Emotional Alchemy by Tara Bennett-Goleman – Chapter 2
A Wise Compassion
The week before my grandmother died, I took a bouquet of lilies to her in the hospital. She was developing pneumonia, however, and her labored breath made it dear that the scent of the lilies was too strong for her. So I took them home and put them in a special place next to her picture. • I’m familiar with the life cycle of lilies, since they’re my favorite flower. These lilies surprised me, lasting much, much longer than usual. In a sense, it was as though I still had something of my grandmother’s life with me— taking care other flowers, which lived on even after her life had come to an end. • The lilies had a place of honor in the sun- room, where I ate breakfast each morning. As each petal was transformed from soft pink into sienna, folding in its edges as its life came to a dose, I watched the bouquet dwindle down to just the decorative greens, which also lasted several weeks beyond their typical life span. Two stems with shiny green leaves were still standing alert after five weeks. One morning when I came downstairs I looked for the last brave remnants of my grand mother’s bouquet—and the vase was empty! A houseguest who didn’t know about my quiet ritual had, understandably, thrown out the last two stems of greens as she was tidying up. [ia I made breakfast as I absorbed the shock. “They’re gone now. It’s time to let go,” a grown-up voice inside me soberly instructed me—as’I almost poured coffee into my eggs.
“I want my grandmother’s flowers back!” a less grown-up inner voice protested. I was not ready for the vase to be empty, just as I wasn’t prepared for my grandmother to be gone, even though she was ninety-one.
“We were supposed to” have more time together,” the voice complained. I hadn’t expected my grandmother to be absent from my life with such suddenness. I knew I should accept the loss, but something in me just couldn’t.
I could feel the inner tug-of-war between the rational voice that advised acceptance and the emotional voice that fought against it—the rational adult voice of reason telling me to let go now, and the voice of the vulnerable granddaughter who needed to adjust to this profound loss through her quiet ritual of decay ing flowers.
As I quietly reflected on these abrupt losses, I felt a sense of compassion for my own denial. When someone we love is taken away from us so quickly, the shock seems too much to bear all at once. Too often we let our impatient, judgmental grown-up inner voices browbeat us about how we’re supposed to feel. The vulnera ble child inside understands that she will eventually have to adjust—but she needs more time.
As I watched each flower petal gradually wither as its life came to a close, I was reminded of the natural life cycle of a flower, of a human life, of my grandmother. Observing this process gave me time to adjust emotionally to this sudden and profound loss. There grew an understanding of things as they are naturally—the’truth of impermanence symbolized by the absent flowers. .
Grieving for the loss of a grandmother, of course, is a natu ral and healthy process. But with patterns of feeling that may be less healthy, we need to be just as compassionate with ourselves. As we enter the territory of our most difficult emotional habits, we need to bring to bear a tender empathy for ourselves as we let go of these old familiar ways of being. Before we can turn to a more rational view, we need to empathize with our emotional needs—before we can change, we need to accept and be loving to ourselves.
The Unfolding of Compassion
As we unravel the webs of meaning woven into our emotional habits, a sense of compassion for ourselves can naturally emerge, along with the insights this work reveals. In one of my workshops, for instance, we had been discussing schemas, the life events that gave rise to them, and the intense feelings like anger or sadness connected with these patterns. And then we meditated on these feelings, not thinking about the feelings so much as allowing a mindful pres ence to listen, receptive to any insights or messages that are ready to come into awareness.
Afterward, a woman reported her insight into a lifelong pat tern. “Whenever I feel depressed or just sad, I get this strong fear that I might die,” she said. “I’ve had these feelings ever since team remember, and it’s always puzzled me. It’s not as if I want my life to end. During the meditation, those feelings came to mind—the fear mingled with the sadness. As I sat with these feelings, I sud denly had a clarifying memory: being a toddler in my crib, crying and crying, with no one responding, sobbing so much I started to choke, and still no one came. I was terrified that I would die, and deeply sad about being left all alone.”
Then, after a reflective pause, she continued: “1 remember my mother telling me years ago that when I was little, she raised me according to a parenting manual that was popular in those days. It told her to feed me only every four hours, on a strict schedule, and not to console me no matter how much I cried— doing so would spoil me, ruin my character. I see now where this connection I’ve had between sadness and a fear of dying came from, and I know that I’m not going to die of sadness.”
For this woman, unraveling the hidden meanings behind these recurring feelings of sadness and fear unleashed a strong empathy for herself. The qualities of insight and compassion illu-minate the truth, as they melt inner barriers, letting us connect more genuinely with ourselves.
This empathy can also be extremely helpful when we are relating to such vulnerability in others. Even if we don’t rationally agree with someone’s emotional reactions, we can have compassionate thoughts such as “He seems to be overreacting, but given what I know about his past, I can understand how he might see things as threatening.”
This stance does not condone how the person may be reacting. But seeing others through the lens of compassion like this gives us more information, letting us make sense of what would otherwise be perplexing reactions, and enables us to be more spacious in our own response. Compassion can make our difficulties feel more workable.
Wisdom and Compassion
On this path wisdom and compassion work together; the insight of seeing things truly needs to be balanced with a compassionate acceptance of the way things are. My teacher Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche described it as the two wings of a bird: without either one of the wings, the bird is unable to fly.
As we engage in this emotional work we may start to see many things about ourselves and others with a new honesty as truths are laid bare. Here a compassionate attitude—the wish to be of help not just to ourselves but to others as well—becomes essential. Without that attitude, we may see those truths more harshly.
I remember returning from a few months of intensive meditation practice many years ago. The momentum of practice had become so strong that after I got home, everything but meditation seemed like a distraction. I felt I was seeing things about myself and other people very clearly, especially the ways we perpetuate our own suffering, driven by habitual impulses and patterns but oblivious to their root causes. I found it very disturbing, especially the ways all this happened with so little awareness.
Then, after some time, I realized there was a missing element: compassion. Once I realized this, I felt a deep wish to understand more clearly—and compassionately—these habitual cycles of conditioning that contribute to our suffering. The inner work, both spiritual and psychological, I undertook with that resolve eventually led to this book.
The important learning for me at that point was seeing so dearly the crucial role of compassion in this work, whether it be at the level of understanding psychological patterns that motivate us, or the wish that everyone be free from suffering.
Embodied Compassion
I was sitting in a taxi on a bustling street in New Delhi, waiting at what seemed an interminable stoplight. A beggar was taking the opportunity to make his alms rounds among the waiting cars. He was missing one arm and one leg, but somehow managed to glide gracefully from car to car.
There was something unusual about this beggar: he seemed to give something of himself as he approached each car. That something could not be measured by material standards; on that level he had only rags. It was something greater: a spirit of lightness and resilience. He didn’t seem at all bothered by his physical condition. Nor did he seem to hold the slightest grudge against the people in cars who gave him nothing—he seemed to nod in understanding and gracefully hop to the next car.
As he reached my taxi I pulled out of my bag what turned out to be a large rupee note and handed it to him, smiling. In India, beggars are usually given just a few paisa, the almost worthless Indian coins, if anything.
He glided to the side of the road, seemingly to reflect on his good fortune. In the moments before the light turned green, he looked at me with an engaging warmth in his eyes and a smile so radiant it melted my heart.
That special quality in this beggar, I realized, was his compassionate presence and the gift of his spirit, which he freely gave to those he encountered—whether they gave back to him or not. The quality of this man’s being was the gift he offered. When. we are free of self-concern or self-pity, free of inner preoccupations, compassion emerges as a spontaneous expression of our awareness. I’ve read that the Dalai Lama’s first thought as he awakens each morning is a prayer of love and compassion. He dedicates all the coming actions of the day to the benefit of all living beings.
Forming this intention in the mind—to benefit other living beings—is a habit that can be cultivated as a practice. With persistence, it can become a habit so strong that it infuses our mindstream as an automatic way of relating to others.
Watching the Dalai Lama interact with people offers proof of this possibility: he seems to have a knack for connecting with people in exactly the way they need in that moment. And he connects with everyone, without being bound by the arbitrary social conventions—time and again I’ve seen him notice the people in a situation who are so often overlooked: guards at the stage door of a theater, handicapped people in wheelchairs hidden in the crowd.
He seems to have a compassionate radar for people who are struggling in some way, reaching out to them in a crowd in the passing moments while he walks through a throng. He offers a living example of embodied compassion—something possible for each of us.
As the Dalai Lama often teaches, the ability to embody compassion can be developed through practices designed for that purpose. In one tradition of mindfulness meditation, each session ends with a short practice ofmetta, the word in the Pali language for loving-kindness. This prayer expresses the same compassionate wish for oneself, for one’s loved ones, for people one has difficulties with, and finally for everyone.
That compassion should radiate in all directions, including toward oneself, is an idea that has gotten lost in the West, where we tend to think of compassion only as aimed toward others. The Dalai Lama emphasizes that the concept of compassion in Tibetan Buddhism explicitly includes oneself as well as others—a notion captured by the bodhisattva wish: “May I be liberated for the benefit of all beings.”
That is a key point, one we will return to as we explore the path of emotional alchemy.
Equanimity
While emotional alchemy involves empathy with our distorted thoughts, this is not the same as colluding with those skewed ways of seeing, nor does it mean believing in these irrational ways of thinking about ourselves or other people. It means understanding how we perceive and how our perceptions are colored and swayed by hidden meanings.
Equanimity is a profound quality of mindfulness that cultivates the ability to let go. With equanimity, we can acknowledge that things are as they are, even though we may wish otherwise. It allows us to accept things that we have no control over, and it allows us to have the courageousness of heart to stay open in the face of adversity. Equanimity can be used as a practice in itself, to help bring a mental ease to turbulent emotions like anxiety, worry and fear, frustration and anger.
Of course, equanimity does not imply indifference or that we should simply accept everything as it is—injustice, unfaimess, and suffering all call for action to make what changes we can. But even as we do so, an inner state of equanimity will make us more effective. And when it comes to those problems in life overwhich we have no control—and to our emotional reactions—equanimity offers a great inner resource: a sense ofnonreactivity, of patience and acceptance.
Courageousness of Heart
My mother once told me about an experience she had many years ago on the streets of New York City. She was walking alone at night, having left her purse and money at home, when a disheveled young man approached her. My mother, being naturally warmhearted, immediately felt sorry for him.
As she expected, he asked her for money. As he was asking, she noticed, out of the comer of her eye, a bulge in his pocket pointing toward her—what might have been a weapon.
It was a potentially dangerous moment, but she remained in touch with her compassionate urge, responding with a heartfelt, “I’m so sorry—I wish I could help you, but I didn’t bring any money with me.”
The young man was dearly taken aback, disarmed by her unexpectedly caring response. Backing away, he said, “That’s okay, lady,” and walked on.
Of course, incidents like this can easily turn nasty; a wise option might have been to try to get away from such a risky situation, and I certainly feel relieved that no harm came to my mother. But many years later I still find myself reflecting on what might have been so disarming for that man on the street.
I wonder if my mother’s genuine compassion could have played the crucial role. In Buddhist psychology, compassion is seen as a direct antidote to aggression. Or perhaps it was her equanimity as she calmly faced the potentially threatening situation.
I’ll never know for sure, but one possible explanation might have to do with research showing that when the part of the brain that generates positive emotions becomes more active, the centers for disturbing emotions quiet down. Emotions are contagious: I wonder if my mother’s genuine compassion might have played a role in shifting the man’s brain response.
Similarly, a few years ago I was at a conference on peacemaking with the Dalai Lama and some social activists, including young people from the inner city. Some very practical concerns were raised by the teenagers: What can I do to get home safely from school? How can I be more confident in risky situations so I can deal better with tough kids?
Inspired by their discussions with the Dalai Lama about using meditation and compassion to deal with these issues, many of the youths came to see that tempering their own emotional reactions gave them a way to feel less helpless. And that actually might help them deal with tough situations more skillfully and with more equanimity.
Making Friends with Ourselves
Equanimity and compassion are invaluable inner resources as we unravel the conditioning of our deep patterns, or grapple with our reactions as we confront challenging life situations.
If we don’t move beyond our personal identification with our emotional pain or confusion, we can miss another opportunity. We need to be open to deeper insights that might redefine our limited sense of ourselves, or of others. If we get too caught up in grappling with our emotions, we might miss the chance to turn toward essential qualities within. We might miss significant messages from the very pain we have been resisting. Or we might begin to identify too much with our patterns rather than releasing them. Release would allow us to free up energy that had been trapped, letting us be more creative, more present, more available—or of greater service—to others.
Glimpses of these changes and openings along the way let us keep in mind what’s possible. These glimpses can give us courage or inspiration to continue along the path of this inner work.
It takes great courage to face this unknown territory of our emotional habits, and sometimes we may lose heart, wanting to avoid facing painful truths or troubling feelings. It’s only human to let our distractions shield us. Turning to compassion and equanimity can be a refuge at every stage of this work.
When people go on meditation retreats where they practice intensively, the first few days or hours are often a time of discomfort. We feel physically uncomfortable, we miss our habitual comforts and routines, and we start to quiet down enough to tune in to emotional struggles that have long gone unnoticed but that suddenly are there, on retreat, waiting to greet us. Then, depending on the practice we have come to do, we may try to escapeor cover up the pain by practicing a soothing meditation.
But with the practice of mindfulness, everything becomes the focus of our meditation—including the pain, the discomfort, even the emotions that we would rather have left behind in some closet of the mind. And we find that not only are those emotions here, waiting for us, but other triggers lurk nearby as well, poised to set us off afresh. We did not leave the inner strife at home; we brought it right along with us—in our minds.
We don’t need to go on a meditation retreat to do this work, but the experience of watching our minds on retreat does encapsulate what can happen when we observe our minds closely.
In an intensive mindfulness retreat there is a familiar progression. As we bring mindfulness to bear, we get to a point where we’ve observed our mind long enough to become more aware of its repetitive cycles, playing the same tapes over and over, in endless variations. We begin to recognize patterns as we learn what is actually going on. Sometimes we will gain psychological insight into the underlying causes, or into some other aspect, of these story lines. But as time goes on, there’s typically a shift of focus from the story, from the specifics of the mind’s contents, to the process of the mind’s workings.
After a while, we start to relate to these’emotional struggles as a part of settling into mindfulness practice, as we make friends with ourselves in a deeper way through bringing precise awareness to our experiences. As mindfulness deepens and we make more space within ourselves for all of our feelings, discomforts, and reactions, our relationship to them shifts. We bring more acceptance and openness to this inner turmoil.
As we practice staying with the course of a feeling until it comes to its natural end, but in doing so with the equanimity of mindfulness, we begin to see more clearly the arising and passing of the endless stream of thoughts and feelings that course through our mind and body. We become less compelled to act on those reactions or to react to our reactions; we just let them come and go. And with this loosening of our usual identifications, we become less defined by our reactions as we widen the scope of who we think we are. We can begin to rest more and more in our awareness, rather than being swept away by our experiences.
As we move on to the specifics of dealing with our disturbing emotional patterns, it’s useful to keep this overview of the transormative path in mind as a larger perspective on this work.
If You Want to Cultivate Equanimity and Compassion
Begin with the practice of loving-kindness combined with a reflection on equanimity.
There are two approaches, both involving short reflections. One begins the practice of loving-kindness with a reflection on equanimity. The other integrates the equanimity and loving kindness practices into one.
Equanimity practice can be an inner resource to turn to whenever we face difficult moments. The practice of equanimity involves silently repeating to yourself a phrase while you reflect on its meaning. When your mind wanders, bring it back to the phrase, and to the feeling of equanimity it evokes. You can do this for just a few moments or for several minutes.
The phrases used in this practice have real power; all help cultivate an attitude of impartial equanimity toward all beings. Here are some examples (you can change and adapt these phrases to make them more relevant for you):
May I accept things as they are.
I wish you happiness and well-being, but I cannot make
your choices for you or control the way things are.
Loving-kindness Practice
In this reflection, you repeat phrases that reflect this quality of loving-kindness. Whenever your mind wanders, reconnect again with a feeling of love or warmth toward people.
As with the equanimity practice, the specific wording of the phrases you use is up to you; change them so they have resonance or meaning for you.
In this practice, you repeat the same phrase, but direct it toward yourself, toward specific people, and finally to everyone. Others to whom you can direct loving-kindness include your benefactors, your loved ones, groups you feel neutral about, people you have particular difficulty with, and all beings in all directions throughout the universe.
There are several forms of the loving-kindness meditation. Here’s one.
Just as I want to be free from suffering, may all beings be free from suffering.
Another classic form:
May I be free from suffering and the cause of suffering.
May I have ease of well-being.
May I be protected and safe.
May I be happy.
Then express the same wish for others—your loved ones, difficult people, or whomever you choose. Finally extend these genuine wishes of compassion and love to all beings everywhere:
May all beings be free from suffering and the cause of
suffering.
May all beings be protected and safe.
May all beings be happy.
Here’s a short form of the loving-kindness practice, expressed toward all beings:
May all beings be safe, happy, healthy, and free from
suffering. May all beings be liberated.
If that appeals to you, you can express those wishes first for yourself, then for the other groups, and finally for everyone.
You can also integrate equanimity practice with loving- kindness. A simple way is to come back to an equanimity phrase after reciting those for loving-kindness.
Equanimity balances compassion and loving-kindness. The Dalai Lama advises practicing equanimity before loving-kindness as a way to take the sting out of attachment to wanting things to be a certain way. This balance blends into a wise compassion.
