CHAPTER ONE

Pain and Forgiveness

Every one of us felt some pain as a child. Whether the hurt came intentionally or unintentionally, we undoubtedly experienced some measure of suffering in our family. For some, it was the physical pain of illness, accident, or family violence. For others, it was the emotional pain that came with the death of a parent, divorce, abuse, or neglect. Still others may have simply felt the pain of growing up, partaking of the inevitable losses and broken dreams that litter the stage of every childhood.

When we experience suffering or pain, questions inevitably arise in the mind: Why? Why me? Why did this happen? What did I do to deserve it? In the grip of suffering, we reflexively seek the reason why we hurt. We are convinced that if we find the cause, perhaps we may somehow prevent pain from ever coming again.

But what if pain is beyond our control? What, after all, is pain, and what is its function in our lives? Is pain always a mistake, some imbalance that must be corrected? Or is pain simply an injustice, something inflicted from outside that must be fought and guarded against at all costs? Is it punishment for bad behavior, or is it more like a reward, something that is “good for us,” something given to bring us strength and character? Conversely, is it even useful to assume that pain has any function at all beyond the fact that it plainly tells us we’ve been hurt?

How do we understand pain? Psychological and emotional distress come in many forms, and we react to different kinds of pain in a variety of ways. More important, our beliefs about the nature of pain can actually change our response to our own suffering. If we feel that the pain we are given is a violation or mistreatment—if we feel pain as an injustice—then we harden ourselves, fight against it, and fill with anger and rage at the person or situation that caused us hurt. On the other hand, if we believe that this particular pain is the one that will push the baby out of the womb and into our arms, we somehow try to make a place for that pain in our heart. Pain is still there: excruciating, terrible pain. But at the moment of birth, we rarely feel betrayal or rage; we somehow feel that this is simply pain that has come with life.

As Daniel Goleman, the psychologist and author, has observed, “The brain has discretion in how pain is perceived... As with other senses, the psychological experience of pain depends on far more than the simple strength of nerve signals: fear of the dentist’s drill and the joy of childbirth each alter pain, in entirely opposite directions.”

Why Pain?

At the end of his life, Jesus was arrested by the occupying forces in Jerusalem and condemned to die. He was impaled with a crown of thorns, forced to carry his cross to the hill where he was to be crucified, and was stabbed and ridiculed as he slowly died. Before his death, Jesus cried out: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

We have all come upon moments in our lives when, in deep pain and suffering, we felt that same cry rise in our own throats. We have all felt deeply hurt, wounded, or betrayed by some person, event, or tragedy. And we have undoubtedly sought to know why it happened to us.

Pain and suffering are not exceptions to the human condition; they are inevitable players in the drama of our lives. Pain arises in a thousand ways, through a symphony of unanticipated events that bring injury, loss, disappointment, and defeat. Like anger, fear, or joy, pain is simply one ingredient in our emotional stew—but it is one of the ingredients we feel a desperate need to explain.

Why do we hurt? As children, we were forever trying to explain the pain that came our way. We tried to understand why our hearts ached when someone yelled at us or when we lost something precious. Why did Mom yell at me? Why did Dad hit me? Why couldn’t they listen? Why didn’t they hold me? Why were they so angry? Why didn’t they leave me alone?

With each painful event, we renewed our efforts to explain the causes of our suffering. Perhaps Dad was angry with me because I didn’t do well enough in school. Or was it because he had a bad day, or too many drinks? Mom must have yelled at me because I didn’t help her enough in the kitchen—or maybe she was mad at Dad, or feeling sick. Maybe my brother beat me up because I wasn’t nice enough to his friends. Or was it because he got in trouble at school, or had trouble with his girlfriend?

The mind frantically seeks relief in some certainty, some cause for the pain that fractured our hearts, ruptured our bodies, and quietly tore at our spirits. We take comfort in the discovery of a reasonable explanation for our suffering, since the pain itself is so uncomfortable.

We used these childhood explanations of the causes of our suffering to shape the trajectory of our lives. If I think pain came to me because I was not good enough, then I will spend my life working to improve myself. On the other hand, if people hurt me because I was not caring enough, then I may dedicate myself to helping everyone around me. If I got hurt because the world was unsafe, or people were bad and could not be trusted, then I will protect myself and not get close to anyone.

Our psychological culture sometimes falls prey to the idea that it was our childhood suffering that brought pain into our lives. We hurt now because we were hurt as children; if we were not hurt as children, we would not be hurting now. So, the thinking goes, if we can heal what happened in our childhood, we can heal ourselves of any pain from now on.

Because I hurt, something must be broken; if I fix it, maybe I will never get hurt again. Thus, every childhood explanation of pain becomes a secret theology designed to prevent any further suffering.

Childhood Suffering

Any child who is hurt will seek the comfort of loving parents. Yet some families, through denial or inattention, will not feel how much the child is hurting, or will pretend that the child’s hurt is not real, not justified. The experience of pain is so strong that when others ignore it, we seem to feel it all the more. This can make the child feel crazy, who then redoubles the efforts to name the suffering and try to find the truth about it. Thus, in addition to the initial suffering, we add anger at being ignored, or we add confusion, or shame.

In this way we increase our attachment to our suffering as the one thing that is most true in our lives: I was hurt. The memory of that hurt is so strong, it has colored who I have been, and has shaped who I have become. This is one of the most powerful attachments to our families—the memory of being hurt. There are few greater obstacles to emotional freedom than the obsessive fascination we bring to the injustices, assaults, and sufferings that came to us as children of our biological parents. While it is critical to name and heal those tender places, as we analyze and dissect our childhoods we may trap ourselves in an endless search for whatever we lost when we were small. This preoccupation with discovering the reasons behind the childhood injustices can sometimes blind our hearts to the tremendous opportunities for healing and liberation available to us in this very moment. But it is so difficult for us to let go of the search for the answers to our questions: Why did we hurt? Why me? We pick at the scabs and scars in our heart, waiting for an answer that may never come.

Why Me?

One day Maria came to my office. When Maria was young, her father had frequent episodes of anger that seemed to arise out of nowhere, episodes that usually ended with her father severely beating her. She told me with some pride that she would never cry when he was yelling and hitting her. Only later, when it was over, would she go away to her room and there, in private, she would cry and hold herself, and repeat over and over the same question: Why? Why are they doing this to me?

Maria and I explored many painful moments together, moments that included other forms of violence and more intimate forms of abuse. Each time, she would ask, “Why did this happen? How could this have happened to me? I tried being good, being quiet, not causing trouble, staying out of his way—and it still happened, over and over. It was horrible,” she said, “but it was most horrible because I couldn’t understand why he was doing it to me.”

One day I asked her to talk to me about her father and to tell me about his pain. She was quiet for a moment, and then explained that her father had been adopted, did not know his real parents, and was beaten often as a boy by his adopted father. I then asked her to tell me about her father’s father’s pain, and she said that he was an alcoholic, frequently unemployed, and depressed. So, I asked her, why did you get hit? Was it your fault, because you did not get out of the way fast enough? Was it your father’s fault, because he could not control his temper around his own fragile offspring? Was it his father’s fault because he was alcoholic? And whose fault was his alcoholism?

As long as Maria kept asking her childhood question—why did this happen to me?—she was subtly avoiding the very painful fact that it did happen to her. “Maria,” I said one day, “it happened. You were hurt very deeply, violated horribly. Why did it happen? I don’t know. I am sorry it happened, but it did happen. For just a moment, imagine letting go of the ‘Why’ and just allow yourself to say, ‘I hurt.’ Nothing more, just repeat that phrase a few times slowly, ‘1 hurt.’ ”

She resisted at first; she insisted she needed to know the reason why, as a small child, she should even have to hurt. No child should have to hurt that badly, she said. But very slowly she began to say the words, letting them quietly sink into her. “I hurt... I hurt.” And slowly she began to cry, deep and full, grieving the terrible pain in her heart. Now she could feel it, the sadness, the ache, the wound. She was hurt.

We would rather explain our hurt than feel it. For many of us it is easier to say “I hurt because my father never understood me” than it is to say “I hurt.” When we were small we attached stories to our pain, stories about how it came and why it was there. And so now, whenever we hurt, we do not feel simply the sensation of pain—we feel the story of our suffering. “I hurt because I was never held, I hurt because I was beaten, I hurt because my parents were clumsy in this or that way.” When we feel the old childhood story so strongly, it is hard to feel the truth of our pain in the present moment.

For Maria, our work in therapy could help her understand the causes of certain historical events that were very painful for her. We could learn to accept the anger, fear, and tightness in her heart that were born of those painful moments. But, more important, her early suffering had become the deepest truth on the altar of her life. And to set her free from her father, from her family, from the confines of life at home, we had to leave behind the old story about injustice and bad parents—even though it was true— and invite her to enter into the pain itself. She had to begin simply to grieve. Only then could she allow her heart to open, to feel the deep healing that came from gently surrendering to her deepest feelings—not listening for the explanation or the blame or the injustice, but simply feeling the unspeakable pain of a child.

When Pain Is Given

We live in a time when many of us identify ourselves in relation to the particular forms of misfortune we were given. We say that we are alcoholics, or adult children of alcoholics, or adult children of dysfunctional or chemically dependent or codependent families. We name ourselves through the events that happened to us, and, when possible, through the people who brought us pain.

But there is a subtle principle that underlies this naming process, that pain is a mistake. We tell ourselves, “The pain that happened to me could have been prevented; it should never have happened to me.”

This is a very human response to pain. A hospice worker once told me that when he visited the home of a ninety-six-year-old woman who was terminally ill, he expected to find someone who had lived a full life and was preparing to die. But rather than wanting to reflect and reminisce about the joys and sorrows of her life, the woman seemed dismayed by her misfortune and was ready for a fight. “Why me?” she asked.

Even at ninety-six, we still want to know why we have to die. But what if suffering and death are simply given to us, just as joy and wonder and hunger and ecstasy are given? What if pain is not an injustice, not something to be figured out, not someone’s fault?

The Buddha said that in this life we would experience ten thousand joys and ten thousand sorrows. He understood that suffering is a thread that runs through the entire fabric of our lives. Whatever we desire, whatever we own, whatever we covet, will pass away. All that we have, including our very lives, we will someday lose. Even when we get what we want, we worry about the day it will disappear. And so we all experience suffering. This, said the Buddha, is the First Noble Truth.

Jesus said it in another way: “In the world you shall have tribulation.” Jesus knew that pain and suffering would come to the children of creation. He said that the poor and wounded would “always be among us,” and that even he himself could not escape from the pain the world was to give him.

But rather than accept the pain we are given as simply one moment among others, we habitually seek to blame the ones that “caused” us this or that particular pain—as if it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t have had any pain.

One day I watched my five-year-old daughter spill her milk as she was trying to pour it on her cereal. When she saw the spill, she quickly looked around, saw my wife standing on the other side of the room, and said, “Christine, you made me spill my milk.”

Our desire to find the person who caused our suffering can appear humorous in the life of a child. But for people who have been given much unhappiness in their lives, the quest for someone to blame can often serve to increase their misery. I have seen this tragically played out in the lives of some people who come to me with AIDS. Often they are filled with shame and anger about the disease: “I feel like this is some punishment, some curse because I am gay. I know I got AIDS because of the life I have led.” They have convinced themselves that they are ill because of who they are, because of their character, because of their sexuality. The world, too, seems all too quick to agree with their judgment. If we can argue about the morality or the politics of the illness, perhaps we can distract ourselves and avoid the devastating pain of watching thousands of our brothers and sisters suffer and die.

I often ask, “What if AIDS just came to you because it is what you were given? What if the virus is blind to your strengths and weaknesses, what if AIDS is simply a meditation, a very painful meditation, in this moment of your life? Is there enough mercy, can you find enough love in your heart to imagine that this pain might not be your fault?”

Accepting the pain we are given requires us to soften our hearts and allow the pain to break us open, to acknowledge and to grieve the terrible sadness that comes with abandonment, loss, illness, and disappointment. In this moment we can feel most human, in kinship with all who have felt the deep despair of a broken heart. This is not angry resignation, born of defeat; this is a deep, loving acceptance that what we are given has become our companion and our teacher, regardless of how painful, unwelcome, or unjust.

One day I was called to the bedside of an old Hispanic man, a carpenter. He had spent so much of his life helping his neighbors build their homes over the years that he never had time to finish building his own. So I walked into a house cluttered with boxes stacked against half-finished walls and old plywood floors. This man had AIDS, and would probably die in a few days.

I had been told by a social worker that the man was in denial about his illness and needed a therapist to help him confront his feelings about death. But when I arrived, he didn’t want to talk about his “issues” at all. “You’re a minister, aren’t you?” he asked me. I replied that I was. “Why don’t you just pray with me?” So I sat and prayed with him, both of us on the small bed in his uncompleted room.

When we finished praying, I finally questioned him about his illness. Why, I asked, did he think he had AIDS, why did he feel he was given this illness? He thought about my question, turned slowly to me, and said, “So I could have more time to think about Jesus.”

Who knew why he had AIDS, whose fault it was, or who had given it to him? All he could do, in the depth of weariness and fear, was listen for the merciful voice of God. He was dying in great pain. But in that excruciating moment he was listening for a deeper healing, for the love and faith that would fill his heart with grace as he made his way home.

Some people once brought a blind man to Jesus and asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” They all wanted to know why this terrible curse had fallen on this man. And Jesus answered, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be made manifest in him.” He told them not to look for why the suffering came but to listen for what the suffering could teach them. Jesus taught that our pain is not punishment, it is no one’s fault. When we seek to blame, we distract ourselves from an exquisite opportunity to pay attention, to see even in this pain a place of grace, a moment of spiritual promise and healing.

Freud once explained that when one looks at a crystal, the place where that crystal is broken is the place that most clearly reveals its structure. We can discover its essence by examining where it is cracked. In the same way, our own wounds can be vehicles for exploring our essential nature, revealing the deepest textures of our heart and soul, if only we will sit with them, open ourselves to the pain, and allow ourselves to be taught, without holding back, without blame.

Many years ago I was asked to convene a commission in California to evaluate and make recommendations on the problems of teenage delinquency and juvenile justice. Before I accepted the appointment, I asked several people involved what they thought needed to be done. Most people said the task was impossible and expressed a great deal of hopelessness about the whole system. I found that merchants blamed the schools for not keeping kids off the streets and away from their stores; teachers blamed the parents for not supervising the kids more closely; parents blamed the kids for not listening to them; kids blamed the police for hassling them; and police blamed the kids, the teachers, and the parents. It was clear we were in big trouble.

I went back to the commission and told them I would take the appointment on the condition that we immediately adopt as our guiding principle the following statement: Pain is nobody’s fault. Second, I said, we must immediately hold a meeting with representatives from every group in each community. I believe they secretly thought I was crazy, but they agreed to adopt these principles, and appointed me nonetheless.

What happened on that commission was beautiful. Once everyone was released from blaming or being blamed for the problem of delinquency, they were free to open their minds and hearts and playfully collaborate on some very exciting, innovative programs. We held meetings where teachers, police, juvenile offenders, parents, probation officers, gang members, and students were all working together to develop strategies that are still in place more than ten years later—because the people who designed them never had to decide “whose fault” it was. Once we could see that we all had felt tremendous pain, sorrow and disappointment, we were free to work as allies, giving birth to fresh approaches that would alleviate the turbulence in our community.

Grief and Our Parents

If pain is no one’s fault, then pain is not the fault of our alcoholic father or our inattentive mother. Our pain was simply a wind that blew through our lives, a powerful meditation that opened us to great depths of emotion and sensation. Once we remove the question “why,” we may see our pain face to face, accepting it for what it is. Then we can begin to truly grieve, which softens the pain. The deep hurt and anger and sadness can then lead us to letting go, to forgiveness, and to healing. Stephen Levine, who with his wife Ondrea, has done such beautiful work with those in pain and suffering, wrote in Healing into Life and Death:

Examining what we feel, not analyzing why, we discover the labyrinthine patterns of our grief and unfinished business... That which has seemed so untouchable in the past is cradled in the arms of forgiveness and compassion, and the armoring begins to melt. The path to the heart becomes straight and clear, recognizing how this exploration of our grief, of the ways of our old suffering, opens the path to joy.

As we make the journey out of childhood, we are invited to grieve what we have lost. However, many of us who explore our childhoods are not ready to let go of the old stories. For some, the anger we feel toward our parents has become a source of personal power; we were treated badly, and now we deserve to be heard. Like Maria, we have a deep remembrance of the way it should have been for us, and we want to convince our parents to apologize, to love us, and to make right what was done so horribly wrong. We are still trying to work out the same old story, trying to make it turn out right, trying to wrestle a happy ending from the protagonists in our unsatisfactory childhood.

Perhaps we were never given the father we wanted, never had the gentle touch of a man who cradled us in the strength of his arm, never sat and listened as we spoke of how hard it was to be small and afraid. Or maybe we never had a mother who truly loved us, someone who would dry our tears or give us a party or make us laugh just because she loved to see us happy. How can we allow that loss to simply be true, to feel the truth of our emotional orphanage and know that it has never changed, and probably never will?

We begin by acknowledging that the old story is over. How long will we keep looking for someone who can make it all turn out differently? Our challenge is simply to let what was true be true: We were hurt. We never had the parents we hoped for, never had Ward and June Cleaver, never had Ozzie and Harriet. We were denied the perfect father we dreamed of, never had exactly the mother we wanted. When we feel the deep sadness of that loss, the pain and the loneliness, we simply grieve the loss of our childhood, the childhood that never was and never shall be. That story is over. Some of us have a hard time believing that we are actually able to face our own pain. We have convinced ourselves that our pain is too deep, too frightening, something to avoid at all costs. Yet if we finally allow ourselves to feel the depth of that sadness and gently let it break our hearts, we may come to feel a great freedom, a genuine sense of release and peace, because we have finally stopped running from ourselves and from the pain that lives within us.

When we finally accept our pain, we may begin to feel we are not being singled out for special punishment. We are simply feeling, as Pierre Teilhard de Chardin described, “the tears that are in things.” Feeling that pain, we claim kinship in a new family—a broad and rich family of everyone who has ever rejoiced and who has ever suffered, who have sung and grieved just as we have done. Sitting still with our sorrow, we may even start to feel ourselves opening to the suffering of other people who were hurt as children.

The Sufi teacher Pir Vilayat Khan urges us to consider pain in this way:

Overcome any bitterness that may have come because you were not up to the magnitude of pain that was entrusted to you. Like the mother of the world who carries the pain of the world in her heart, each one of us is part of her heart, and therefore endowed with a certain measure of cosmic pain. You are sharing in the totality of that pain. You are called upon to meet it in joy instead of self-pity.

Forgiveness

We take a tremendous step toward freedom and awakening when we imagine we might forgive our parents, the ones who brought us pain. This is often a most difficult practice, and requires strength, courage, and a great deal of time. For to let go of the ones who hurt us is to let go of our identity as the one who was hurt, the one who was violated, the one who was broken. It often feels like the bad guys are getting off scot-free while we are left holding the bag of pain.

But forgiveness is not just for them. The point is not only to let them off the hook. Forgiveness, especially for us, allows us to be set free from the endless cycle of pain, anger, and recrimination that keeps us imprisoned in our own suffering.

What are we required to forgive? Those of us who have been deeply hurt often want to know how much we have to forgive, and how soon? Must I really forgive this or that hurt, this or that injustice or horrible violation? I am not ready, it is too soon, I still hurt too much to say that what happened to me was okay and now everything is fine.

What we are forgiving is not the act—not the violence or the neglect, the incest, the divorce, or the abuse. We are forgiving the actors, the people who could not manage to honor and cherish their own children, their own spouse, or their own lives in a loving and gentle way. We are forgiving their suffering, their confusion, their unskillfulness, their desperation, and their humanity.

As long as we hold onto how this or that person hurt or dishonored us, we are trapped in a dance of suffering with that person forever. We feel their abuse every time that person enters our thoughts. Again and again we must relive the suffering, calling it up over and over, as if by sheer repetition we could erase the tape. But each repetition only strengthens the habitual rut of anguish that sears our psyche.

We are set free from this cycle of suffering when we forgive our parents and we allow them to be who they were, nothing more, nothing less. Less than the ideal mother or father, perhaps, but children of God still, with all their suffering and distress, who need all the grace and mercy available to them. Through forgiveness we are all set free to go our own ways and follow our own destiny.

Once St. Peter asked Jesus, “How many times shall I forgive someone who hurts me? As many as seven times?” Peter knew that the old law stated that you had to forgive any offense at least three times. More than that and you were off the hook. So when Peter said “seven times?” he was being charitable, and he figured Jesus would marvel at his generosity. But then Jesus said to Peter, “No, not seven times, but seventy times seven.”

Forgiveness is required of us in rich measure, not because the hurts that come are not painful but because it is forgiveness that sets us free, that heals the unspeakable wounds, that allows us to grow in heart and spirit. The deeper the hurt and the more powerful the injustice, the more we are invited to grieve, to sink into our pain, and to let go into forgiveness. Those who pray the Lord’s Prayer ask God to “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” When we forgive one another our clumsiness, we are set free of the past, we are free to be born fresh into this moment, unencumbered by our endless struggles with the old stories.

This is not an easy thing to ask. Should blacks in South Africa or the United States forgive the whites who oppressed and enslaved them? Should native Americans forgive the conquering Spanish? Should Jews ever forgive the Nazis who put their parents and their children in the ovens?

Jack Kornfield, a gentle, loving teacher of Buddhism, tells a story of going with Maha Gosananda, a respected Cambodian monk, into the refugee camps where thousands of Cambodians had fled the terrible holocaust conducted by Pol Pot. Every family had lost children, spouses, and parents to the ravages of genocide, and their homes and temples had been destroyed. Maha Gosananda announced to the refugees that there would be a Buddhist ceremony the next day, and all who wished to come would be welcome.

Since Buddhism had been desecrated by Pol Pot, people were curious if anyone would go. The next day, over ten thousand refugees converged at the meeting place to share in the ceremony. It was an enormous gathering. Maha Gosananda sat for some time in silence on a platform in front of the crowd. Then he began chanting the invocations that begin the Buddhist ceremony, and people started weeping. They had been through so much sorrow, so much difficulty, that just to hear the sound of those familiar words again was precious.

Some wondered what Maha Gosananda would say. What could one possibly say to this group of people? What he did next, in the company of thousands of refugees, was begin to repeat this verse from the Dhammapada, a sacred Buddhist scripture:

Hatred never ceases by hatred;
But by love alone is healed.
This is an ancient and eternal law.

Over and over Maha Gosananda chanted this verse. These were people who had as much cause to hate as anyone on earth. Yet as he sat there, repeating this verse over and over, one by one, thousands of voices joined together in unison: “Hatred never ceases by hatred: but by love alone is healed. This is an ancient and eternal law.” Out of the mouths of people who had been wounded, oppressed, made homeless, aggrieved, and crushed by the pain of war, came a prayer proclaiming the ancient truth about love, a truth that was greater than all the sorrows they had seen and felt.

“If you want to see the brave, look at those who can forgive. If you want to see the heroic, look at those who can love in return for hatred.” This quote from the Bhagavad-Gita reminds us how terribly difficult it is to forgive those who have hurt us. It requires a tremendous amount of courage and is not easily done. I do not expect forgiveness to bubble up in you simply because you finish reading this chapter. Forgiveness can be very hard, and for some, the journey to forgiveness may be long and difficult.

At the retreats I conduct with my wife Christine, when we speak of forgiveness, some who have experienced violation or abuse are reluctant to forgive, and even become angry at the suggestion that their victimizer should be forgiven. It is true that child abuse is a horrible act, and we should do all we can to prevent such gross mistreatment of children. Forgiveness, while it may bring healing, has its own timing. It should be nurtured and invited, but never pushed. Any fear and rage must be honored and allowed to be true for as long as it is present. The heart knows when it is ready to forgive.

The ancient Greek language has two words for time. The first, chronos, describes chronological time, the measure of minutes and hours and years. The second is kairos, which in the Bible is translated as “the fullness of time.” This sense of time describes the deeper readiness of things to be born, to blossom in their own time. So it is with forgiveness.

Ette Hillesum, a victim of the Nazi concentration camps, writes of the healing surrender into grief and forgiveness:

And you must be able to bear your sorrow; even if it seems to crush you, you will be able to stand up again, for human beings are so strong, and your sorrow must become an integral part of yourself; you mustn’t run away from it.

Do not relieve your feelings through hatred, do not seek to be avenged on all Germans, for they, too, sorrow at this moment. Give your sorrow all the space and shelter in yourself that is its due, for if everyone bears grief honestly and courageously, the sorrow that now fills the world will abate. But if you do instead reserve most of the space inside you for hatred and thoughts of revenge—for which new sorrows will be born for others—then sorrow will never cease in this world. And if you have given sorrow the space it demands, then you may truly say: life is beautiful and so rich. So beautiful and so rich that it makes you want to believe in God.

EXERCISE
A Place of Refuge

As you begin this series of exercises and meditations, you may find it helpful to create a place of refuge in your home, a place where you feel safe and welcome.

Find a small corner in a bedroom or some other quiet place in your home. This will become your place of refuge, your personal spiritual sanctuary. Many spiritual practices make use of some kind of shrine, puja, or altar that helps focus the attention on matters of the heart and spirit. Find a low table, bench, or even a cardboard box, and drape it with some pleasing material, using this as a focal point for your own journey.

Sit down in front of the table for a few moments in silence. Allow yourself to visualize what is most beautiful, inspiring, or sacred in your life, those things that represent the healing, inward journey of your heart. They need not be religious symbols, only those that hold some deep meaning for you and the life you wish to lead.

Opening your eyes but remaining silent, begin to collect a few of those meaningful objects and place them on the table. You may want to include photographs of people you love, a special quote, flowers, a candle, or something from nature. Arrange them in a way that feels right to you.

Now, for several minutes, sit still in front of the table and have a silent conversation with those things that mirror the voices of your heart. Feel their presence and allow them to nourish you. This is your place of refuge, of belonging. Welcome.

You may feel like reciting a special poem, prayer, or song. Feel free to follow the impulses that arise within you. This is a time to gently allow yourself to feel at home in your body, your spirit, your own life.

Make time each day to sit in your place of refuge. You may find yourself gradually wanting to spend more time here, other days perhaps less time. Nevertheless, try to allow this to become a daily practice.

In this place, there is nothing for you to do. No need to figure anything out, fix what is broken, or become enlightened. You only need sit, feel, and listen. Allow this to be a place without judgment or expectation, a new home, a place of rest.

MEDITATION
Letting Go Of Family Sorrow

Throughout this book, we use mindfulness meditations to deepen and expand our awareness of the strength and wisdom of our spirit. Meditation is a practice that allows us to focus our attention and sharpen our concentration, to open what is closed, to explore what is hidden, and to restore our center of gravity when we are scattered or distracted. Through meditation we may become more fully present to receive the multitude of sensations that accompany simply being human. Cultivating mindful awareness, we explore the depth and breadth of our true nature and begin to enter into compassionate relationship with the spirit within.

Many forms of meditation use breathing as a means of focusing our attention. Letting the mind rest in the breath can generate an experience of that place of belonging that resides within us. We will use these meditation techniques throughout the book.

Make a list of the most painful memories from your childhood. The list may include people who hurt you, poignant losses or disappointments, or particular situations that brought you sadness or harm.

Collect photographs, mementos, or symbolic items that remind you of these particular people or events. If there is a person, event, or situation for which you have no photograph or object, take some crayons and a piece of paper and make a drawing of the situation as you remember it.

Now sit in front of your table in your place of refuge, gathering these photographs and objects beside you. Begin by choosing one that feels especially painful, the one that seems to bring up the most grief, the most anger, the most sadness within you. You may find it helpful to begin with someone who hurt you deeply as a child, perhaps your father or mother. Place their photograph or object on the table in front of you, and, sitting still and quietly, allow your gaze to rest on them.

Feel the memories as they flood your heart. Feel the sensations that arise in your body as you look at them—feel the tightness, the shallowness or quickness of the breath, the anger, the disappointment, and the sadness. Let your awareness be gentle and heartfelt, exploring and acknowledging with compassion all of the suffering and grief that has lived inside you. Feel the resistance to the pain, the armoring, the reluctance to feel the depth of your sadness. Allow the pain into your heart, allow your heart to feel the deep sorrow of these memories. Feel the grief that you have held back for so long and draw the pain in, make room for it, breathe it into your heart. Continue to breathe in the pain until you fully experience the reservoir of hurt within you.

Now, looking at your mother (or father), slowly begin to say goodbye. “Mom (or Dad), you hurt me badly. Whether you meant to or not, you hurt me. But I will not hurt forever because of what happened between us. I will not hurt just because of your pain. It is time for me to go. It is time for me to say goodbye to you, to your pain, to what you did to me. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye. I set you free as my mother. I may never be your child again. I let you go as my mother. Goodbye, Mom. I am no longer your wounded child. I set you free. I wish it could have been different, but it has been so painful, I have to let you go. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye.

I set you free. I set myself free. I am free of you, I am free of the pain we shared.”

As you say goodbye, allow the pain to go with them, each breath, each exhalation releasing the pain of a lifetime. Say goodbye to them as your parents and allow them to go their own way. Set them free. Set yourself free. You are no longer their child. “I am a child of the earth, a child of creation, a child of God. I take my place with them. And I set you free to take your own place, to make your own way.” Continue this exercise until you begin to feel a genuine sense of release.

Next, we begin to invite a healing forgiveness into our relationship. Forgiveness is the enzyme that makes possible our freedom and liberation from family pain and sorrow. For some, this may be the most difficult part of letting go. Be patient and gentle with yourself. Allow the words to come slowly, honoring the resistance, yet taking the risk to imagine true forgiveness taking birth in your heart.

“For all that you may have done that caused me pain, intentionally or unintentionally, through your actions, your words, or your thoughts, however the pain came to me through what you did or didn’t do, I forgive you. I forgive you. I set you free.” Let them be touched for a moment by your forgiveness. Let them be forgiven. Let go of the walls of resentment, so that your heart may be free and your life may be lighter.

Feel the resistance to forgive. Feel the heart try to harden and hold the anger, fear, and hatred. When fear or resistance arises, allow your awareness to gently settle on your breathing, taking a moment to feel at home in the gentle rising and falling of your breath. Even in the midst of understandable, natural resistance, we may invite an emotional softening. Then begin again: “I forgive you. I forgive you.” Let the heart soften. Let them go. Allow the war between you to be over. Set them free. Set yourself free. “Forgiving you, I set you free. Forgiving you, I set myself free. I take my place as a child of God, and I let you go. We are no longer at war. I no longer struggle with the pain of you in my heart. I set you free. I am free. God bless you. Go in peace.”

Take as much time as you need to allow the feelings of sadness and release to arise within you. Stay with this person or situation until you feel a sensation of relief flood your heart and body. You may want to repeat this exercise, focusing on one person, every day for a week. It may take many sessions in front of the table to feel a deep sense of closure and relief. Repeat the meditation until you feel complete with this person or event.

You may repeat the meditation with as many people or events as you need. Each person may require several repetitions of the exercise in your place of refuge. This is fine. Forgiveness has its own timing and may not be rushed. Allow yourself to take as long as you need. Letting go takes time, courage, and compassion. There is no hurry and no place to get to. This is simply a gentle invitation to practice letting go of childhood sorrow and to make a new home in your own body, heart, and spirit.