The Authentic Life (8 page)

Much of our life is spent trying to live out of our self-images, and we rarely have the inclination to look at them honestly. In fact, it is very difficult to be truly honest with ourselves, especially since we can simultaneously have both positive and negative self-images on board and may not recognize their inconsistency. This is due to the fact that we all wear blinders—a psychological defense that doesn't allow one part of ourselves to see another part. For example, if we need to see ourselves as nice, we may ignore all of our harmful or self-centered qualities. Or, if we need to see ourselves as unworthy, we'll ignore all the positive data. This is actually quite common.

Closely related to our self-images are our identities—how we define ourselves according to the roles we play, such as mother, businessman, meditator, athlete, and so on. The identities we assume don't have to make sense. For example, even though I've written five books and many published essays, I still don't have the identity of being a writer. And stranger still, even though I've been severely limited in my physical activities for over twenty years due to a chronic immune system condition, I still see myself as an athlete. Actually it doesn't really matter if our identities make sense; what matters is how attached to them we are in our need to define ourselves.

Both our self-images and our identities become part and parcel of the stories we weave about ourselves. Almost always these stories are skewered versions of the truth concerning who we are—our history, our victimhood, why we're angry, and on and on. We are caught in a story when we tell ourselves, “I'm worthless,” or “I'm depressed,” or “People should appreciate me.” We're particularly caught when we say, “I'm this way because . . . ,” and then assign blame to others such as our parents or to something that happened to us. We can also know we're wrapped up in one of our many stories if we have the thought “I'm the kind of person who . . . ,” or “I'm not the kind of person who . . . .” For example, “I'm the kind of person who has to be alone.” Or, “I'm not the kind of person who can be disciplined.” The point is, most of our stories are self-deceptions in that they are partially manufactured versions of the truth—truths we adopt in order to feel a particular way. But living out of stories prevents us from living more genuinely.

Another universal version of living out of stories is holding on to our beliefs, many of which are illusions. For example, most of us have the belief, the illusion, that we are in control, or that we
can
be in control. We cling to this illusion because the fear of loss of control is one of our strongest fears. Even when we see all the evidence to the contrary, we still live our day-to-day life with the illusion that we're in the driver's seat. In fact, many of our personality strategies are based on this illusion. For instance, we think that following the control strategy of trying to please others will keep us safe from disapproval. Or we might think if we follow the control strategy of trying harder, we can make life go as we would like. The point is, each closely held belief, such as the illusion of control, defines us and limits us in many ways we can't even see.

Another universal illusion, or story, is the belief that what
we “know” is The Truth. We believe our thoughts and our opinions, usually without ever questioning them, forgetting that they are all relative, flawed, and limited. When we have an opinion about someone or something, we're rarely aware that it's just an opinion. The illusion—or self-deception—is that what we're believing is The Truth. Yet in spite of the basic insanity of believing our thoughts, we do it all the time. We firmly believe what we want to believe—we often won't even entertain other possibilities. In light of the fact that we can deceive ourselves about almost anything, honest self-observation is often a study in living free from illusions, particularly the illusions that narrowly dictate how we live our lives.

Perhaps the most pivotal story we tell ourselves is the deep-seated illusion that we are one single, permanent self. Yet simple observation would show us that we are really a collection of many “Me's,” or personas. Which “Me” predominates depends on which self-image or identity we're believing in, and also on what beliefs we're holding to in the moment. A simple example is how the mood we're in determines how we see things—if we're in a good mood, other people may seem fine to us, whereas if our mood turns sour, the exact same people may seem to be irritating. Or a more telling example: We can see ourselves as trustworthy and upright, and firmly pledge that we won't engage in a particular behavior again, such as drinking or overeating. But two hours later we may find ourselves doing the exact thing we sincerely believed we wouldn't do. Often these Me's are not even in touch with one another, which is another example of our psychological blinders that don't allow one part to see another part.

Given that we have examples of similar situations every day, how can we continue to believe in the story of being a single, unchanging self? In fact, the whole notion that who we are is
limited to the story of a single self is perhaps the main illusion that spiritual practice addresses. This is why one of the deepest teachings is that there is no one special that we need to be. In other words, to be inwardly free means we don't have to live out of our self-images and identities; we don't have to feel a particular way; we don't have to believe the stories we tell ourselves—the stories that dictate who we are and how we live.

In order to experience the freedom of living a more authentic life, it is absolutely necessary that we drop our stories and illusions. This is certainly not easy to do, and it helps to know what it actually looks like to live authentically. First and foremost, living authentically means living with honesty—being willing to look at our own illusions and self-deceptions; questioning our self-images and self-limiting identities; examining the stories we weave about ourselves, including our stories about our past and who we are. Many of our convictions, ideals, and “shoulds” are just mental constructs, born out of our conditioning. Do we have the courage to see them for what they are? Can we experience the freedom of no longer using them as a prop?

We have to realize how our identities, convictions, and stories prop up our sense of purpose and importance in order to subtly make us feel special. We count on these props to give us a feeling of solidity and security. When we lose one of these props, such as when losing our job or having a relationship failure, we naturally experience anxiety: without our familiar supports we are left with just ourselves, which is a frightening prospect. This is why we try to fill our lives with busyness and doing, as well as with our many diversions and entertainments—to guarantee that we are never left alone with ourselves. We don't want to feel that hole of emptiness. Some people even experience this when they have no plans for the day. Upon awakening, instead of looking forward to a free day of relaxation, there's a feeling of
being lost: “Who will I be? What will I do?” This means that the ability to be truly at home with oneself hasn't been cultivated.

But as we see through our illusions, identities, and stories, they decreasingly dictate how we feel and how we live. This is what it means, in part, to live authentically—no longer fooling ourselves with our illusions and self-deceptions. But in order to be free of them, we first have to
see
them with both clarity and precision. What this requires more than anything is being open to our life—being willing to face the things we've never wanted to face. This includes our fears—of rejection, unworthiness, and uncertainty. To be open, to be present, in turn allows us the possibility of no longer sleepwalking through life, just seeking comfort, security, and approval, and no longer living with the illusion that we have endless time.

In aspiring to live more authentically it's important that we don't set up unrealistic ideals—the ideal that we should always be present, or be able to drop all of our self-images, or never indulge ourselves in diversions. That would be a simplistic moral stance. A much healthier stance is that we at least need to
have the intention
to live more honestly and more awake. And also with more kindness toward ourselves for the many times we will falter, including when we don't look at ourselves with honesty, or when we waste time instead of meditating, or holler at somebody just because we're in a bad mood. Feeling guilty when these things inevitably happen is unnecessary and not at all helpful. What is helpful, however, is to occasionally feel remorse for not living from our true heart, from our aspiration to live more awake.

On the long path of practice we move from living from our self-images and our many stories to living more from our deepest values, our most authentic self. When I reflect on the teachers
I have most admired, the values that stand out the most are: honesty in looking at one's life, not settling for complacency, living with presence, inner quiet, and inner strength, and living with appreciation and kindness—all of which contribute to true contentment. What gets in the way of this movement toward our authentic self, more than anything, is our insistence on identifying with the small self—preserving our narrow world of being special, of needing to look and feel a particular way. When we are faced with a choice point, we can remember the question of the eternal recurrence. In order to turn away from the small self and toward what is most genuine, we ask ourselves, “If I were to live this life over again an eternal number of times in the exact same way, what would I do in this situation?” Reflecting with honesty on what is our true path, on what we most value, we can take the step to avoid the inauthentic, to avoid the remorse of living dishonestly.

Sometimes this step will require courage, to break free of the complacency of the familiar. One student described to me how she was very caught in her vanity, to the point where she thought constantly about what she would wear and how she would look. I suggested she devote one day a week to having a “bad-hair day,” where she would consciously and purposefully make her hair look not quite okay—to help free herself from what others think. Naturally she had a lot of resistance, but after she tried it a few times, she found it so freeing she started doing an occasional “bad-clothes day” as well. Not
needing
to look a particular way gives us a direct taste of the freedom of no one special to be.

I remember when one of my daughters, who was around five at the time, became very enthusiastic about dressing herself. She would put on four or five outfits at a time, each one layered on top of the other so you would see just parts of each blouse or
dress. The problem, from my small-minded point of view, was that she looked so strange, and at first I was a little embarrassed. But she was so excited about her outfits that I started to look anew, and I saw that she had her own aesthetic, which was actually quite pleasing. The point is, on a very simple level, she was living authentically—not according to the convention of how she was supposed to look but according to her own inner sense. What's so sad is that we lose this naturally open mind as we grow older and we become more and more concerned with fitting in, with looking “right.” Our self-image becomes our master.

One of my favorite aphorisms goes, “Dropping our facades, our identities, our stories—what remains? The answer: just being.”

Where this gets difficult is when it gets close to home. An example is from John Lennon's song “Imagine”: “Imagine there's no countries . . . / Nothing to kill or die for / And no religion too.” He was describing the freedom of giving up our fixed views, even on the things we take most for granted, such as our so-called patriotism or our religious views. Or our most cherished facades and self-images. Or the stories we cling to as “our truth”—such as the story “I need someone to take care of me,” or “Life is too hard,” or “I'm worthless.” An excellent question to ask ourselves is, “Who would I be without this story? This belief? This identity? This fear?” This question takes courage, because we have to look beyond the safety of the familiar. But living just for safety is dangerous—dangerous to living authentically!

It also takes honesty and precision to look at ourselves deeply, because we are identified with these views, stories, and self-images as the unassailable truth. These things serve as a subtle barrier to experiencing our natural being, our most authentic self. This is why so much emphasis has to be placed on objective
self-observation. Especially when we're in the midst of discomfort, we need to ask, “What is my most believed thought right now?” Once we see the thought clearly, our identification with our emotional state begins to lessen. To help diminish this identification with the narrow subjective experience of being a “Me” even further, we can label our experience and thereby make it more objective. For example, if we find that we're hurt or afraid, instead of thinking, “I'm hurt” or “I'm afraid,” we can say, “There is hurt” or “There is fear.” In so doing we are no longer equating “I” with hurt or fear. We can even use this technique with physical discomfort. Instead of saying, “I have a headache” or “My back hurts,” we can say, “There is pain.” In using this simple approach we can begin to free ourselves from our intense identification with our emotions and even with our body. Sometimes just repeating the phrase “No one special to be” can break our identification with whatever emotion or story we're caught in.

Once we have objectified our thought process, in order to free ourselves even more completely, we must bring awareness to what it feels like, physically, to be caught in “Me.” We ask ourselves, “What is this?” or “What is this experience?” We then focus like a laser on the subjective experience of living in the narrow inner sphere of “Me-ness.” What does it actually feel like, very specifically, to be holding on to an opinion, or to be caught in a self-image or an emotion?