a story, or they brush it off with "It was a long time ago, doesn't really bother me."
Trauma's web spreads far beyond the standard diagnostic criteria of PTSD to touch every one of us, as individuals, families, communities. The symptoms weave themselves into our very identity. It can take a lot of patient work to disentangle the effects of early trauma from who we are. We're living in a good time, though. Recent research is revealing exactly how trauma engraves itself on the nervous system, as well as the ways in which mindfulness and a focus on embodied experience can undo its effects.
Here's an interesting article on the neurobiological effects of trauma and the effectiveness of a body-oriented psychotherapeutic approach.
What comes next? Often it's being with the body, listening to what it has to say. A more skillful, nuanced approach to one's inner world brings the ability to listen at a different level -- to sensations, symptoms, dreams, images, internal voices. We bring in open, nonjudgmental awareness, the most single powerful agent for change. And compassion, opening the power of the heart to oneself.
There is a tremendous power in silence, a deep art in letting the client go over her own edge into the unknown. But that is no excuse for years and years of coasting.
Symptoms, whether they are mental or physical, are doorways into inner reality. Simply labelling something as screwed up is deeply unhelpful, and can create a great deal of self-blame and despair. At root, it is deeply unskillful -- in fact, impossible -- to attempt to change anything we haven't first accepted. James Hillman writes eloquently about this.
My problems are the result of my character faults: I'm just too lazy, disorganised, uncommitted, or stupid to do things differently: Well, maybe you are. On the other hand, if you're paying a therapist a fair sum of money to work on them every week, and managing to make it to your sessions, you are clearly not any of the first three. Maybe there's more going on than meets the eye.
Personally, I am blown away by the under-diagnosis of trauma in individuals, families, communities. I see its effects everywhere, in depression, anxiety, ADD/ADHD, addictions, loneliness, anger, relational problems. So often people are unaware of the cause of their pain. They may not even have a story, or they brush it off with "It was a long time ago, doesn't really bother me."
Trauma's web spreads far beyond the standard diagnostic criteria of PTSD to touch every one of us, as individuals, families, communities. The symptoms weave themselves into our very identity. It can take a lot of patient work to disentangle the effects of early trauma from who we are. We're living in a good time, though. Recent research is revealing exactly how trauma engraves itself on the nervous system, as well as the ways in which mindfulness and a focus on embodied experience can undo its effects.
Here's an interesting article on the neurobiological effects of trauma and the effectiveness of a body-oriented psychotherapeutic approach.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Remember to Remember
A long time ago I read a poem called "remember to remember." Remember to pull yourself out of blurred awareness to focus on the lovely fresh precision of that which is in front of you right now, was its message. Remember yourself into the present moment. I have forgotten the author and much of the poem itself, but the phrase, and the idea, have stuck with me.
Remembering to remember is a key point of meditation training. In practice, we repeatedly bring our awareness back to the focal point, whether it's an image, a sensation, an intention such as bodhicitta, or simply awareness itself, in the case of Dzogchen. Practicing this kind of remembering daily on the cushion, year in and year out, builds an inner structure; the capacity to wake up out of the trance, to realise we are dreaming and refocus on reality, unvarnished by expectations, hopes and fears. This is not the only purpose of meditation, of course -- but the simple reflexive action of coming back to awareness is no small thing. Meditation is the intentional application of this skill, the flexing of this muscle, over and over and over again. Over time it begins to develop a life of its own. We automatically remember to remember.
What does this have to do with therapy? Quite often we come across an understanding that needs to be integrated into life, not just talked about for 20 minutes. Say it's the matter of how Joe (a fictional composite) really wants to show up in a situation, vs. how he reflexively does. Take for example the dreaded holiday visit with the family (you'd be amazed at how much angst the holidays cause!). He says he's usually shut down and reactive, but he would like to be relaxed, aware, and grounded.
In a session we might explore the two possibilities. In one option -- let's call it the status quo -- he notices he feels frozen, numb, shut down. His arms are braced for impact. His breath stops, his shoulders hunch. He's terribly anxious, anticipating some horrible reaction.
In the other, Joe feels fluid and free, standing tall, with his feet solidly on the ground, clearheaded and clearsighted, relaxed in the chest and shoulders.
Each of these states of being are parts of him. Each needs to be explored and understood, with an open and relaxed awareness that doesn't get stuck in either configuration. What's most important is to fully understand, from the inside, the experience of each state of being, so that Joe can recognise the stuck place more easily the next time it arises -- and perhaps have more choice in how long he dwells in it. Maybe he'll even have more freedom in moving to a different experience.
If Joe practices meditation -- or maybe just has an innate orientation towards awareness -- he's got a headstart in this process. Remembering to remember helps us along the way, by allowing us to press the reset button whenever we get stuck.
Remembering to remember is a key point of meditation training. In practice, we repeatedly bring our awareness back to the focal point, whether it's an image, a sensation, an intention such as bodhicitta, or simply awareness itself, in the case of Dzogchen. Practicing this kind of remembering daily on the cushion, year in and year out, builds an inner structure; the capacity to wake up out of the trance, to realise we are dreaming and refocus on reality, unvarnished by expectations, hopes and fears. This is not the only purpose of meditation, of course -- but the simple reflexive action of coming back to awareness is no small thing. Meditation is the intentional application of this skill, the flexing of this muscle, over and over and over again. Over time it begins to develop a life of its own. We automatically remember to remember.
What does this have to do with therapy? Quite often we come across an understanding that needs to be integrated into life, not just talked about for 20 minutes. Say it's the matter of how Joe (a fictional composite) really wants to show up in a situation, vs. how he reflexively does. Take for example the dreaded holiday visit with the family (you'd be amazed at how much angst the holidays cause!). He says he's usually shut down and reactive, but he would like to be relaxed, aware, and grounded.
In a session we might explore the two possibilities. In one option -- let's call it the status quo -- he notices he feels frozen, numb, shut down. His arms are braced for impact. His breath stops, his shoulders hunch. He's terribly anxious, anticipating some horrible reaction.
In the other, Joe feels fluid and free, standing tall, with his feet solidly on the ground, clearheaded and clearsighted, relaxed in the chest and shoulders.
Each of these states of being are parts of him. Each needs to be explored and understood, with an open and relaxed awareness that doesn't get stuck in either configuration. What's most important is to fully understand, from the inside, the experience of each state of being, so that Joe can recognise the stuck place more easily the next time it arises -- and perhaps have more choice in how long he dwells in it. Maybe he'll even have more freedom in moving to a different experience.
If Joe practices meditation -- or maybe just has an innate orientation towards awareness -- he's got a headstart in this process. Remembering to remember helps us along the way, by allowing us to press the reset button whenever we get stuck.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
No Such Thing As a Baby
How does therapy work? Putting aside all notions of theory, skill, and personality,one aspect is simply the biological magic activated by the face-to-face presence of 2 humans paying attention to one another. I have long marveled at how much more powerful it is to recount a dream or work with an image in the presence of another, as compared to on my own.
As a therapist, I have a very full toolkit of ways to work with issues -- and I happily use many of those tools on myself. There's an unmistakable difference between the work I do alone and the work I do in the presence of another person. Having another human's nonjudgmental attention (s/he doesn't have to be a trained professional) helps me go further than I can go on my own.
Perhaps it's because as infants, we're wired to develop and grow through the loving attention of another person. Unique among mammals, humans require years of care from a parent before they're able to successfully launch into the world. D. W. Winnicott summed it up concisely when he said, "There is no such thing as a baby; there is a baby and someone." We develop in relation to another -- a nonnegotiable biological fact that's behind much of the joy and pain of being human.
I'm thinking the imprint of this innate biological predisposition is part of what's working in the therapy room. How could it not be?
As a therapist, I have a very full toolkit of ways to work with issues -- and I happily use many of those tools on myself. There's an unmistakable difference between the work I do alone and the work I do in the presence of another person. Having another human's nonjudgmental attention (s/he doesn't have to be a trained professional) helps me go further than I can go on my own.
Perhaps it's because as infants, we're wired to develop and grow through the loving attention of another person. Unique among mammals, humans require years of care from a parent before they're able to successfully launch into the world. D. W. Winnicott summed it up concisely when he said, "There is no such thing as a baby; there is a baby and someone." We develop in relation to another -- a nonnegotiable biological fact that's behind much of the joy and pain of being human.
I'm thinking the imprint of this innate biological predisposition is part of what's working in the therapy room. How could it not be?
Monday, May 4, 2009
Guilt vs. Remorse
At first glance neither of the above emotions seems particularly attractive, but I've come to believe there's a profound difference between the two. Namely: remorse is workable; guilt is not.
We're all familiar with guilt. Feeling bad about something we've done, we slide into self-recrimination. Often we try to distract ourselves from this unpleasantness with a favorite addiction. The situation just keeps getting worse from there. Guilt is a sticky, dense, unpleasant emotion -- the essence of stuckness. Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche points out that guilt, like pride, is really just another way of reifying the self, making it solid and 'real' -- only this time, the 'real' self is 'bad.' From a Buddhist perspective, guilt is simply ego-clinging, and a particularly unpleasant version of it at that.
Guilt is both sticky and stuck. When we're in it, we're not free to do much else. Remorse, on the other hand, offers the opportunity for real transformation. When we come to the honest understanding that we've behaved in a way that's hurt someone, we have the opportunity to make amends. We can alter our behavior from that point forward. Genuine remorse sees the pain that we've caused, and resolves to not do it again. There's an opportunity for action in remorse that isn't available in the stuckness of guilt.
Even if we're not able to speak with the injured party, we can work it symbolically through ritual: set up a photo, light a candle, write down our apology and our new intention, burn the paper with the old pattern of behavior, vow to do it differently next time. Making a clear commitment to a new way of acting -- to speak the truth in the moment, say, rather than hiding behind our fears of 'hurting someone' (often it's just a coverup for our own fears) -- is the liberating secret hidden in the apparently painful mess of remorse.
Thanks to Jungian analyst and astrologer Liz Greene for pointing my thoughts in this direction a long time ago, in her book The Astrology of Fate.
We're all familiar with guilt. Feeling bad about something we've done, we slide into self-recrimination. Often we try to distract ourselves from this unpleasantness with a favorite addiction. The situation just keeps getting worse from there. Guilt is a sticky, dense, unpleasant emotion -- the essence of stuckness. Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche points out that guilt, like pride, is really just another way of reifying the self, making it solid and 'real' -- only this time, the 'real' self is 'bad.' From a Buddhist perspective, guilt is simply ego-clinging, and a particularly unpleasant version of it at that.
Guilt is both sticky and stuck. When we're in it, we're not free to do much else. Remorse, on the other hand, offers the opportunity for real transformation. When we come to the honest understanding that we've behaved in a way that's hurt someone, we have the opportunity to make amends. We can alter our behavior from that point forward. Genuine remorse sees the pain that we've caused, and resolves to not do it again. There's an opportunity for action in remorse that isn't available in the stuckness of guilt.
Even if we're not able to speak with the injured party, we can work it symbolically through ritual: set up a photo, light a candle, write down our apology and our new intention, burn the paper with the old pattern of behavior, vow to do it differently next time. Making a clear commitment to a new way of acting -- to speak the truth in the moment, say, rather than hiding behind our fears of 'hurting someone' (often it's just a coverup for our own fears) -- is the liberating secret hidden in the apparently painful mess of remorse.
Thanks to Jungian analyst and astrologer Liz Greene for pointing my thoughts in this direction a long time ago, in her book The Astrology of Fate.
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