CHAPTER TEN

Habit and Mindfulness

As children, we learned to watch things very closely. We scrutinized whatever was happening around us; we became expert at discerning any indications of impending danger or distress, and sharpened our senses to detect any evidence of trouble. We would always watch for anything unusual, for the precise moment to advance or retreat, for the right thing to say or do. We trained ourselves in the art of observation, vigilant in noting the smallest details, receptive to the slightest shifts in the family atmosphere.

After a while, we became accustomed to watching for a few very specific, predictable situations or events. These were the moments that, when they came, seemed to bring the most suffering. Depending on the characteristics of our family, we might become especially adept at watching for scarcity or betrayal, dishonesty or withdrawal, impending violence or emotional rejection. Over time, we formed a habit of seeing everything through the lens of the most predictable dangers. We developed a subtle myopia as we learned to watch only for what would hurt us; everything else became less interesting, less relevant.

Melody was an attractive, creative woman whose generosity and good nature made her quite popular. She was well liked, intelligent, and had a good sense of humor. However, Melody’s father had died when she was quite young, and she inherited a stepfather whom she felt never really loved her. So when Melody was young, her experience of feeling bereft of a loving father had convinced her that she must have been unlovable; there must be something deeply wrong with her. Why else would both her fathers have treated her so badly—one leaving her alone, and another never loving her?

Melody would spend a good portion of each session trying to convince me how broken she must be, how bad, selfish, and unlovable she was. She did not want to be convinced otherwise. Despite her many friends, her popularity, and her talents, the thing she felt most true about her was that she was basically unloved and inherently unlovable.

Our understanding of what is true about ourselves is shaped by what fascinates us, and our feelings and behaviors are influenced by the things that capture our attention. If our eye is always attuned to where we feel broken, we will be unable to see where we are already whole. If our eye is focused on danger, we will habitually move to protect ourselves; if we are skilled in perceiving scarcity, we will learn to hoard what we have. The way we perceive and interpret the world around us significantly alters our response to it, and, over time, creates an overall context for the experience of our lives.

If, out of fear or sorrow, we focus our attention only on those areas that brought us suffering in childhood, our understanding of ourselves and others will remain small and incomplete. Many of us used our childhood observations to put together a story about ourselves and the world, a story that we came to believe was the only real truth. The stories we put together were simple and clear: “I was never loved, and probably never will be. There will never be enough for me. I will always be disappointed. No matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough. The world will never be safe for me. I was hurt so badly, I’m beyond help. No one will ever understand me. My dreams will never come true.”

After a while—like Melody—we learn to look only for those people, events, or experiences that will validate our story and provide confirmation that our limited way of seeing is accurate. We learn to see ourselves as victim, powerless and violated, and somehow deserving of our sad fate. We see the world as painful, dangerous, scarce, and unkind. We come upon a formula that explains how things work, and we use that formula to interpret everything that happens to us. Even if the story is a painful one, as long as it remains constant, we can develop strategies to cope with what we are given. Our way of seeing the world becomes an ally, providing us with tools to explain our self-fulfilling stories about disappointment, scarcity, fear, and despair.

Yet as we entrap ourselves with these habits of watching ourselves and the world in a particular way, we stifle our heart’s ability to grow, to learn, and to heal.

As we get older, even though the players and the circumstances may change, we still end up in situations where the old stories always come true. We hold onto our habitual ways of seeing and feeling, taking our one truth and clinging to it, forever blinding ourselves to any new information. There is a story told by the Buddha:

A young widower, who loved his five-year-old son very much, was away on business, and bandits came, burned down his whole village, and took his son away. When the man returned, he saw the ruins and panicked. He took the charred corpse of an infant to be his own child, and he began to pull his hair and beat his chest, crying uncontrollably. He organized a cremation ceremony, collected the ashes, and put them in a very beautiful velvet pouch. Working, sleeping, or eating, he always carried the bag of ashes with him.

One day his real son escaped from the robbers and found his way home. He arrived at his father’s new cottage at midnight, and knocked at the door. You can imagine, at that time, the young father was still carrying the bag of ashes, and crying. He asked, “Who is there?” And the child answered, “It’s me. Papa. Open the door, it’s your son.”

In his agitated state of mind the father thought that some mischievous boy was making fun of him, and he shouted at the child to go away, and continued to cry. The boy knocked again and again, but the father refused to let him in. Some time passed, and finally the child left. From that time on, father and son never saw one another.

After telling this story, the Buddha said, “Sometime, somewhere you take something to be the truth. If you cling to it so much, when the truth comes in person and knocks on your door, you will not open it.”

Like the father who sees only the ashes of his “dead” son, many of us who experienced deep unhappiness become accustomed to seeing only our hurt, our fear, and our disappointment. We take one feeling, one story about our childhood, and place it on the altar of our lives, holding it as sacred truth, making it more true than anything else in the world. When hurt comes, we say, “Ah, there it is again: the real story of my life.” When disappointment, or fear, or anger arises, we feel comfort in knowing that we are now in familiar territory. This disappointment, this fear, this anger—this is our real story.

After many years, our habitual ways of seeing ourselves become so chronic that we can hardly imagine any others. We are no longer simply a child, a human being; we have become the Unloved, the Vulnerable, the Disappointed One, the Abandoned, the Misunderstood, the Deprived, the Terribly Broken. Waking up in the morning and getting ready for the day, we put on our story like an old bathrobe and a soft pair of slippers. We are so accustomed to introducing ourselves as the victim of our story, we actually feel ambivalent about whether or not we can really change—or even want to. Our very life becomes a familiar, droning habit.

When Sonia came to see me, she would usually begin by telling me about all the wonderful and exciting things she had been up to. She was an articulate, professional woman who was respected in her field, and she enjoyed sharing her victories and adventures with me. But halfway through our time together, she would often begin to feel the weight of her life, and she would feel sad and start to cry. “I feel so bad,” she would say, “I feel so alone, so hurt and sad inside.”

Now, Sonia had many good friends with whom she could talk, friends who could share her deepest feelings. But whenever she felt sad, she would go off by herself and hold onto those feelings for hours at a time. As a child of an abusive father, she had often had the experience of being left alone, feeling she was unloved and unlovable. So she decided that this must be, at her deepest core, who she really was inside. In those moments, friends, victories, and accomplishments meant nothing; her lonely sadness was the deepest truth she knew. Whenever sadness would arise in her, she felt that was the “real” Sonia coming out.

Rick was a gay man who was gifted in his work. He ran many successful programs on behalf of those in need, and was respected as an administrator and supervisor. But as a child, he was frequently rejected and criticized by his father, and was burdened by the stigma of his emerging sexuality. He decided early on that he was obviously very weak, and not at all strong inside. Whenever he would speak about himself in our therapy group, he would always defer to someone else’s opinion about him, asking for advice and guidance at every turn. He didn’t believe he had enough strength inside to find the answer within himself. Despite his achievements as a program director and community leader, he was still convinced that he had no inner fortitude. Although he very much wished to feel strong and courageous, he feared he was destined to feel weak and wounded.

Each of these people had fallen into a habitual way of thinking about themselves. In the face of the pain and the hurt in their families, they had put together a story that wouldn’t change, a story that would last, that could readily explain the rest of their lives. They had long ago decided who they were, where they hurt, and what they were really made of inside. This became their litany, their mantra, the sacred story in the scripture of their lives.

Even though an essential part of us may want desperately to be free to grow and change, another part is not quite sure we are ready to find a new story. The old strategies seem to work just fine. Rather than change our story, some of us prefer to find new people to help us share the old story in a new way; or perhaps we practice new ways to analyze and dissect the same old truths. “I know I am broken,” we say, “now I just want to find out exactly how it happened.” Or, “I am so sad. I need to find out where all this sadness came from.”

We enjoy analyzing and exploring the same tired explanations for our lives. We have become so habituated to the color and texture of our particular problems that, after a while, we stop looking for relief. The mind creates an illusion of a static, stable person: “I am this kind of person. These are my opinions, and this is how I am. My problems are this and that, I am wounded in this way, and I will probably have to live this way and do these kinds of things.” But these are just fables we make up in order to give ourselves something to hold onto. These habits, however painful, become so comfortable and familiar that it requires a tremendous leap of faith and courage to even begin to imagine that a new kind of life is possible.

There is an ancient Chinese proverb that says, “If we do not change our direction, we are likely to end up where we are going.” We build our lives on the foundation of what we believe our destiny will be. If it is our emotional habit to feel hurt, sad, misunderstood, or disappointed, then we will orchestrate our friendships, careers, and marriages to reflect and support the old stories. We perpetuate the old story again and again; it begins to feel predictable, consistent, and manageable. It protects us from change; by sheer familiarity it makes us feel safe. In this piece by the poet James Tate, we hear the desperate ingenuity of the mind that has become so habituated to the old story that it refuses to accept anything new:

MAN WITH WOODEN LEG ESCAPES PRISON

Man with wooden leg escapes prison. He’s caught. They take his wooden leg away from him. Each day he must cross a large hill and swim a wide river to get to the field where he must work all day on one leg. This goes on for a year. At the Christmas party they give him back his leg. Now he doesn’t want it. His escape is all planned. It requires only one leg.

Fear of Change

Our habits, however comfortable and familiar, are based on our assumption that things never change: “The way they were in my family is the way they will always be.” “The way it has been for me is the way it will continue forever.” “Since I have studied the situation and know all the rules, I can rely on my strategies to carry me through for the rest of my life.”

But the world is not immune to change. On the contrary, it is the nature of all things to change. Look at our lives, how they move and shift: Once we were young, and now we are older, friends and family have come and gone, social circles have evolved, jobs have changed, we may have moved our home many times. What we once loved may have faded, or passed away; what we now love, how long will that last? And what will arise to take its place as we walk the path of our life?

Listen, in this very moment, what do we hear? Sounds arise and fall away, thoughts and feelings come and go, tastes, smells, and memories pass through our body and mind, resting only briefly before they recede, replaced by new thoughts and new feelings. What stays, what remains the same? Where is yesterday, last week, last year? Where is our childhood? Everything changes. It all vanishes so quickly.

Even our bodies change. The cells in our body completely replace themselves every seven years, which means that we are not the same person we were seven years ago. Where did we go? Our bodies feel the effects of aging, our mind learns new things and forgets others, our heart opens and closes. We are awash in a sea of change.

The Buddha taught that each moment arises for just an instant and then, as it changes, a new and different moment appears. This is the basic law of universal impermanence. The preacher in Ecclesiastes concurs when he says “all is vanity”—that is, everything is temporary, all will change; whatever exists now will fade away. One moment will always be replaced by a different moment, each with its own life and its own time:

For everything there is a season,
And a time for every matter under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die...
A time to kill, and a time to heal...
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance...
A time to keep, and a time to cast away...

Change rules our lives and hearts. Some moments will be pleasant, open, and sweet; others will be dark, painful, and difficult. One will inevitably follow another. Each will arise and each will fade away. Peace becomes war—and war, peace; love turns to hate, and softens again into love.

Yet, for all we may know of the inevitability of change, we still resist it.

Change frightens us. We watch people growing old and dying around us every day, and still we try to believe it will never happen to us. We imagine having lives that will not include sickness, tragedy, or death. We try to make everything good, warm, and nice, and if we do stumble upon a moment of joy, we try to repeat exactly what we did the next day and the next, hoping to keep it forever. All the while, we are terrified that some change will come and take it all away.

For the young child as well, change can often be unpleasant and frightening. One child watches a seemingly calm discussion at dinner evolve into a family fight; another sees Mom turn from being a loving parent into a crying, screaming drunk after a few drinks; one feels their brothers and sisters shut down emotionally, keeping more and more to themselves as they grow older; still another senses their family becoming increasingly unsafe with each outburst of anger, each parental absence, every argument, every withdrawal. Families get close, blow apart, and then repeat the cycle again and again. For these children, all change feels as if it is for the worse.

So we learn to fear any sign of change. It disrupts what little calm or peace we manage to carve out for ourselves. Change always seems to bring trouble, pain, or sorrow. Just when we have got things calm and safe again, another piece of trouble comes wandering in. After a while, change itself—in the heart and mind of the frightened child—begins to feel like the enemy.

The Habit of Attachment

There is a certain type of monkey trap used in Asia. First, a coconut is hollowed out and attached by a rope to a tree. Then, a small hole is made at the bottom of the coconut and some sweet food is placed inside. The hole in the bottom is just big enough for the monkey to slide his open hand into the coconut, but not big enough for a closed fist to pass through. The monkey smells the sweets, reaches in with his hand to grab it, and then, with the food clenched tightly in his fist, he is unable to withdraw it. The clenched fist cannot pass through the opening. When the hunters come, the monkey becomes frantic, but it cannot get away. There is nothing keeping the monkey captive except the force of his own attachment. All he has to do is open his hand, let go, and he is free. Even so, it is a rare monkey that manages to escape.

The habit of attachment ignores the reality of the present moment, while stubbornly holding onto what it has already decided. With stunning persistence, we hold to what we already “know.” For the monkey, his thought process is predictable and inflexible: (1) Food is good. (2) If I hold onto this, I will get food. (3) The more I hold onto this food, the better my chances of keeping it.

Once this set of truths is planted in his mind, the monkey is unable to accept any new information. The sight of the hunters may make him frantic because they contradict what he has already decided is true, but the information that the hunters are coming brings distress, not freedom. As long as he holds onto what he already “knows,” any new information that contradicts his habit simply produces discomfort. If only he were able to let go of his old truths, he could use this new information—“the hunters are coming”—as an opportunity to change his thinking and quickly set himself free.

Our habits of seeing, while designed to keep us from danger, eventually become so inaccurate and flawed that they begin to bring more suffering than safety. Yet we continue to disregard any new information about ourselves and the world, preferring instead to repeat the same old strategies with renewed vehemence. The fault, we think, is not with the strategy, the fault is with our execution. So we keep on trying, doing it faster or harder or longer, hoping it will all work again, just like it used to, if we can just keep trying, just keep holding on.

In Alcoholics Anonymous, they define “insanity” as the tendency to repeat the same behavior over and over, each time expecting a different result. For an alcoholic, this means drinking more and more as things get worse and worse, each time expecting the next drink to bring relief. For our monkey, it means holding on tighter and tighter, when only letting go will bring him freedom. For many of us, it means manufacturing the same childhood situations again and again, hoping that if we do it one more time, our parents will finally bless us, the family will finally respond with unconditional love, and the world will finally come to its senses and give us what we wanted. If we repeat the same behavior often enough, sooner or later it will turn out differently. This, in short, is the habit of attachment.

The Habit of Waiting

Some of us, however, after years of watching our relationships fail, our jobs become unsatisfying, or our dreams die unfulfilled, do begin to suspect that our view of ourselves and the world might be due for a change. Perhaps (we begin to think) it is not the world that is doing all this to me, but it is the way I am seeing the world that is bringing me so much suffering. But even as this thought arises, we inevitably encounter a profound fear of change. One part of us wishes to be free, yet another part is frightened, passionately convinced that our habits of seeing and behaving should not be tampered with. Even though we feel limited and confined by our old habits of thinking and feeling, at least we know we can handle it the way it is. The pain we already know is somehow acceptable and familiar; we know how bad it can get, and we know we can survive the worst. Any hurt we are having now definitely feels safer than what we might risk if things began to change.

Stuck between these contradictory feelings—wanting to change, yet at the same time afraid of change—many of us discover that one way out of this dilemma is simply to wait. We prepare ourselves for change, but then we set forth a host of unspoken conditions for our healing. We cannot change until things are right, until we feel safe enough, until we have enough therapy, until the right person comes along to help us, until the precise combination of circumstances arises to set us free.

Once a psychotherapist friend made a list of all the things his patients seemed to be waiting for. The list began:

Instead of making a move to change and grow and love, I am waiting for...

1. Santa Claus (a miracle)

2. Rigor mortis (a catastrophe)

3. Others to change

4. Knowing who I am

5. Clearer understanding

6. All the rules

7. A push or a kick

8. Perfect conditions

9. Consensus

10. Certainty

11. An invitation

12. My turn

The list goes on to include: getting it all together, hitting bottom, time almost to run out, the right reason, permission, and being old enough.

Our familiarity with our life story can become so habitual that even when we decide to change, we feel seduced by a lingering resignation that we are powerless to move or grow. And so we wait. In our waiting, we lose hope, we settle into despair, and our dreams of joy and fulfillment are left to wither away. The longer we wait to become fully alive, the more something vital within us slowly dies.

Becoming Awake

Habits are thoughts and behaviors born in the past to protect us from the future. The habitual mind is set in motion by the pain of days gone by; it sets itself up as a bulwark against change, against danger, against surprise. Preoccupied with the prospect of further harm, it designs strategies and formulas that strain to protect us from the unpredictable sorrows of the future.

Yet there inevitably comes a moment in our lives when being swept along is not enough, when our habitual, safe, and familiar behaviors no longer feed our deep hunger for vitality, creativity, enthusiasm, and growth. When this moment comes, we are challenged to empty ourselves of our preconceptions about how our life will be and cultivate a beginner’s mind, a mind that can see not only the tangled stories of the past and the nameless perils of the future but can also courageously appreciate the unexplored gifts of the present moment.

To the habitual mind, the present moment is useful only insofar as it gives us valuable clues about the past or the future. It uses current information either to validate our theory about the past or to recalibrate our strategies for protecting us in the future. Today, if we do something well, the mind quickly uses that as information to support that we made the right choices in the past, or supposes it to mean we will continue to do well in the future. Rarely do we savor this moment, this instant, merely for what it is. We move quickly through the present moment like a train passing through the railway station, glancing out the window only to confirm that we are traveling in the correct direction.

How will we wake up? Some of us try to get free by fixing the past, others by trying to arrange the future. But freedom will never be granted by the past, and liberation in the future will always be elusive. Real freedom comes when we become awake in the present, when we mindfully become alive in this very instant, right here, right now.

Soon after his enlightenment, the Buddha passed a man on the road who was struck by the Buddha’s extraordinary radiance and the peacefulness of his presence. The man stopped and asked, “My friend, what are you? Are you a celestial being or a god?” The Buddha replied, “No I am not.” “Are you then a magician or a wizard, or some kind of very special man?” Each time the Buddha replied, “No, I am not.” “Well, my friend, what then are you?” The Buddha replied, “I am awake.”

For the Buddha, to become awake is to become mindful of each moment, each thought, each step we take along the path. As we train our minds to pay closer attention to all the details of our lives—not simply the details that remind us of our old, tired habits—we begin to discover that every person and every situation we encounter may hold some teaching, some guidance, and may become a doorway to our awakening.

Cultivating Mindfulness

“I see nobody on the road,” said Alice.

“I only wish I had such eyes,” the King remarked in a fretful tone. “To be able to see Nobody! And at that distance too!”

—Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

When we carry in our minds the old categories of what is possible, we effectively limit what we are able to feel, hear, sense, and know. On the other hand, when we cultivate a mindful awareness of everything that is before us, we may learn to see what we have never seen before.

Distracted by the old stories of our childhood, preoccupied with fears of the future, how many moments during the day are we fully present and alive? How often do we really pay attention to the food we eat, tasting each morsel as we place it in our mouths, noting the texture and flavor of each and every bite? How often do we feel the touch of the clothes we put on our bodies, noting the color and texture and feeling the warmth and comfort they bring? How often do we notice the earth, the temperature of the air, the hardness or softness of the ground, the subtle passing of the seasons, the gradual changes in the light, and the lengthening or shortening of the days?

Rather than explore the sensations of the moment, the habitual mind prefers to compare all new data to old information already collected. Suppose, for example, we find ourselves in the midst of a group of strangers, and we begin to notice a knot in our stomach. The habitual mind will quickly explain that knot in terms of some experience in childhood: “1 never felt safe in my family, so I still don’t feel safe with anyone”; or, “Since my parents never loved me, I always had low self-esteem, so I get nervous in groups.” In each case the mind automatically shifts our attention away from a strong sensation in the present and begins a mental review of our old childhood stories. We are no longer present, no longer alive with this current feeling—we have escaped into the mind, into the past, where nothing can change, where we will always and forever repeat the same old story.

A practice of mindfulness, however, invites us to remain present and to explore all the sensations of our bodies and hearts, even the knots in our stomach, not as an indication of the past or as a harbinger of things to come, but as current, useful, valuable information about ourselves. If we stay attentive to the sensation of the knot, for example, what do we notice? Does the knot have a sense of pressure or temperature? What is its texture? What is its shape? Place your hand over the knot—does it change? If it had a voice, what would it say to you? What would it teach you about what you are needing in this moment? As you explore the sensations in your stomach, do you begin to notice other feelings in your body? What are they?

If we allow ourselves to remain present and attentive to our own hearts and bodies, feeling our feelings, staying with our discomforts, and exploring our sensations, then we may become more fully alive, fresh and awake in this instant. Of course, we may always feel some painful residue from the wounds of childhood, wounds we may experience as a knot in the stomach, a tightness in the shoulders, or a pain in the forehead. These are the scars of being human. But we need not use these scars to return us to the past or warn us about the future. Instead, we may use these feelings to teach us about who we are in this moment. We may simply pay attention to what is arising within us, noting, “Ah, here is some tightness,” or “Here is a knot, this is how it feels, this is what I imagine it looks like, this is what it is telling me about myself in this moment.” When we use our feelings, not as evidence of the past but as information about the present, we learn to meet and accept ourselves with compassionate curiosity.

A good place to begin mindfulness practice is during those times when you notice yourself preoccupied about something in the past or the future. If you find yourself lost in thought about some childhood wound or some worry about how things will go in the future, stop yourself for a few moments and try the following mindfulness exercise to reorient yourself back into the present moment.

As soon as you notice yourself worried or preoccupied, stop whatever you are doing. As we have seen in earlier chapters, we may begin our mindfulness practice with the breath. First, become aware of the breath, noting the sensations in the throat, lungs, and abdomen. How does the breath feel? Close your eyes if it helps you to concentrate. Follow the path of the breath as it moves gently in and out of your body, noticing where it flows easily, and also where it gets caught. Without changing the tempo of your breathing, note if your breaths are long or short, fast or slow, shallow or deep. The point is not to change—only to observe and to be mindful of each breath.

Then, after a moment, allow your mindfulness to extend to the sensations of the body. Be aware of any places where there are particularly strong feelings of pain or pleasure, tension or relaxation. As you come upon these sensations, you may silently note to yourself, “tension, tension” or “pain, pain.” Again, the point is not to change how you feel, just to explore the feeling itself. What kind of pressure, texture, or color arises with the feeling? Is it sharp or dull, large or small, solid or fluid? Stay with each sensation until you feel you have fully comprehended the nature of that feeling in your body. Over time, watch as it changes of its own accord, and then move on and explore the next sensation that arises.

Continuing your mindfulness practice, simply allow your awareness to notice any emotions you may be experiencing. Be aware of any states of mind, like fear, joy, sadness, love, or anger. Without trying to change, simply identify the emotion and silently note to yourself “fear, fear” or “sadness, sadness.” Again, the point is not to try to feel anything different, but rather to accurately and fully explore whatever feelings may arise within you. At the end of this exercise, open your eyes and pay attention to how you feel now.

As an extension of this exercise, you may expand the mindfulness practice as you continue on with whatever work you were doing. As you continue to read, or wash the dishes, or clean the house, or sit in a meeting, or make tea, mindfully watch yourself perform each detail. Do not let a single act, a single movement, go by without being mindful of it, how it feels, what it looks like, how it is finished. Do not hurry to get the job over with. Savor each step of the way as you lift the pot, place the pen on paper, or take out the garbage. This way, you begin to invite a mindfulness in your daily life, one that will, over time, become a far more interesting source of information about you and your life than all the old childhood stories.

For many of us, learning to pay closer attention to our lives might require no small amount of discipline. But we should not be afraid of discipline; the word discipline comes from disciple, which essentially means “to follow what you love.” Thus, the discipline of mindfulness invites us to cultivate a deep love and affection for paying attention to the daily, precious moments of our lives, allowing us to receive and experience each new moment in a fresh way. In mindfulness, we truly begin to learn about love, for we learn to appreciate the full range of our experience with unconditional acceptance. We learn to welcome the quality of the breath, the texture of the earth as it rises to meet our footsteps, the taste of the air, the sounds of the city, the touch of another’s hand, and the feelings in our body. We see with a devout vitality the wonder of all things great and small. Like a soft rain, our attention falls on all things equally, with a compassionate acceptance of exactly who we are and what we feel. The whole universe of our experience is no longer about our childhood; rather, it is being born anew in every instant, with every breath, if we simply open our eyes and hearts to receive it.

When we see with eyes hardened by habit, we tend to see our childhood playing itself out over and over again in the present moment. Yet if we are truly attentive, where is our father in this moment? Where is our mother? In this breath, in this step, in this bite of food, where is our childhood? We see the hurt, the loss, the abuse only in our memory, not in this moment. When we touch all we feel and all we are with mindful, loving attention in the present moment, we are able to be set free from the demons of our remembered smallness, free to grow and change, and to blossom in ways we never dreamed possible.

Mindfulness and Liberation

If the eye is clear, said Jesus, our body will be full of light. When our attention is receptive and accepting, everything we see may become an object of meditation, a source of teaching. Even the most difficult and painful feelings and emotions, as we experience their arising in the present, can become teachers and companions for us. According to Kabir, the fifteenth-century Indian poet, “When the eyes and ears are open, even the leaves on the trees teach like pages from the scriptures.”

Where shall we place our attention? As we move through the days of our lives, how shall we keep our eye clear, our hearts open, and our spirits alive and awake in the present moment? If we find ourselves thinking all day about whether or not we are loved, or how we can protect ourselves from danger, or how we can impress others with our skills and achievements, then we are condemned to languish in a prison of our own making. Where we look and how we see gives birth to the kind of life we will live. If we see only danger, we live in fear; if we seek what is gentle and true, we will find ourselves on a path of serenity and peace. All we are, said the Buddha, is a result of what we see and think.

Jesus said that beauty, truth, and the spirit of God may be found in every thing and every moment. “Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there.” Everything that is, preaches the word of God; everything teaches the Dharma. Every person we meet, every relationship, every leaf, every pebble, every flower, every tree is teaching us about what is possible for us in this very instant. Every instant we may discover what we missed in childhood—for every moment contains some teaching about love, balance, healing, and truth.

Mindfulness allows our childhood to recede into the background of our experience, inviting the present moment to fill our hearts with clarity and fullness. When we are caught in our habitual mind, all creation seems to conspire to validate the teachings of our childhood. But as we practice mindful, compassionate awareness of each moment of our lives, then, as Thomas Merton observed, “All creation teaches us some way of prayer.”

Mindful awareness is a practice that may bring us a lifetime of healing and freedom. Thich Nhat Hanh speaks of the importance of mindfulness as a daily practice:

While washing the dishes, you might be thinking about the tea afterwards, and so try to get them out of the way as quickly as possible in order to sit and drink tea. But that means you are incapable of living during the time you are washing the dishes. When you are washing the dishes, washing the dishes must be the most important thing in your life. Just as when you’re drinking tea, drinking tea must be the most important thing in your life. When you’re using the toilet, let using the toilet be the most important thing in your life.

And so on. Chopping wood is a meditation. Carrying water is a meditation. Be mindful twenty-four hours a day, not just during the one hour you may allot for formal meditation or reading scripture and reciting prayers. Each act must be carried out in mindfulness. Each act is a rite, a ceremony. Raising your cup of tea to your mouth is a rite.

Does the word rite seem too solemn? I use that word in order to jolt you into the realization of the life-and-death matter of awareness...

EXERCISE
Naming Our Emotional Habits

There are a few core beliefs we carry within us to explain the world and our place in it. Along with those beliefs, there are a few particular emotions that become most familiar and most trustworthy, the ones we feel most often when we are in distress. We will use this exercise to clearly identify our habitual emotional states.

The next time you feel a particularly strong emotional response to a person or event, stop yourself for a moment. Perhaps you had an argument with someone you care about, something happened that frightened you, or someone said or did something that hurt you deeply. Notice the feelings that arise within you.

Now, as you experience the power of that feeling, imagine that in that very instant I approach you and ask you to complete the following sentence:

“You see, it’s just as I have always known, _________.”

What response immediately comes to mind? Without censoring your response, what phrase leaps in to fill the blank?

Almost everyone has a sentence or two that instantly explains why things go badly, that succinctly describes our destiny. It may be “you see, it’s just as I’ve always known, I will always be alone.” Or it may be “there will never be enough for me.” Perhaps the feeling is “I can’t trust anyone to really care about me, ” “I will always have to work harder than everyone else, ” or “I will never be allowed to be happy.” In any case, if you listen closely, there will almost always be a sentence that will instantly present itself to explain why this powerful feeling of sadness, hurt, anger, or rejection has come to you at this time. That sentence defines the essential nature of your emotional habit.

Each sentence naturally carries with it a corresponding feeling. If we believe we will always be alone, then when we feel isolated or misunderstood, we are probably in our habitual emotional state. If we are convinced there will never be enough for us, then when we feel cheated, overworked, or jealous of others’ success, we are firmly planted in our habits. Each of us has one particular set of emotions that comes up more often than others. As we explore these habitual states of mind and heart and listen for the sentence that describes our emotional philosophy, we can learn much about where we get caught, where we get stuck in the past. Then we may slowly develop the capability to let these habits naturally fall away, and become mindfully aware of our feelings in the present moment.

Take time to experiment with the wording of your particular sentence until it feels precise and accurate. Then, for a few days, each time you feel badly about something that happens to you, silently repeat the sentence to yourself: “You see, it’s just as I’ve always known, I’ll never be happy... etc.” How does it feel when you speak the sentence so explicitly? What emotions arise within you? Repeat the sentence a few times, each time using a different tone of voice—saying it once with a sad voice, then an angry one, then a playful one.

These are the sentences that are your unconscious companions. By making them explicit and bringing them into your conscious awareness, they become less potent, less able to influence your emotional state of mind. If you can learn to be playful with these voices, you may slowly disempower their ability to keep you stuck in the same old states, and you become more quickly free to shift to a new and different state of mind and heart.

An interesting companion exercise is to take a camera and, for an hour or two, take a walk in the neighborhood where you live. Without loading the camera with film, use it to take pictures of whatever captures your eye.

What sort of things do you find yourself noticing? What people, subjects, or relationships draw your attention? Focus and snap as many “pictures” as you like, since there is no film and no pressure to take a “good” photograph. The object is simply to notice what you notice. After a while, what patterns of perception seem evident to you? What things appear most frequently through the lens? Which things seem important, which things move your heart? At the end of an hour or two, reflect on the way your eyes led you through the experience. Be aware of the things, people, and events that seem to hold the most meaning for you. This exercise may help you become aware of the feelings and emotions that are most familiar, most habitual, and most powerful in the story of your life.

MEDITATION
Expanding Mindfulness Practice

Find a comfortable sitting position in your place of refuge. This time you will sit for thirty minutes, using techniques to expand the mindfulness practice we have explored in earlier chapters.

Close your eyes and allow your awareness to rest in the breath. Gradually become aware of the sensation of breathing as the air moves in and out of your body. Observe the qualities of the breath, noting the speed, depth, and texture of each inhale and exhale. You may silently note “rising... falling” as away to focus your concentration on the breath.

Then, as you become more relaxed and centered in your body, allow yourself to notice any physical sensations that may be arising. Be aware of any pain or tension, any pressure or relaxation in the body. Gently bring your awareness to that area of the body, investigating the quality of the sensation itself What does the pain or pressure feel like? Is it sharp or dull, does it throb or tingle, is it hot or cold? Watch the shape and substance of the feeling, making a silent note of its predominant character: “pressure, pressure”; “aching, aching”; or “tensing, tensing.” Watch the sensation until it naturally begins to recede. Then gently bring the awareness back to the breath.

Now begin to observe any reactions the mind may have to the various bodily sensations. For example, when you are noting painful sensations, you may also feel aversion, impatience, or fear. Make a note of these mind states, observing their qualities until the next mind or body state arises. Sometimes you may experience pleasant sensations in the body, and there is a corresponding mind state of happiness or attachment. Make a note of these also.

As various thoughts arise, you may similarly note, “thinking, thinking,” and, without following the thought, let it go and gently return to the breath. Be aware of any plans, worries, memories, or fantasies that are occurring as you sit quietly. What seem to be the predominant themes? Again, silently note each thought as it goes by, noting “planning, planning,” “wandering, wandering,” or simply “thinking, thinking.” The object is not to follow the thoughts themselves, but rather simply to note that a thought has arisen. Then, after making a mental note of its presence, allow the thought to fade away. You can always think about it later on. For now, simply let it go, and gently return to the breath.

Lastly, you may scan your inner emotional landscape. What feelings do you notice that are present within you? Do you feel relaxed, impatient, or angry? Do you feel sad, tired, or peaceful? Without trying to change them, note which feelings seem the strongest. Choose one feeling and investigate it more thoroughly. If you are feeling sad, for example, what are the sensations that arise with sadness? Perhaps there is a warmth in the stomach or a tightness in the throat? Maybe there is an empty feeling or tension in some part of the body. Take as much time as you need to explore the feeling that has arisen, and stay with that feeling until it passes.

Even though we expect our feelings to stay for a long time, you may notice that most feelings actually pass in a moment or two, giving way to a different emotion. A moment of pride may dissolve into a moment of anger; a sense of sadness may dissolve into a moment of self-pity; a voice of judgment may give way to a voice of courage. If you watch your emotions for any length of time, you may see yourself experience a dozen different feeling states in rapid succession. Each voice pleads its case until it automatically melts into the next. The more you remain present and mindful of the emotions within your body and heart, the more you may see how fluid your feelings actually are. At the end of thirty minutes, you may open your eyes.

It is the nature of feelings to change from moment to moment. If we feel sad, angry, or rejected for long periods of time, we are probably holding onto that feeling out of habit. As we practice mindful investigation of the sensations around our feelings, we may become more present and alive in this moment, allowing our feelings to change and evolve naturally. We may watch them arise and fall away without attachment, without holding onto them out of fear and habit.

EXERCISE1
Developing Daily Wakefulness

This exercise lasts one month. At the beginning of each week, choose a simple regular activity of your life that you usually do unconsciously, on automatic pilot. Resolve to make that particular activity a reminder, a place to wake up your mindfulness.

For example, you might choose making tea, shaving, bathing, or perhaps the simple act of getting into the car. Resolve to pause for a couple of seconds before each time you begin the activity. Then do it with a gentle and full attention, as if it were the heart of a meditation retreat for you.

As you go through the week, try to bring a careful mindfulness to that act each time it arises in your life. Even the simplest acts can be powerful reminders and bring a sense of presence and grace. If you choose the opening of doors throughout the day, you can open each door as if Jesus or the Buddha were to pass through with you. If you choose the act of making tea or coffee, you can do it as if it were a gracious Japanese tea ceremony.

At the end of the week, add another activity, until by the end of the month you have included four new areas of your life into daily mindfulness. Then, if you wish, continue this exercise for a second and third month, bringing the power of attention into more and more of each day.

1 Special thanks to Jack Kornfield and Joseph Goldstein for this exercise.