The Authentic Life (22 page)

Another deeply believed thought had been that I was in control. Before I got sick, I led a very active and physical life. After I got sick, I had no control, no choice but to slow down and be largely inactive. At first it seemed depressing—sometimes it felt like my life was over. I had been caught in the illusion of being in control and also that I had endless time. As these illusions began to be dispelled, I couldn't imagine what was going to happen. Yet the more I could see the illness as my path, the more I could appreciate the depths of awareness that are possible when we slow down enough to let life in. I could actually feel the texture of my life, and I began to see how staying busy and believing I was in control were in many ways props. Giving up the illusion of control, at least to some extent, allowed me to feel grateful for the equanimity of doing simple mundane activities, including sitting around, not doing anything in particular.

We all have many attachments, and one of the strongest is no doubt to our body, especially to our feeling of comfort. This was one of my biggest challenges—wanting to feel a particular way, and also
not
wanting to feel a particular way, namely nauseous and in pain. Because the nausea was somewhat unrelenting and because I didn't want to take the toxic drugs that could mask it, I learned how to stay present with it without adding the story of “This is awful.” Sometimes the only thing I could do was lie in the fetal position, and as often as I was able, I would breathe into the area of the heart on the in-breath and then extend loving-kindness to my body, to my immune system, via the out-breath.
Dwelling deeply in the heart, I found I could enter directly into the experience of the nausea, not as “pain” but as intense physical energy. No longer needing to feel a particular way, I was sometimes struck by a sense of the quiet joy of just being. In giving up my attachment to comfort I would sometimes feel a depth of appreciation that, by any ordinary standards, simply did not compute.

My other strongest attachments were to my identities—husband, father, breadwinner, meditator, athlete, and so forth—and it was very disconcerting watching my life as I had known it begin to fall apart. But again, in seeing this new situation as my path to becoming free, my whole world turned right side up. As I would experience the groundlessness of having lost my identities, I would breathe the arising fear right into the center of the chest on the in-breath and simply feel it. The more I could stay present with the uncertainty, the more the illusory self-images would be stripped away. There were moments when I experienced the freedom of not
needing
to be anyone at all. By letting everything I was clinging to just fall apart, without much choice in the matter, I found that what remained was more than enough.

I mentioned earlier that one of the things I experienced with the onset of my illness was the feeling of isolation. Even though there were people who cared for me, I nonetheless felt very alone. The world of intense physical discomfort, along with the fear of the loss of my life as I had known it, combined to create a subjective reality that seemed grim and disconnected. But interestingly, the more I was able to truly open to and feel the discomfort and loss—minus the melodrama—the more I began to tap into a sense of compassion for others in pain. I wasn't actually trying to do this; yet as the illness pushed me to explore the roots of my
own fears, it became clear to me how many others were suffering with even worse conditions, and compassion for those in pain came forth naturally. This wasn't an intellectual understanding; it was an experiential process born out of the inner realization of the pain that all human beings share. With this realization and sense of connection with others the feelings of isolation completely disappeared.

As soon as I had a period of improved health, I became a Hospice volunteer, not out of an idealized vision that I could help others who were dying but to help me stay in touch with this newly discovered sense of connection and compassion—and also as a reminder that our time is limited. Despite my numerous breakthroughs in working with my attachments, I knew how quickly my old patterns would try to reestablish themselves when my symptoms would go into remission. In fact, over the years it has been a constant struggle to remind myself not to fall back into complacency. Although I never felt in imminent danger of dying, I realized that it's still a kind of death when we live out of complacency and fear—not wanting to let go of the comfort of the familiar. But fortunately, even when I experience fairly long periods of remission from my symptoms, there are still days when my body is in such discomfort that all I can do is lie down for hours on end. This is fortunate, because it forces me once again to stay truly present with the physical experience. Interestingly, sometimes it almost feels as if I'm floating in awareness itself; the nausea and discomfort remain, but it almost isn't me. In these moments there's a clear awareness that who we are is more than just this body. This is just one example of what I have had to learn over and over again—that to live truly authentically means being willing to welcome the unwanted and to embrace uncertainty. We can come to understand that pain
and loss, when consciously welcomed, can greatly accelerate our ability to be free from our attachments.

Perhaps more than anything, my adventure with illness has shown me how freedom from our deeply held attachments—to comfort, control, our identities, to a predictable future—can lead to a life of genuine appreciation. Nowhere is this more true than in our attachment to those we love. Part of appreciating those we are closest to has to include the awareness that our time together is limited. We have no idea what will happen, or when, which is again the theme of skating on thin ice. But this fact doesn't have to make us morose. In fact, knowing that our time is limited allows us to appreciate one another all the more. I remember a few years ago when Elizabeth and I were on a wonderful retreat-vacation in the beautiful area of Lake Como, in northern Italy. We spent hours walking through idyllic little towns, eating pasta at almost every meal, meditating in a different church each day, and appreciating how lucky we were to have the health and resources to share our life together. Then, shortly after our return to San Diego, Elizabeth was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Even though Elizabeth responded to this with very little melodrama, I nonetheless remember feeling as if the ground had been pulled out from under me. And in spite of my many years of practicing with my own illness, I couldn't deny that I was still somewhat caught up in the illusion that we had endless time. This illusion, which we all have to some degree, leaves us convinced that our life will continue indefinitely into the vague future. We are rarely aware of the extent to which this belief keeps us skating on thin ice, oblivious of the very real fact that our lives can end or be drastically altered at any time, without any warning.

Yet the fact that we are inexorably getting older makes it increasingly difficult to maintain our illusion of endless time. We hear about more and more people we know being diagnosed with cancer or some other serious condition, and it is no longer unusual for someone close to us to die. We can continue to try to ignore the evidence, but nonetheless the cracks in the thin ice seem to get bigger with each loss. We may think it's not fair, but that's just the point of view of the small mind of ego—the sense of entitlement that life should go the way we want it to go. Interestingly, in historical perspective, our times are actually relatively safe and comfortable, and perhaps that fortifies the illusion of control. Yet it can seem daunting when this illusion is shattered, as it was for me with Elizabeth's diagnosis.

As we become increasingly aware that we and our loved ones have limited time, we are bound to have times of feeling groundless and disconnected. I certainly felt the fear of disconnection and loss when I was told Elizabeth had cancer. But we can't forget that true connection comes when we're willing to acknowledge these uncomfortable feelings that are part of our human condition. True connection comes when we breathe the aching fear of loss into the center of our chests and simply let it be there, no matter how uncomfortable we might feel. Once we truly learn to reside in our fear of aloneness, we will no longer expect those close to us to take away our fears. Instead we will know real intimacy, which can never be based on neediness or the fear of being alone. When we relate to people from the small mind of neediness, we can't truly love them or appreciate them.

The fact is, facing our fears exposes our deepest attachments and leaves us without the false props of our illusions. Although this can be painful at times, the good news is that the melodrama doesn't have to take over, and instead we can begin to see through what we are most attached to. If you ask me if I was
attached to Elizabeth, the answer was—and is—absolutely! In fact, one of the things that became clear to me was how much I was caught in the belief that I couldn't be happy without her. But dealing with her cancer, and then other subsequent cracks in the thin ice, has helped me to realize the degree of self-centered neediness in my attachment—to her, to her good health, to our life together. Aren't our difficulties always our best teacher, taking us to the places we rarely willingly go on our own? Over the last few years, as I've watched my mind have such thoughts as “I need Elizabeth in order to be happy,” it's become clear that these thoughts are based in personal self-interest and fear. And it's also become clear that every one of these thoughts prevents me from really being with Elizabeth, because they're not about her but about me.

Practice helps us open to our feelings of groundlessness and leads us to become more willing to surrender to our fears—such as our fear of the loss of control, the loss of the familiar, even the fear of the loss of a loved one. Residing in our fears without trying to get rid of them or to outrun them is what erodes our attachments and helps us see through our illusions—the illusion that we have endless time, or that we can make life go the way we want, or that we need another person in order to be happy.

How can we face these fears directly? First we must be willing to drop the story line—the thoughts that the spinning mind keeps churning out. Once we refrain from indulging in thoughts such as “This is awful,” “I can't handle this,” or “Poor me,” the melodrama loses its steam, and we're left with something that is much more workable—the actual energy of fear and loss. Then we can say yes to them, which means we are willing to feel them rather than run away from them. It may seem counterintuitive, yet when fear of loss arises, if we breathe the sensations of anxiety right into the center of our chests, we may find that our
usual dread is replaced with a genuine curiosity. As the familiar thoughts that normally fuel our fear begin to fall away, we can experience the healing power of the heart. This is a nonconceptual experience—it does not come from words or explanations, but rather from the spaciousness of a wider container of awareness. The fear of living as a separate being dissolves, and we can naturally tap into the connectedness and love that are always available to us. These are the real fruit of the practice life.

The result of all this for me is that I'm now even more appreciative of Elizabeth and more able to be with her fully. It's not that I wasn't appreciative of her before, but being caught in my attachments prevented me from being truly present with her. And perhaps even more so, I'm grateful every day for being able to simply share a life together—not just our practice together but all of the mundane moments as well. This is not to say that I'm now totally free of attachment to her, but my attachment is much more lightly held. Practice can transform our perceived need for a particular person into a less emotion-based preference. Having preferences isn't a problem, nor is enjoying them. The problem is when we're so enslaved by our attachments that they run our lives. But as the demand loses its hold, we can simply enjoy it as a preference.

Of course, no one wants to reside in the sinking groundlessness that is triggered when we fall through one of the cracks in the thin ice. Nonetheless, it's only when we're able to reside in the physical experience of no ground—where we're no longer clinging to our fantasies of how life is supposed to be—that the power of our attachments begins to diminish. Before we can truly live from appreciation, we first have to consciously know loss. This is the path of practice. When we see through our attachments by fully experiencing them, the result is freedom. When we can see and experience life without the filters of our
judgments and demands, the result is appreciation and the quiet joy of being. When we see through our fears, the result is love.

Much of this book has been about facing our difficult experiences, looking honestly at our beliefs and strategies, and working with our fears. Are these things difficult? Yes, they're difficult, but more importantly, they're also the path to being able to increasingly enjoy our life. As it says in an old Hungarian proverb: “Life is like licking honey—licking honey off a thorn.” We learn to enjoy the honey, in part,
because
of the thorns. Acknowledging the unpleasant, seeing through our delusions, facing our fears, always takes courage—the courage of taking a step even while fear is present. But courage is what ultimately allows us to live most authentically. It allows us to choose freedom, rather than staying caught in complacency and fear.

Over the course of a practice life we may forget this many times and find ourselves going off course. But we can't judge ourselves for each wayward detour. Each detour, each backslide, is actually part of the path of learning and growth. If we are to affirm our life, to say yes to it, we must say yes to
all
of it. Each detour and backslide is an integral part of the whole; would we be who we are today if we hadn't learned from our so-called mistakes and flaws? Living authentically means we're acknowledging the whole of what our life is, and being willing to truly live it, just as it is. The key, of course, is to cease resistance to what is. When I finally understood this in relation to my illness and to Elizabeth's cancer, I became willing to affirm that I was on board for the trip. Whether I liked the trip or not, I could still enjoy the ride—to see what it was like and where it was going, without the extra baggage of self-pity and fear. Self-pity, the complaints and judgments, and especially all of the fears, are the real obstacles to surrendering to what is. They are also what
prevent genuine appreciation for our life. This is the kind of appreciation that artist Paul Klee described when he said, “Imagine you are dead. After many years of exile you are permitted to cast a single glance earthward. You see a lamppost and an old dog lifting his leg against it. You are so moved that you cannot stop sobbing.”