The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times (15 page)

The problem with following these or any instructions is that we have a tendency to be too serious and rigid. We get tense and uptight about trying to relax and be patient.

This is where the fourth instruction comes in: it is helpful to think about the person who is angry, the anger itself, and the object of that anger as being like a dream. We can regard our life as a movie in which we are temporarily the leading player. Rather than making it so important, we can reflect on the essencelessness of our current situation. We can slow down and ask ourselves, “Who is this monolithic me that has been so offended? And who is this other person who can trigger me like this? What is this praise and blame that hooks me like a fish, that catches me like a mouse in a trap? How is it that these circumstances have the power to propel me like a Ping-Pong ball from hope to fear, from happiness to misery?” This big-deal struggle, this big-deal self, and this big-deal other could all be lightened up considerably.

Contemplate these outer circumstances, as well as these emotions, as well as this huge sense of me, as passing and essenceless, like a memory, like a movie, like a dream. When we awaken from sleep we know that the enemies in our dreams are an illusion. That realization cuts through panic and fear.

When we find ourselves captured by aggression, we can remember this: there is no basis for striking out or for repressing. There is no basis for hatred or shame. We can at least begin to question our assumptions. Could it be that whether we are awake or asleep, we are simply moving from one dreamlike state to another?

These four methods for turning anger around and for learning a little patience come to us from the Kadampa masters of eleventh-century Tibet. These instructions have provided encouragement for fledgling bodhisattvas in the past, and they are just as useful in the present. These same Kadampa masters advised that we not procrastinate. They urged us to use these instructions immediately—on this very day in this very situation—and not say to ourselves, “I will try this in the future when I have a bit more time.”

21

The Spiritual Friend

The real function of a spiritual friend is to insult you.

—CHÖGYAM TRUNGPA RINPOCHE

W
ARRIORS-IN-TRAINING
need someone to guide them—a master warrior, a teacher, a spiritual friend, someone who knows the territory well and can help them find their way. There are different levels of the teacher-student relationship. For some people, reading a book or hearing a specific teacher teach is enough. Others might then request to become that teacher’s student—asking for guidance now and then. This kind of relationship is valuable for many. It is rare that students initially feel ready for a more unconditional commitment with a teacher, working very intimately on where they are holding back. Not many of us have that much trust in another person, that much willingness to be seen without our masks. We are wise, in fact, not to rush into such a relationship without developing maitri for ourselves and confidence that this particular teacher is trustworthy. These are the prerequisites for making a deeper commitment to a spiritual friend.

In 1974 when I asked Trungpa Rinpoche if I could be his student, I was not ready to enter into an unconditional relationship. But for the first time in my life I had met a person who was not caught up, a person whose mind was never swept away. I realized that with guidance from him, this was also possible for me. I was drawn to him because I couldn’t manipulate him; he knew how to cut through people’s trips. I experienced that cutting through as threatening, but in a very refreshing way. Still it took me years to develop enough trust and personal maitri to surrender to the relationship completely. Moving closer to someone who is so dangerous to the ego takes time.

Either the relationship with a teacher evolves to a place of unconditional trust and love, or it doesn’t. We have to trust the process. In either case the relationship with a teacher encourages us to trust our basic wisdom. It teaches us to be steadfast with ourselves. In the warrior tradition it is said that both the teacher and the student are fully awake, that between the teacher and the student there can be a meeting of minds. The teacher’s role is to help the student realize that his awakened mind and the teacher’s are the same. At some point there’s an important change of allegiance. Instead of always identifying with our neurosis, we begin to have confidence in our basic intelligence and kindness. This is a significant shift. Without developing this basic trust in ourselves, going further with a teacher is impossible.

Once we are ready to enter into an unconditional relationship, however, it teaches us how to be steadfast with every situation. Entering into this level of commitment to one person prepares us to stay open not only to the teacher but also to our whole experience. The teacher is a full-fledged human being, not some spiritual ideal. In this relationship, as in any other, we will experience likes and dislikes. We might find ourselves plunged right into the midst of chaos and insecurity. This relationship will show us if our heart is big enough to welcome the whole gamut of life—not just the part that we approve of. To the degree that we are capable of remaining steadfast with our spiritual friend, to this degree we can remain steadfast with the world as it is, with all its violence and tenderness, with its meanness and moments of courage. We find ourselves opening up in a way we never thought was possible.

Bodhisattva training encourages us to have a passionate involvement with life, regarding no emotion or action as unworthy of our love and compassion, regarding no person or situation as unacceptable. Therefore this path requires discipline and it also needs guidance. How much guidance we are ready to accept is the question. In the absence of a narrow, restrictive set of rules, we need someone to show us when we’re off track, someone to whom we’ll listen.

Whatever we do, the teacher is extraordinarily adaptable and loyal to the process of our awakening. This master warrior serves as a mirror that shows us our mind with embarrassing accuracy. The more we trust ourselves and the teacher, the more we allow this mirroring to happen. We slowly move in the direction of allowing every person we meet to be our teacher. We find ourselves more able to understand the mind-training slogan “Be grateful to everyone.”

We don’t, however, think of the teacher as having all the wisdom while we have none. There’s too much hope and fear in that kind of setup. If I had been advised never to question my teachers, I wouldn’t have lasted very long as a student. I was always encouraged to use my critical intelligence and express my concerns without fear. I was actually advised to question authority and rules.

It’s important to understand that the minds of the teacher and the student meet, not by making the teacher all right or all wrong, but in the ambiguity between those two views, in the capacity to contain uncertainty and paradox. Otherwise our adulation inevitably flips into disillusionment. We bolt when the teacher doesn’t fit our preconceptions. We don’t like her political views or the fact that she eats meat, drinks alcohol, smokes cigarettes. We’re out of there because we don’t like a change in the organizational policy or because we feel unappreciated or neglected. We’ll hang in for a honeymoon period, endowing the relationship with all our longings to be loved in an ideal, nonmessy way. Then inevitably our expectations are disappointed, and unresolved emotional issues arise. We feel used, betrayed, disillusioned. We don’t want to feel these painful feelings and we leave.

The main point is always how we work with our minds. Once we click into solid views of justification or blaming, our minds become very small. Closing down in any form causes suffering to escalate. Our solid views could take the form of “the teacher is perfect and can do no wrong” or “the teacher is a charlatan and can never be trusted.” Both are expressions of freezing the mind. We love to talk about vast, open mind, completely clear and spacious. But can we abide in the openness that presents itself when the bottom falls out of our dream?

Even if we do leave a teacher, if we can stay with the pain and disappointment without justifying or condemning, that teacher has taught us well. Practicing under such conditions may be the ultimate example of the slogan “If you can practice even when distracted, you are well trained.”

In working with a spiritual friend we learn to love in an open-ended way—to love and to be loved unconditionally. We’re not used to this kind of love. It’s what we all want but what we all have difficulty giving. In my case I learned how to love and be loved by watching my teacher. When I saw how unconditionally he loved other people, I began to trust that he could also love me. I saw for myself what it means to never give up on anybody.

Something once happened along those lines that affected me profoundly. One of Trungpa Rinpoche’s senior students, Joe, was having emotional difficulties, causing problems for everyone. Rinpoche seemed to ignore the other students’ complaints about Joe’s aggressive behavior. However, when Joe lashed out viciously at a woman and slapped her, Rinpoche yelled, “Out! I want you out of here now! I don’t want to see your face again!” Joe left in shock. The other students gathered around Rinpoche, saying, “We’re so glad you got rid of Joe. He did this terrible thing yesterday and that awful thing this morning. . . . Thank you for sending him away.” Rinpoche drew himself up firmly and said: “I think you do not understand—Joe and I are the best of friends.” I feel that Trungpa Rinpoche would have stepped in front of a speeding train if he thought it would help us wake up.

This unconditional commitment to ourselves and to others is what is meant by limitless love. The teacher’s love for the student manifests as compassion. The student’s love of the teacher is devotion. This mutual warmth, this heart connection, allows for a meeting of minds. It is this kind of love that tames untamable beings and helps bodhisattvas-intraining to go beyond their home ground. The relationship with our spiritual friend inspires us to step out fearlessly and start exploring the phenomenal world.

22

The In-Between State

The secret of Zen is just two words: not always so.

—SHUNRYU SUZUKI ROSHI

I
T TAKES SOME TRAINING
to equate complete letting go with comfort. But in fact, “nothing to hold on to” is the root of happiness. There’s a sense of freedom when we accept that we’re not in control. Pointing ourselves toward what we would most like to avoid makes our barriers and shields permeable.

This may lead to a don’t-know-what-to-do kind of feeling, a sense of being caught in-between. On the one hand, we’re completely fed up with seeking comfort from what we can eat, drink, smoke, or couple with. We’re also fed up with beliefs, ideas, and “isms” of all kinds. But on the other hand we wish it were true that outer comfort could bring lasting happiness.

This in-between state is where the warrior spends a lot of time growing up. We’d give anything to have the comfort we used to get from eating a pizza or watching a video. However, even though those things can be pleasurable, we’ve seen that eating a pizza or watching a video is a feeble match for our suffering. We notice this especially when things are falling apart. If we’ve just learned that we have cancer, eating a pizza doesn’t do much to cheer us up. If someone we love has just died or walked out, the outer places we go for comfort feel feeble and ephemeral.

We are told about the pain of chasing after pleasure and the futility of running from pain. We hear also about the joy of awakening, of realizing our interconnectedness, of trusting the openness of our hearts and minds. But we aren’t told all that much about this state of being in-between, no longer able to get our old comfort from the outside but not yet dwelling in a continual sense of equanimity and warmth.

Anxiety, heartbreak, and tenderness mark the inbetween state. It’s the kind of place we usually want to avoid. The challenge is to stay in the middle rather than buy into struggle and complaint. The challenge is to let it soften us rather than make us more rigid and afraid. Becoming intimate with the queasy feeling of being in the middle of nowhere only makes our hearts more tender. When we are brave enough to stay in the middle, compassion arises spontaneously. By not knowing, not hoping to know, and not acting like we know what’s happening, we begin to access our inner strength.

Yet it seems reasonable to want some kind of relief. If we can make the situation right or wrong, if we can pin it down in any way, then we are on familiar ground. But something has shaken up our habitual patterns and frequently they no longer work. Staying with volatile energy gradually becomes more comfortable than acting it out or repressing it. This open-ended tender place is called bodhichitta. Staying with it is what heals. It allows us to let go of our self-importance. It’s how the warrior learns to love.

This is exactly how we’re training every time we sit in meditation. We see what comes up, acknowledge that with kindness, and let go. Thoughts and emotions rise and fall. Some are more convincing than others. Habitually we are so uncomfortable with that churned-up feeling that we’d do anything to make it go away. Instead we kindly encourage ourselves to stay with our agitated energy by returning to the breath. This is the basic training in maitri that we need to just keep going forward, to just keep opening our heart.

Dwelling in the in-between state requires learning to contain the paradox of something’s being both right and wrong, of someone’s being strong and loving and also angry, uptight, and stingy. In that painful moment when we don’t live up to our own standards, do we condemn ourselves or truly appreciate the paradox of being human? Can we forgive ourselves and stay in touch with our good and tender heart? When someone pushes our buttons, do we set out to make the person wrong? Or do we repress our reaction with “I’m supposed to be loving. How could I hold this negative thought?” Our practice is to stay with the uneasiness and not solidify into a view. We can meditate, do tonglen, or simply look at the open sky—anything that encourages us to stay on the brink and not solidify into a view.