On his initial visit, the well-groomed middle-aged gentleman, elegantly dressed in an austere black Armani suit, sat down in a polite yet reserved manner and began to relate what had brought him into the office. He spoke rather softly, in a controlled, measured voice. I ran through the list of standard questions: presenting complaint, age, background, marital status, ....

“That bitch!” he cried suddenly, his voice seething with rage. “My damn wife! EX-wife, now. She was having an affair behind my back! And after everything I did for her. That little ... that little ... SLUT_!” His voice became louder, more angry, and more venomous, as for the next twenty minutes he recounted grievance after grievance against his ex-wife.

Our time was coming to a close. Realizing that he was just getting warmed up and could easily continue in this vein for hours, I redirected him. “Well, most people have difficulty adjusting to a recent divorce, and that is certainly something that we can address in future sessions,” I said soothingly. “By the way, how long have you been divorced?”

“Seventeen years, last May.”

In the last chapter we discussed the importance of accepting suffering as a natural fact of human existence. While some kinds of suffering are inevitable, other kinds are self-created. We explored, for instance, how the refusal to accept suffering as a natural part of life can lead to viewing oneself as a perpetual victim and blaming others for our problems—a surefire recipe for a miserable life.

But we also add to our own suffering in other ways. All too often we perpetuate our pain, keep it alive, by replaying our hurts over and over again in our minds, magnifying our injustices in the process. We repeat our painful memories with the unconscious wish perhaps that somehow it will change the situation—but it never does. Of course, sometimes this endless recounting of our woes can serve a limited purpose_; it can add drama and a certain excitement to our lives or elicit attention and sympathy from others. But this seems like a poor trade-off for the unhappiness we continue to endure.

In speaking about how we add to our own suffering, the Dalai Lama explained, “We can see that there are many ways in which we actively contribute to our own experience of mental unrest and suffering. Although, in general, mental and emotional afflictions themselves can come naturally, often it is our own reinforcement of those negative emotions that makes them so much worse. For instance when we have anger or hatred towards a person, there is less likelihood of its developing to a very intense degree if we leave it unattended. However, if we think about the projected injustices done to us, the ways in which we have been unfairly treated, and we keep on thinking about them over and over, then that feeds the hatred. It makes the hatred very powerful and intense. Of course, the same can apply to when we have an attachment towards a particular person_; we can feed that by thinking about how beautiful he or she is, and as we keep thinking about the projected qualities that we see in the person, the attachment becomes more and more intense. But this shows how through constant familiarity and thinking, we ourselves can make our emotions more intense and powerful.

“We also often add to our pain and suffering by being overly sensitive, overreacting to minor things, and sometimes taking things too personally. We tend to take small things too seriously and blow them up out of proportion, while at the same time we often remain indifferent to the really important things, those things which have profound effects on our lives and long-term consequences and implications.

“So I think that to a large extent, whether you suffer depends on how you respond to a given situation. For example, say that you find out that someone is speaking badly of you behind your back. If you react to this knowledge that someone is speaking badly of you, this negativity, with a feeling of hurt or anger, then you yourself destroy your own peace of mind. Your pain is your own personal creation. On the other hand, if you refrain from reacting in a negative way, let the slander pass by you as if it were a silent wind passing behind your ears, you protect yourself from that feeling of hurt, that feeling of agony. So, although you may not always be able to avoid difficult situations, you can modify the extent to which you suffer by how you choose to respond to the situation.”

We also often add to our pain and suffering by being overly sensitive, overreacting to minor things, and sometimes taking things too personally ...“ With these words, the Dalai Lama recognizes the origin of many of the day-to-day aggravations that can add up to be a major source of suffering. Therapists sometimes call this process personalizing our pain—the tendency to narrow our psychological field of vision by interpreting or misinterpreting everything that occurs in terms of its impact on us.

One night I had dinner with a colleague at a restaurant. The service at the restaurant turned out to be very slow, and from the time we sat down, my colleague began to complain: “Look at that! That waiter is so damn slow! Where is he? I think he’s purposely ignoring us!”

Although neither of us had pressing engagements, my colleague’s complaints about the slow service continued to escalate throughout the meal and expanded into a litany of complaints about the food, tableware, and anything else that was not to his liking. At the end of the meal, the waiter presented us with two free desserts, explaining, “I apologize for the slow service this evening,” he said sincerely, “but we’re a little understaffed. One of the cooks had a death in the family and is off tonight, and one of the servers called in sick at the last minute. I hope it didn’t inconvenience you ...”

“I’m still never coming here again,” my colleague muttered bitterly under his breath as the waiter walked off.

This is only a minor illustration of how we contribute to our own suffering by personalizing every annoying situation, as if it were being intentionally perpetrated on us. In this case, the net result was only a ruined meal, an hour of aggravation. But when this kind of thinking becomes a pervasive pattern of relating to the world and extends to every comment made by our family or friends, or even events in society at large, it can become a significant source of our misery.

In describing the wider implications of this kind of narrow thinking, Jacques Lusseyran once made an insightful observation. Lusseyran, blind from the age of eight, was a founder of a resistance group in World War II. Eventually, he was captured by the Germans and imprisoned in Buchenwald concentration camp. In later recounting his experiences in the camps, Lusseyran stated, “ ... Unhappiness, I saw then, comes to each of us because we think ourselves at the center of the world, because we have the miserable conviction that we alone suffer to the point of unbearable intensity. Unhappiness is always to feel oneself imprisoned in one’s own skin, in one’s own brain.”

“BUT IT’S NOT FAIR!”

In our daily life, problems invariably arise. But problems themselves do not automatically cause suffering. If we can directly address our problem and focus our energies on finding a solution, for instance, the problem can be transformed into a challenge. If we throw into the mix, however, a feeling that our problem is “unfair,” we add an additional ingredient that can become a powerful fuel in creating mental unrest and emotional suffering. And now we not only have two problems instead of one, but that feeling of “unfairness” distracts us, consumes us, and robs us of the energy needed to solve the original problem.

Raising this issue with the Dalai Lama one morning, I asked, “How can we deal with the feeling of unfairness that so often seems to torture us when problems arise?”

The Dalai Lama replied, “There may be a variety of ways that one might deal with the feeling that one’s suffering is unfair. I’ve already spoken of the importance of accepting suffering as a natural fact of human existence. And I think that in some ways Tibetans might be in a better position to accept the reality of these difficult situations, because they will say, ‘Maybe it is because of my Karma in the past.’ They will attribute it to negative actions committed in either this or a previous life, and so there is a greater degree of acceptance. I have seen some families in our settlements in India, with very difficult situations—living under very poor conditions, and on top of that having children with both eyes blind or sometimes retarded. And somehow these poor ladies still manage to look after them, simply saying, ‘This is due to their Karma_; it is their fate.’

“In mentioning Karma, here I think that it is important to point out and understand that sometimes due to one’s misunderstanding of the doctrine of Karma, there is a tendency to blame everything on Karma and try to exonerate oneself from the responsibility or from the need to take personal initiative. One could quite easily say, ‘This is due to my past Karma, my negative past Karma, and what can I do? I am helpless.’ This is a totally wrong understanding of Karma, because although one’s experiences are a consequence of one’s past deeds, that does not mean that the individual has no choice or that there is no room for initiative to change, to bring about positive change. And this is the same in all areas of life. One should not become passive and try to excuse oneself from having to take personal initiative on the grounds that everything is a result of Karma, because if one understands the concept of Karma properly, one will understand that Karma means ‘action.’ Karma is a very active process. And when we talk of Karma, or action, it is the very action committed by an agent, in this case, ourselves, in the past. So what type of future will come about, to a large extent, lies within our own hands in the present. It will be determined by the kind of initiatives that we take now.

“So, Karma should not be understood in terms of a passive, static kind of force but rather should be understood in terms of an active process. This indicates that there is an important role for the individual agent to play in determining the course of the Karmic process. For instance, even a simple act or a simple purpose, like fulfilling our needs for food ... In order to achieve that simple goal, we need an action on the part of ourselves. We need to look for food, and then we need to eat it_; this shows that even for the simplest act, even a simple goal is achieved through action ...”

“Well, reducing the feeling of unfairness by accepting that it is a result of one’s Karma may be effective for Buddhists,” I interjected. “But what about those who don’t believe in the doctrine of Karma? Many in the West for instance ...”

“People who believe in the idea of a Creator, of God, may accept these difficult circumstances more easily by viewing them as part of God’s creation or plan. They may feel that even though the situation appears to be very negative, God is all powerful and very merciful, so there may be some meaning, some significance, behind the situation that they may not be aware of. I think that kind of faith can sustain and help them during their times of suffering.”

“And what about those who don’t believe in either the doctrine of Karma or the idea of a Creator God?”

“For a nonbeliever ... ,” the Dalai Lama pondered for several moments before responding, “ ... perhaps a practical, scientific approach could help. I think that scientists usually consider it very important to look at a problem objectively, to study it without much emotional involvement. With this kind of approach, you can look at the problem with the attitude ‘If there’s a way to fight the problem, then fight, even if you have to go to court!’” He laughed. “Then, if you find that there’s no way to win, you can simply forget about it.

“An objective analysis of difficult or problematic situations can be quite important, because with this approach you’ll often discover that behind the scenes there may be other factors at play. For instance, if you feel that you’re being treated unfairly by your boss at work, there may be other factors at play; he may be annoyed by something else, an argument with his wife that morning or something, and his behavior may have nothing to do with you personally, may not be specifically directed at you. Of course, you must still face whatever the situation may be, but at least with this approach you may not have the additional anxiety that would come along with it.”

“Could this kind of ‘scientific’ approach, in which one objectively analyzes a situation, also possibly help one to discover ways in which oneself may be contributing to the problem? And could that help reduce the feeling of unfairness associated with the difficult situation?”

“Yes!” he responded enthusiastically. “That would definitely make a difference. In general, if we carefully examine any given situation in a very unbiased and honest way, we will realize that to a large extent we are also responsible for the unfolding of events.

“For instance, many people blamed the Gulf War on Saddam Hussein. Afterwards, on various occasions I expressed, ‘That’s not fair!’ Under such circumstances, I really feel kind of sorry for Saddam Hussein. Of course, he is a dictator, and of course, there are many other bad things about him. If you look at the situation roughly, it’s easy to place all the blame on him—he’s a dictator, totalitarian, and even his eyes look a little bit frightening!” he laughed. “But without his army his capacity to harm is limited, and without military equipment that powerful army cannot function. All this military equipment is not produced by itself from thin air! So, when we look at it like that, many nations are involved.

“So,” the Dalai Lama continued, “often our normal tendency is to try to blame our problems on others, on external factors. Furthermore, we tend to look for one single cause, and then try to exonerate ourselves from the responsibility. It seems that whenever there are intense emotions involved, there tends to be a disparity between how things appear and how they really are. In this case if you go further and analyze the situation very carefully, you’ll see that Saddam Hussein is part of the source of the problem, one of the factors, but there are other contributing conditions as well. Once you realize this, your earlier attitude that he is the only cause automatically falls away and the reality of the situation emerges.

“This practice involves looking at things in a holistic way—realizing that there are many events contributing to a situation. For example, our problem with the Chinese—again, there is much contribution made by ourselves. I think perhaps our generation may have contributed to the situation, but definitely our previous generations I think were very negligent, at least a few generations back. So I think we, as Tibetans, contributed to this tragic situation. It’s not fair to blame everything on China. But there are so many levels. Of course, although we might be a contributing factor to a situation, that doesn’t mean we are solely to blame. For example, Tibetans have never completely bowed down to Chinese oppression_; there has been continued resistance. Because of this the Chinese developed a new policy—transferring large masses of Chinese to Tibet so that the Tibetan population becomes insignificant, the Tibetans displaced, and the movement for freedom cannot be effective. In this case we cannot say that the Tibetan resistance is to blame or is responsible for the Chinese policy.”

“When you are looking for your own contribution to a situation, what about those situations that clearly aren’t your own fault, that you have nothing to do with, even relatively insignificant everyday situations, such as when someone intentionally lies to you?” I asked.

“Of course, I may initially feel a sense of disappointment when somebody isn’t truthful, but even here, if I examine the situation, I might discover that in fact their motive for hiding something from me may not be the result of a bad motive. It may be that they simply have a certain lack of confidence in me. So sometimes when I feel disappointed by these kinds of incidents, I try to look at them from another angle; I’ll think that maybe the person did not want to fully confide in me because I won’t be able to keep it secret. My nature usually tends to be quite straightforward, so, because of this, the person might have decided that I’m not the right person who can keep the secrets, that I may not be able to keep secrets as many people would expect. In other words, I am not worthy of the person’s full trust because of my personal nature. So, looking at it in that way, I would consider the cause to be due to my own fault.”

Even coming from the Dalai Lama, this rationale seemed like a bit of a stretch—finding “your own contribution” to another’s dishonesty. But there was a genuine sincerity in his voice as he spoke, which suggested that in fact this was a technique he had used to practical advantage in his personal life to help deal with adversity. In applying this technique to our own lives, of course, we might not always be so successful in finding our own contribution to a problematic situation. But whether we are successful or not, even the honest attempt to search for our own contribution to a problem allows a certain shift of focus that helps to break through the narrow patterns of thinking that lead to the destructive feeling of unfairness that is the source of so much discontent in ourselves and in the world.

GUILT

As products of an imperfect world, all of us are imperfect. Every one of us has done some wrong. There are things we regret—things we have done or things we should have done. Acknowledging our wrongdoings with a genuine sense of remorse can serve to keep us on the right track in life and encourage us to rectify our mistakes when possible and take action to correct things in the future. But if we allow our regret to degenerate into excessive guilt, holding on to the memory of our past transgressions with continued self-blame and self-hatred, this serves no purpose other than to be a relentless source of self-punishment and self-induced suffering.

During an earlier conversation in which we had briefly discussed the death of his brother, I recalled that the Dalai Lama had spoken of some regrets related to his brother’s death. Curious about how he dealt with feelings of regret, and possibly guilt feelings, I returned to the subject in a later conversation, asking, “When we were talking about Lobsang’s death, you mentioned some regrets. Have there been other situations in your life that you’ve regretted?”

“Oh, yes. Now for instance there was one older monk who lived as a hermit. He used to come to see me to receive teachings, although I think he was actually more accomplished than I and came to me as a sort of formality. Anyway, he came to me one day and asked me about doing a certain high-level esoteric practice. I remarked in a casual way that this would be a difficult practice and perhaps would be better undertaken by someone who was younger, that traditionally it was a practice that should be started in one’s midteens. I later found out that the monk had killed himself in order to be reborn in a younger body to more effectively undertake the practice ...”

Surprised by this story, I remarked, “Oh, that’s terrible! That must have been hard on you when you heard ...”

The Dalai Lama nodded sadly.

“How did you deal with that feeling of regret? How did you eventually get rid of it?”

The Dalai Lama silently considered for quite a while before replying, “I didn’t get rid of it. It’s still there.” He stopped again, before adding, “But even though that feeling of regret is still there, it isn’t associated with a feeling of heaviness or a quality of pulling me back. It would not be helpful to anyone if I let that feeling of regret weigh me down, be simply a source of discouragement and depression with no purpose, or interfere with going on with my life to the best of my ability.”

At that moment, in a very visceral way, I was struck once again by the very real possibility of a human being’s fully facing life’s tragedies and responding emotionally, even with deep regret, but without indulging in excessive guilt or self-contempt. The possibility of a human being’s wholly accepting herself or himself, complete with limitations, foibles, and lapses of judgment. The possibility of recognizing a bad situation for what it is and responding emotionally, but without overresponding. The Dalai Lama sincerely felt regret over the incident he described but carried his regret with dignity and grace. And while carrying this regret, he has not allowed it to weigh him down, choosing instead to move ahead and focus on helping others to the best of his ability.

Sometimes I wonder if the ability to live without indulging in self-destructive guilt is partly cultural. In recounting my conversation with the Dalai Lama about regret to a friend who is a Tibetan scholar, I was told that, in fact, the Tibetan language doesn’t even have an equivalent for the English word “guilt,” although it does have words meaning “remorse” or “repentance” or “regret,” with a sense of “rectifying things in the future.” Whatever the cultural component may be, however, I believe that by challenging our customary ways of thinking and by cultivating a different mental outlook based on the principles described by the Dalai Lama, any of us can learn to live without the brand of guilt that does nothing but cause ourselves needless suffering.

RESISTING CHANGE

Guilt arises when we convince ourselves that we’ve made an irreparable mistake. The torture of guilt is in thinking that any problem is permanent. Since there is nothing that doesn’t change, however, so too pain subsides—a problem doesn’t persist. This is the positive side of change. The negative side is that we resist change in nearly every arena of life. The beginning of being released from suffering is to investigate one of the primary causes: resistance to change.

In describing the ever-changing nature of life, the Dalai Lama explained, “It’s extremely important to investigate the causes or origins of suffering, how it arises. One must begin that process by appreciating the impermanent, transient nature of our existence. All things, events, and phenomena are dynamic, changing every moment_; nothing remains static. Meditating on one’s blood circulation could serve to reinforce this idea: the blood is constantly flowing, moving_; it never stands still. This momentarily changing nature of phenomena is like a built-in mechanism. And since it is the nature of all phenomena to change every moment, this indicates to us that all things lack the ability to endure, lack the ability to remain the same. And since all things are subject to change, nothing exists in a permanent condition, nothing is able to remain the same under its own independent power. Thus, all things are under the power or influence of other factors. So, at any given moment, no matter how pleasant or pleasurable your experience may be, it will not last. This becomes the basis of a category of suffering known in Buddhism as the ‘suffering of change.’ ”

The concept of impermanence plays a central role in Buddhist thought, and the contemplation of impermanence is a key practice. Contemplation of impermanence serves two main vital functions within the Buddhist path. On a conventional level, or in an everyday sense, the Buddhist practitioner contemplates his or her own impermanence—the fact that life is tenuous and we never know when we’ll die. When this reflection is combined with a belief in the rarity of human existence and the possibility of attaining a state of spiritual Liberation, of release from suffering and endless rounds of rebirth, then this contemplation serves to increase the practitioner’s resolve to use her or his time to best advantage, by engaging in the spiritual practices that will bring about this Liberation. On a deeper level, the contemplation of the more subtle aspects of impermanence, the impermanent nature of all phenomena, begins the practitioner’s quest to understand the true nature of reality and, through this understanding, dispel the ignorance that is the ultimate source of our suffering.

So, while the contemplation of impermanence has tremendous significance within a Buddhist context, the question arises: does the contemplation and understanding of impermanence have any practical application in the everyday lives of non-Buddhists as well? If we view the concept of “impermanence” from the standpoint of “change,” then the answer is a definite yes. After all, whether one looks at life from a Buddhist perspective or a Western perspective, the fact remains that life is change. And to the degree that we refuse to accept this fact and resist the natural life changes, we will continue to perpetuate our own suffering.

The acceptance of change can be an important factor in reducing a large measure of our self-created suffering. So often, for instance, we cause our own suffering by refusing to relinquish the past. If we define our self-image in terms of what we used to look like or in terms of what we used to be able to do and can’t do now, it is a pretty safe bet that we won’t grow happier as we grow older. Sometimes, the more we try to hold on, the more grotesque and distorted life becomes.

While the acceptance of the inevitability of change, as a general principle, can help us cope with many problems, taking a more active role by specifically learning about normal life changes can prevent an even greater amount of the day-to-day anxiety that is the cause of many of our troubles.

Revealing the value of recognizing normal life changes, a new mother told me about a visit to the emergency room she had made at two o‘clock in the morning.

“What seems to be the problem?” the pediatrician asked her.

“MY BABY_! SOMETHING’S WRONG_!” she cried frantically, “I think he’s choking or something! His tongue keeps protruding ; he just keeps sticking it out ... over and over again ... like he’s trying to get something out, but there’s nothing in his mouth ...”

After a few questions and a brief examination, the doctor assured her, “There’s nothing to worry about. As a baby grows, he develops an increasing awareness of his own body and what it can do. Your baby has just discovered his tongue.”

Margaret, a thirty-one-year-old journalist, illustrates the critical importance of understanding and accepting change in the context of a personal relationship. She came to me complaining of mild anxiety which she attributed to difficulty adjusting to a recent divorce.

“I thought that it might be a good idea to have a few sessions just to talk to someone,” she explained, “to help me really put the past to rest and make the transition back to the single life. To be honest, I’m a little nervous about it ...”

I asked her to describe the circumstances of her divorce.

“I guess I’d have to describe it as amiable. There were no big fights or anything like that. My ex and I both have good jobs, so there weren’t any problems with a financial settlement. We have one boy, but he seems to have adjusted to the divorce well, and my ex and I have a joint custody agreement that is working well ...”

“I mean, can you tell me what led to the divorce?”

“Umm ... I suppose we just fell out of love,” she sighed. “It seemed that gradually the romance was gone_; we just didn’t have the same intimacy that we had when we were first married. We both got busy with our jobs and our son and just seemed to drift apart. We tried some sessions of marital counseling, but they didn’t do any good. We still got along, but it was like we were brother and sister. It didn’t feel like love, like a real marriage. Anyway, we mutually agreed that it would be best to get a divorce_; something just wasn’t there anymore.”

After spending two sessions delineating her problem, we decided on a course of short-term psychotherapy, focusing specifically on helping her reduce her anxiety and adjust to her recent life changes. Overall, she was an intelligent and emotionally well-adjusted person. She responded very well to a brief course of therapy and easily made the transition back to single life.

Despite obviously caring for each other, it was clear that Margaret and her husband had interpreted the change in their level of passion as a sign that the marriage should end. All too often we interpret a diminution of passion as a signal that there is a fatal problem in the relationship. And more often than not, the first whisper of change in our relationship may create a sense of panic, a feeling that something is drastically wrong. Perhaps we did not pick the right partner after all. Our mate just doesn’t seem like the person we fell in love with. Disagreements come up—we may be in the mood for sex and our partner is tired, we may want to see a special movie but our partner has no interest in it or is always busy. We may discover differences that we never noticed before. So, we conclude, it must be over_; after all, there’s no getting around the fact that we are growing apart. Things just aren’t the same anymore_; maybe we should get a divorce.

So what do we do? Relationship experts churn out books by the dozen, cookbooks telling us exactly what to do when the passion and flame of romance grow dim. They offer a myriad of suggestions designed to help rekindle the romance—restructure your schedule to make romantic time a priority, plan romantic dinners or weekend getaways, compliment your mate, learn how to have a meaningful conversation. Sometimes these things help. Sometimes they don’t.

But before pronouncing the relationship dead, one of the most beneficial things we can do when we notice a change is to simply stand back, assess the situation, and arm ourselves with as much knowledge as possible about the normal patterns of change in relationships.

As our lives play out, we develop from infancy to childhood, to adulthood, to old age. We accept these changes in individual development as a natural progression. But a relationship is also a dynamic living system, composed of two organisms interacting in a living environment. And as a living system, it is equally natural and right that the relationship go through stages. In any relationship, there are different dimensions of closeness—physical, emotional, and intellectual. Bodily contact, sharing emotions, thoughts, and exchanging ideas are all legitimate ways of connecting with those we love. It is normal for the balance to wax and wane: sometimes physical closeness decreases but emotional closeness can increase; at other times we don’t feel like sharing words but just want to be held. If we are sensitive to this issue, we can rejoice in the initial bloom of passion in a relationship, but if it cools, instead of feeling worry or anger, we can open ourselves to new forms of intimacy that can be equally—or perhaps more—satisfying. We can delight in our partner as a companion, enjoy a steadier love, a deeper bond.

In his book Intimate Bebavior, DesmondMorris describes the normal changes that occur in a human being’s need for closeness. He suggests that each of us repeatedly goes through three stages: “Hold me tight,” “Put me down,” and “Leave me alone.” The cycle first becomes apparentin the firstyears of life when children move from the “hold me tight” phase characteristic of infancy to the “put me down” stage when the child first begins to explore the world, crawl, walk, and achieve some independence and autonomy from the mother. This is part of normal development and growth. These phases do not just move in one direction, however ; at various stages a child may experience some anxiety when the feeling of separateness becomes too great, and then the child will return to the mother for soothing and closeness. In adolescence, “leave me alone” becomes the predominant phase as the child struggles to form an individual identity. Although this may be difficult or painful for the parents, most experts recognize it as a normal and necessary phase in the transition from childhood to adulthood. Even within this phase, there is still a mixture of phases. While the adolescent is crying “Leave me alone!” to his parents at home, the “hold me tight” needs may be met by strong identification with the peer group.

In adult relationships as well, the same flux occurs. Levels of intimacy change, with periods of greater intimacy alternating with periods of greater distance. This is also part of the normal cycle of growth and development. To reach our full potential as human beings, we need to be able to balance our needs for closeness and union with times when we must turn inward, with a sense of autonomy, to grow and develop as individuals.

As we come to understand this, we will no longer react with horror or panic when we first notice ourselves “growing apart” from our partner, any more than we would panic while watching the tide go out at the seashore. Of course, sometimes a growing emotional distance can signal serious problems in a relationship (an unspoken undercurrent of anger for instance), and even breakups can occur. In those cases, measures such as therapy can be very helpful. But the main point to keep in mind is that a growing distance doesn’t automatically spell disaster. It can also be part of a cycle that returns to redefine the relationship in a new form that can recapture or even surpass the intimacy that existed in the past.

So, the act of acceptance, of acknowledging that change is a natural part of our interactions with others, can play a vital role in our relationships. We may discover that it is at the very time when we may feel most disappointed, as if something has gone out of the relationship, that a profound transformation can occur. These transitional periods can become pivotal points when true love can begin to mature and flower. Our relationship may no longer be based on intense passion, the view of the other as the embodiment of perfection, or the feeling that we are merged with the other. But in exchange for that, we are now in a position to truly begin to know the other—to see the other as he or she is, a separate individual, with faults and weaknesses perhaps, but a human being like ourselves. It is only at this point that we can make a genuine commitment, a commitment to the growth of another human being—an act of true love.

Perhaps Margaret’s marriage could have been salvaged by accepting the natural change in the relationship and forming a new relationship based on factors other than passion and romance.

Fortunately, however, the story didn’t end there. Two years after my last session with Margaret, I ran into her at a shopping mall (the situation of running into an ex-patient in a social setting is one that invariably makes me, like most therapists, feel a bit awkward).

“How have you been?” I asked.

“Things couldn’t be better!” she exclaimed. “Last month, my ex-husband and I remarried.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and it’s going great. We continued to see each other, of course, because of the joint custody. Anyway, it was difficult at first ... but after the divorce, somehow the pressure was off. We didn’t have any expectations .anymore. And we found out that we really did like each other and love each other. Things still aren’t the same as when we were first married, but it doesn’t seem to matter_; we’re really happy together. It just feels right.”