The Authentic Life (14 page)

Whether or not we are physiologically inclined to readily have fear come up, all of us have fears that are related to our psychological conditioning, that is, from events that happened to us early on. When our conditioning gets triggered, it will cause a fear response in the body. For example, if we feel we are criticized or judged, the body will react as if danger were present. This also occurs if we fear confrontation, or intimacy, or failure. When these situations arise, the body will sense danger and go into the fight, flight, or freeze mode—the adrenaline will start to flow, the heart will beat faster, and the muscles of the body will contract.

In order to avoid having to deal with these fears, we develop certain strategies very early on—strategies that become our basic way of relating to the world. For example, we learn to try harder, or to be pleasing, or to hide. My main strategy was to try harder; and even though it allowed me to achieve external success by driving me to excel, it never really worked, because it never addressed the core fear. This core fear, and all of the day-to-day anxiety that arose out of it, were only temporarily put at bay.

There's an alternative way to live—one that is no longer driven by fear. In fact, the essence of living authentically starts
when we learn to relate to our fears in a new way: instead of seeing fear as our enemy, we can begin to see fear as a wake-up, a signal. This makes it an opportunity to see where we're stuck, where we're holding ourselves back, and where we can open more to life. We have to understand that fear is the protective cocoon of ego telling us to stop. It tells us not to go beyond the outer edge of our cocoon. But the direction of our path is to move directly
toward
our fears, for only in this way can we go beyond fear's cocoon. While we may not like it, fear can be our best indicator that we're going in the right direction. In fact, whatever we can't say yes to can be considered the exact direction of our path.

What does it actually mean to say yes to our fear? It means we're willing to open to it and embrace it as our path to freedom. Saying yes doesn't mean we like it—it simply means we're willing to feel what it really is. Saying yes to fear is the opposite of what we usually do, which is to run away from it. Yet when we stop resisting what is, and over time develop the genuine curiosity to know what's really going on, it's possible to begin to see our experience of fear almost as an adventure instead of as a nightmare. When fear arises, the mind of curiosity can say, “Here it is again—what will it feel like this time? It is also helpful to simply say, “There is fear,” instead of the usual “I'm afraid.” When we say, “I'm afraid,” we solidify the narrow, subjective experience of fear, as well as the “Me” that identifies itself as a fearful person. But when we say, “There is fear,” it puts some space around what might become a dark and claustrophobic feeling. This added space, along with the mind of curiosity, allows us to be less identified with the experience of fear, thus less caught in it.

To know what fear really is, whenever it arises, we ask the
question “What is this?” We're not asking why we have it or analyzing it—we're essentially asking, “What is this moment?” To answer, we simply have to look at two things: the fearful thoughts and the physical sensations of fear. The practice is to pause, allow ourselves to observe the thoughts racing through our mind, and feel the physical sensations and energy throughout our body.

Here's an example of the process: Several years ago I had to have a test done to determine if I had prostate cancer, and even though I didn't have any physical symptoms, the days of waiting for the results were fraught with anxiety. When I tried to observe the mind, at first it was hard to catch specific thoughts—it was more a vague sense of doom and danger. But then specific thoughts began to emerge: “I can't handle this.” “What if I have cancer?” “What's going to happen to me?” These thoughts seemed so solid, so compelling; but by observing and labeling them again and again, their power began to dissipate.

Then I brought awareness to the physical experience in the body. This was particularly difficult, because the sensations of fear were so strong and so uncomfortable. I remember the feeling of closing down into a dark and narrow subjective experience of reality. There was the agitation in the heart, the feeling of being almost nauseous, the tightness in the shoulders, the narrowing of perceptions. For a while it was quite difficult to really stay with the experience—it was more a moment-to-moment struggle between trying to stay present and wanting to escape into comfort. Particularly difficult was the feeling of dread that almost felt like death. But in saying yes to it and being willing to feel the fear with a genuine curiosity, the strong sensations became less intense and less solid.

When we say yes to fear, even though we may feel terror, we
can begin to see there is no real physical danger. We no longer need to panic or try to push it away. As we let it in, we're giving up our fear of fear. We may think we can't stand to feel it, but the truth is we just don't want to. Saying yes to fear is the countermeasure to our resistance; it's the courage to willingly stay present with it. In this example of waiting for my test results, once I was able to truly surrender to the experience, the grip of fear dissolved, and surprisingly, what remained was the experience of genuine equanimity. The dark and closed-down feeling was replaced with sunlight, fresh air, and freedom.

The struggle with fear that I just described was fairly intense and lasted for several days. But it was an excellent learning experience, and the lessons remained. Very recently I received a call from my doctor after what I thought was a routine exam and was told there were signs of a cancerous tumor in my kidney, and that I needed to take another test and prepare to schedule surgery. After my initial shock, I remembered how we are all just one doctor's visit away from falling through the thin ice. And fall I did—right into the icy water! But fairly quickly I remembered to say yes to the arising fears, even while my mind tried to weave the dark and grim story of “Me and My Cancer,” along with the corresponding closing down in the body.

Saying yes allowed me to turn away from the story and instead turn toward the understanding that regardless of what might happen, this would be my path to living truly authentically. I actually looked forward to being pushed to work with my deepest attachments—to comfort, to control, to my body, to my future. Saying yes meant I was willing to face all of these things with honesty; that my aspiration to live my life authentically was more important than indulging the story of doom and fear. Remarkably, the episode of falling through the thin ice was
very short. It wasn't that all the fear was gone; in truth, there was still anxiety about what would happen. But it didn't predominate, and I was able to see it and relate to it as simply a conditioned response to perceived danger. In other words, there was fear, but I wasn't afraid.

Practice is often described as the willingness to simply be with our life as it is. But this is a difficult concept to get: that practice is not about having a particular state of mind, such as calmness. Nor is it about being completely free of anxiety. This is not to deny that we will, in fact, experience more equanimity, and that our fears will substantially diminish. But, ironically, it's the very demand that life be a particular way that almost guarantees a continuing state of anxiety, unease, and dissatisfaction.

Can you imagine the possibility of having anxiety and not being anxious about it? In other words, not identifying with the story of “I am afraid.” This is what happened after I worked with my reaction to the phone call from the doctor. Yet this is certainly not how we usually relate to anxiety and fear. More often, we either try to avoid it or get rid of it. When we feel the disruptive jangle of anxiety, our unspoken thought is that something is wrong, and we might think that being upset is the only possible response. And further, we will almost always feel that something needs to be fixed—that we need to do something to get calm or clear or relaxed.

But consider the possibility of relating to your anxiety in a way where you no longer see it as a problem. For example, if you truly welcome a distressful event with curiosity, as an opportunity to learn, wouldn't that event then become nourishment for your being, rather than poison for the body? In fact, that distressful event pushes you to work with exactly what you need to work with. Let's take a simple example of having to make a phone call
where you know the conversation might be unpleasant. Anxiety arises, and the unspoken thought is that something is wrong. We naturally feel the need to get over our anxiety and to calm down. However, from a practice point of view, it doesn't mean it's bad because anxiety arises—all it means is that there is anxiety. It's just a result of our particular conditioning. So we don't have to fight it or make efforts to get rid of it. In fact, instead of viewing it as a problem, we simply pause before making the call, acknowledge the anxiety, then say yes to it—which means we welcome it in as an opportunity to work with the exact place where we are stuck. And then we feel it as the physical experience of our life; we rest in it and learn from it. In other words, we can't necessarily stop having stressful reactions to life at times, but these very reactions, when welcomed and digested with awareness, are transformed into nourishment for our being.

Sometimes we may think we can't say yes. When we find ourselves in the midst of such a painful or distressing experience, usually it is very difficult to stay present with it. This is normal, because as humans, we have a natural aversion to discomfort, and as a consequence our resistance can be very strong. The voice of fear tells us we have reached an edge beyond which we're unwilling to go. Yet our aspiration tells us to take one more step forward. Fear says no!—it warns us to close down and defend. Yet the heart says yes—it calls us to open up and connect. The fundamental point is, until we become intimate with our fears, until we can welcome them, they will always limit our ability to live authentically. Saying yes to life means saying yes to everything, even anxiety and fear. In other words, the path to the truly genuine life requires our openhearted attention to the very things that seem to block our way to it.

However, we also have to acknowledge that sometimes perhaps the experience is too powerful or too overwhelming.
Perhaps it may feel like death itself. After my surgery for kidney cancer this year I had a series of very difficult postoperative complications, including pneumonia, a blood clot in the lungs, and an acute infection—each of which required me to go back into the hospital. I also had some medical procedures that were my worst personal nightmare. One of my blind assumptions that became clear to me afterward was, “None of this was supposed to happen!” Moreover, I was surprised how these events threw me for a loop, even after many years of practice.

Later, in reflecting on these events, I realized how easy it is when we're remembering or writing about our struggles—particularly those that included intense discomfort or uncertainty—to paint a picture in broad brushstrokes by just remembering the highlights. The picture may sound clear and may even be inspiring, but it's almost certain that we're leaving out the many moments when nothing was either clear or inspiring—the moments where we don't know where we stand or what we should do.

I think it's better to paint a more honest picture, for surely, anyone in the midst of intense discomfort and uncertainty has to understand that the bottom line, at least at times, is that things may be very difficult, with no immediate relief in sight. If we expect or assume that we could always overcome these most difficult moments with an intentional practice effort, we may get very discouraged. But that's mainly because we're still holding on to the assumption that practice can handle our difficulties, no matter what they are.

One of the main things I learned is that pain and uncertainty can make us humble. No matter how strong our practice is, these things can still be very difficult. Sometimes our only response may be “Oh shit!”

It's not that I didn't practice. There were many times throughout the day that I would remember to breathe into the chest
center and to extend the energy of loving-kindness into the body—simply wishing my body well regardless of how it would all turn out. But this was only possible after I'd regained a modicum of strength; before that, I was basically in survival mode—just getting through the next thing. I think it's important that we don't lose touch with the reality that sometimes we're just in over our heads, and that maybe the best we can do is to simply remember to breathe. This doesn't take away from the value of practice—it just makes the landscape a little more subtle.

In these instances, when discomfort is very strong, or when we're caught in panic or phobias, we may need to first bridge the gap between the old brain, or sympathetic-nervous-system-response of fear, and the cognitive brain, or parasympathetic-nervous-system response, which is somewhat calmer and more amenable to clear thinking. One simple way to bridge this gap is through taking several long, deep breaths—breathing in through the nose and slowly exhaling through the mouth. It may take a little practice, but fairly quickly this can be an effective way to move from the panic response, where practice is not really an option, to a more settled physiological state, where we can then begin to engage with practice.

We may want to then start with only a small step, since the discomfort may still be very strong. We can do a practice called The Three Breaths practice, where we make a deal with the resisting ego by telling it that we will only stay with the discomfort for three breaths, after which point we'll allow ourselves to go off briefly into diversion from the present moment. Paradoxically, the more often we enter into and feel these moments of discomfort, the more we understand that it's more painful to push away the experience than it is to actually feel it. The way we learn this pivotal understanding is “three breaths at a time.”