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AT TWO AND A HALF, my younger son’s capacity to scream relentlessly when he did not get what he wanted seemed quite extraordinary. His anger and distress had a determination behind it that was hard to know how to respond to. When in full voice, he had the capacity to go on for long periods of time, and nothing would abate the flow, even if he got what he wanted. His suffering was raw, immediate, uncontrived, and unmasked by adult constraints. He was expressing the most basic experience of not having what he wanted, with little or no capacity to rise to a more conscious level of understanding. This suffering will be very familiar to any parent. We may as adults consider that this is not something we would allow ourselves to express; we are above such infantile responses, or are we? How often do we react to not getting what we want and find someone to blame, rapidly distract ourselves, rationalize our feelings away, or find some substitute indulgence? I recall seeing a smartly dressed woman in her thirties on the steps of the Royal Academy in London shouting at her husband that it was raining and she would get wet. She was like a little child, blaming him for her discomfort or even for the rain itself.
Our suffering arises because our minds react to our experiences in ways that are often uncontrollable. We cannot always change the world and make the rain stop, but we can change our internal response to what is happening. As we grow up we gradually learn to let go of immediate gratification of our needs. Our suffering may then become less raw and immediate, but the more sophisticated our mind becomes, the more subtle our suffering becomes. I may not have tantrums when I do not get what I want, but I may feel disappointment, dissatisfaction, frustration, anxiety, and a host of other feelings. They may be brief or I may ignore them, but they are often there.
In Buddhist psychology the primary cause of suffering originates in the mind from a basic disposition of clinging and grasping. While these are the traditional terms used to describe a particular habit in the mind, I have often found it more useful to see this as a kind of contraction. We contract around a sense of self-identity, and if we are aware of ourselves, we can feel this as a kind of physical or energetic contraction. This may have originated in the mind, but it manifests subtly on a physical level. This disposition, in turn, responds to the environment in a tight, obsessive way that leads to an endless cycle of pain and reaction. Without realizing it, we lock and fix our reality in a way that does not allow its natural ebb and flow. One could say that the degree to which we actually suffer is then directly related to the degree to which we are contracting or locking. Our life may become tight and fearful as we struggle to protect ourselves from what we believe to be “reality.” The more we contract, the more we fill our world with stress and tension, the more we feel insecure and fear change. There is less and less room to move; less time; less actual freedom; less real personal space. The environment may contribute the outer conditions to this distress, but the primary cause originates in the mind.
In our contracted state we lose relationship to the innate space that is present in reality. If we could open to it, our reality is in fact spacious, fluid, and essentially free. Because of our deep-rooted insecurity, however, spaciousness is intolerable to our fragile hold on self-identity. It becomes a source of profound anxiety. In our ignorance we are blind to this spacious nature and live in a contracted state called in Sanskrit dukkha (literally “contracted space”), in contrast to an open spaciousness known as sukkha. The term dukkha is, however, usually translated as “suffering” or “unsatisfactoriness,” while sukkha is a quality of bliss.
I see this reaction in myself when I can turn something that is relatively simple into a drama as I contract and tighten. I recall an occasion when I was working on our house, gradually tiling the kitchen. I had planned to do it in a particular way and felt all was going as I had hoped. We did not have enough tiles to complete the job at that time, and so it was suggested we should do it a different way. I began to feel myself contracting. This would require taking half the tiles off in a particular area to finish another part. I could feel myself gradually closing in to a narrow, defended place that was totally locked and unmovable. I was beginning to feel pressured to do something that felt utterly unacceptable to me. There was no space to move, and I was ready to explode. In a matter of minutes I had turned the open spaciousness with which I was working into a contracted hell of my own making.
While there is a kind of simplicity in this Buddhist view of the root of suffering, Western psychotherapy offers us a variety of notions of the roots of suffering that in many ways complement this Buddhist principle, but which are more complex. The most familiar psychotherapeutic view is that much of our suffering originates with emotional wounding, particularly in childhood. Western psychology has explored in depth the developmental processes of the individual and generally orients towards the idea that our emerging self grows from conception and encounters various environmental factors that gradually both shape and distort its growth. This emphasizes the view that the combination of stresses in the environment and our innate disposition together make us grow and can also leave us wounded psychologically. Where Buddhism and Western psychology meet is in the idea that the wounding we experience arises through an interaction between inner propensities and outer conditions.
Although Western psychology tends not to look for a specific root cause of suffering, a generalized principle could be to see the root of suffering as our relative capacity or incapacity to respond healthily to the trials of life. Our ability to adapt to and maintain relative health in distressing or traumatizing circumstances is a remarkable homeostatic capacity within our nature. The degree to which we experience suffering is relative to our capacity to respond to life’s demands in a healthy way. The responses we make as we grow shape who we become in both healthy and unhealthy ways. Often, however, we adopt ways of coping with trauma that, while appropriate at the time, later in life become a source of habitual patterns of reaction that limit and frustrate us. An example of this is the way in which a child will close off and bury the effects of sexual abuse to survive. This can be seen as the most natural and healthy mechanism in the circumstances. It is only later in life that this response to trauma proves to be an obstacle to further healthy development and must be healed. A historical process of wounding will then echo through much of our life as painful, habitual emotional patterns.
A man I once saw in therapy brought this experience clearly to mind when he began to touch on the possibility that he had been sexually abused as a child by his father. Gradually he began to uncover an experience that he had long ago locked in the unconscious so that he could survive. Burying the trauma of the abuse served to protect him at a time when he did not have the psychological resources to integrate its depth of distress. In adulthood, however, the presence of this trauma, albeit within the unconscious, was becoming increasingly disturbing. During the therapeutic process, as different aspects of this abuse became more conscious, it was important to allow him to find his own pace so that he could live with the pain he was releasing. In time, he was able to bring much of the experience to the surface and could slowly allow the significant changes this was bringing in his sense of self, his relationships, and his capacity to meet the world. Prior to this he was always caught in habitual, often fearful, responses to situations and people he encountered, never really able to understand why. Once he had uncovered this wounding, he began to change his relationship to the world around him and for the first time felt he was responding from a sense of inner health rather than pain, fear, and confusion.
While we can see that there are many situations in life where people clearly are the victims of circumstances, our individual susceptibility and the way we respond to circumstances will alter the degree to which they traumatize us. One could say that both Western psychology and Buddhism point to the idea that our response to the world, not necessarily the world itself, is the basis of our problems. The world itself will always manifest the conditions that potentially cause suffering; we have only a limited capacity to alter this. Our inner response to those conditions can, however, be cultivated. In his Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life, Shantideva says we can try to cover the surface of the world with leather, but it would be much simpler just to cover our feet.6 Shantideva’s observation counteracts the ordinary view that needs to find someone or something to blame for all the ills we suffer. Indeed, if we consider the suffering of the child who has been abused, it would be inappropriate to say that his or her suffering is just a consequence of mental attitude. Both Buddhist and Western psychology assert, however, that we must begin to take responsibility for our responses to our experiences rather than endlessly blame something or someone out there. When we do so, we move out of the infantile position into an adult place.
Buddhist psychology particularly emphasizes the cultivation of a quality of awareness that directly recognizes our mind’s response to each moment of experience as it unfolds. Western psychology particularly illuminates the nature of emotional patterning and wounding that shape our responses. Together, these two approaches provide insight into the cause of suffering especially in relation to the nature and wounding of the ego. While Buddhist practice pays little attention to the historical evolution of individual pathology, its approach to healing relies on direct insight into the nature of experience as it arises. Western psychology pays great attention to the evolution of and wounding to our sense of self. There is much psychotherapy can learn from the Buddhist emphasis on cultivating awareness of the immediacy of the present experience, just as Buddhist psychology can benefit from a more detailed and personal understanding of the psychological development of the ego and its wounding.
In Buddhism there is no developmental model of the complexity understood by the Western therapeutic world. The practice and theory of Buddhist psychology is based on a view of the person as an established, relatively conscious individual. This view assumes that we have reached a certain level of psychological development and have a comparatively stable and cohesive sense of self. This does not imply, however, that we have developed a great depth of self-awareness.
Western psychology has clearly charted the development of the ego as it evolves from conception and is shaped by our experiences of infancy in relation to our individual susceptibility. There is what might be called an innate instinct to constellate a sense of self; to function and survive in the world. For some, this constellation of an ego does not form well, and the sense of self remains fragile and unclear. For others, its formation is affected by circumstances that cause varying degrees of wounding. Even without this wounding, a sense of self, albeit a healthier one, must grow for our normal functioning in the world.
As we grow, our felt or emotional experience of “me” may become increasingly wounded by the surrounding environment; in particular, by the presence of dysfunctionality in the family. This emotional wounding is often very painful and causes a kind of contraction around an identity that slowly becomes fixed and solid. For example, a child with a parent who constantly disapproves of or is angry with her, and who thus surrounds her with a persistently negative emotional atmosphere, can develop painful self-beliefs that she is not good enough, is unlovable, not wanted, and so forth. We contract into this wounding, limiting and narrowing our sense of self into something that is solid and intractable. This wounded self underlies the way we feel about ourselves in the world and then permeates our life, shaping our emotional responses to situations and experiences.
We will become most clearly aware of our wounded self when our “buttons are pushed” and we feel a vividly appearing, emotionally charged sense of me. This “vividly appearing I,” as the Tibetans call it, is associated with what in Buddhist psychology is known as “egograsping.” This is the experience of an ego, or “I,” that is instinctually contracted around a solid me and has a strong emotional flavor. Egograsping holds on to a sense of me that is self-existent and independent of any process of creation. Possibly the most obvious time we recognize this vivid sense of “I” is when someone threatens or insults us. Strong emotions such as fear, grief, shame, desire, jealousy, guilt, and so on bring into clear relief our cherished and protected sense of me.
From a Buddhist point of view this solid sense of me is the aspect of ego-grasping at the root of all of our suffering. It is grasped at and felt to be true, permanent, and solid and yet is merely a constructed sense of ego. It does not actually exist as a solid entity anywhere in our continuum. I emphasize the word felt because this is not an intellectual construct, it is a felt experience, irrespective of one’s philosophical notions.
To recognize this contracted sense of self is vital if we are to understand what is meant by “the emptiness of self ” in Buddhism. This is particularly so because even among Buddhists, there can be a misunderstanding as to what is being negated by the notion of emptiness of self, or no-self.
When I experience someone threatening or insulting me I experience a kind of contraction in myself that grasps at a sense of me. This is a tangible, almost physical contraction that causes a strong emotional tightening in my chest. From this place, before I have a chance to do anything about it, I can react defensively with anger or aggression to protect myself. Alternatively, I may feel hurt or insulted and withdraw into myself for comfort and safety. In all of these reactions I can feel a vivid expression of my grasping at a solid sense of me. At first, this sense of me and its defensive reactions feel as though they relate to something that is a definite central part of me, something solid that must be defended. Only by looking more deeply will I begin to recognize that these reactions hold on to something that is not actually substantial, and they paint a picture of the world that is not real. Even though I may have feelings that I am hurt, frightened, or rejected, if I look deeply at this reactive me I can see that it is not fixed, permanent, or true. There is no solid base for its existence. It is not to be found in my body, feelings, mind, perceptions, and so on as something existent.
The emotional process is real enough, but the “I” that I am grasping at as a fixed sense of self doesn’t exist. It is like an emotionally charged bubble that pops when looked at more closely. As this bubble pops, the sense of contracted surface tension that held it together begins to open. A quality of inner space begins to be restored that is not tight and contracted.
The recognition of the lack of solid self and the subsequent release of the contraction around it don’t mean we have no ego at all. It is important to distinguish between the normal, functional ego that acts as a focus of our relationship to the world and this emotionally charged, solid sense of ego.
Clearly differentiating these two is vital if we are truly to understand the notion of emptiness of self that is spoken of in Buddhism. Failing to differentiate can lead us to perceive emptiness as a kind of nihilism where we negate too much or the wrong thing. I recall that in the early seventies when I first encountered books on Zen, some of my friends and I got into a way of thinking that said, “Well, there is no ego, so nothing matters; just do what you like because there is no one doing it anyway.” Our notion of no-self led to a kind of formlessness that had no sense of personal responsibility. It is not, however, the ego that needs to go but the ego-grasping that holds on to a self as solid and ultimately existent.
Having a stable center of self-awareness is crucial to relative daily experience. Although it creates a duality of subject and object, of self and other, this is necessary on the level of our everyday reality. This stable center forms the basis of our capacity to live in the relative world and function. It provides a focus to our life and a sense of continuity and self-awareness. In Buddhism this is called the “relative I,” which is merely a label placed upon the basis of the person as a whole. From a Buddhist perspective, this capacity of focused awareness is a necessary facet of existence which is consistent with the understanding that arises from Western psychology. We need an ego as a focus of consciousness, for without it we would be extremely vulnerable to psychosis. We need a stable identity to give us a sense of form and shape in the world.
The relative “I” that enables us to function in the world does, however, become mixed up and confused with our emotional ego-grasping so that we cannot see the difference. To realize emptiness of self we must differentiate the two and understand clearly what ego-grasping holds on to. The vivid emotional “I” that becomes so deeply entrenched in our sense of self has a number of significant ingredients:
As Stephen Batchelor says in his little-known book Flight 7 the underlying disposition of ego-grasping is a flight reaction from the essential, spacious nature of our being. Anxiety, he says, is the fundamental emotional tone of the existential uncertainty intrinsic to this grasping at identity. This existential anxiety is bound up with our struggle to cope with the essentially empty nature of the ego. It leads us to grasp at anything that will reinforce a sense of self. We will grasp at pleasurable things that will substantiate our existence and will fight defensively anything that threatens us. Alternatively, we may try to deny and anesthetize ourselves from the pain. These are the three fundamental dispositions of attachment, aversion, and ignorance. Inevitably, however, the transitory nature of our materiality, our mortality, will always haunt us and may eventually lead us to face our basic anxiety.
Western psychotherapy has well charted the nature of our wounding and goes some way towards its healing. Conventional psychotherapy may enable a healthier sense of self to emerge, but even though most of our emotional wounding is addressed, so long as there is still the root tendency to hold an “I” as self-existent, fundamental anxiety will remain. This deep-rooted tendency to cling to a sense of identity may be addressed only in a more contemplative style of therapy. As I have found personally and in my work as a therapist, the essential anxiety of ego-grasping is extremely difficult to overcome. It is only when we begin to place our minds into a quieter, less conceptual awareness that we will see through the subtle illusion of a self. For this, the practice of meditation is fundamental.
The development of an ego-identity is not an option that we can avoid or bypass; it is a factor of the human condition. Without it, we will experience serious psychological problems. As I have said at some length in The Psychology of Buddhist Tantra 8 the need for a stable identity is vital in deepening the Buddhist path. For those whose sense of self is weak or seriously wounded, this wounding must be addressed before the journey can go forward. If our spiritual practice does not address it, then a psychotherapeutic path may be a necessary preliminary.
Whatever the nature of our wounded identity, it will always be felt as an absolute, irresolvable, inescapable truth. In psychotherapy clients I have often sensed a kind of stubborn determination that this is so. This emotional identity is often highly charged, overwhelming, and deeply painful. What gives it so much power is the disposition to grasp at it as true. We believe what we feel, and seldom does a more positive view of ourselves come close to changing it.
We may try to replace wounded concepts about ourselves with healthier, more loving and self-accepting ones. Much psychotherapy is aimed at gradually restoring a healthier sense of identity to free the ego from its wounding. When this happens in therapy it can radically alter how a person then relates to the world. This process requires much time and loving support. In time, the therapist can enable a kind of re-parenting that helps to establish a more healthy state of being. This does not always work, however, when the strength of egograsping stubbornly holds onto a destructive self-belief that does not shift. We may attempt to place a veneer of positive thinking on top of this negative self-belief but still not actually touch the root wound. Positive veneers may serve for a while, but at some point the actual sense of self will come to the surface again and need to be addressed.
In the practice of meditation we can infuse our experience with a quality of ease and acceptance that allows us to just be without judgment. This helps to replace the harsh inner landscape that is so often connected to our wounding. I have found this in my own practice and while teaching meditation of quiet present awareness. By gently introducing a sense of acceptance, meditation can be pervaded by an atmosphere of compassion that helps soften the contraction around negative beliefs. This practice of compassion towards ourselves can be like the cultivation of an inner parent who is unconditional and accepting. This can enable a softening and letting go of negative self-beliefs so that we inhabit a more caring inner landscape.
Through this healing process, a more healthy flexible, fluid, and permeable sense of self may begin to emerge. Even this positive state of self-identity, however, will have a subtle ego-grasping tendency. We can just as easily grasp at being valuable, loveable, and precious as at feeling worthless. A particularly clear example of this arose during a retreat I was leading. A woman came to speak to me about a painful experience that kept arising during meditation. She had had a number of particularly damaging relationships with men, which began as a child with her father, and, later, in her marriage, and even in relation to a psychotherapist. Her experiences had left her with a deep-rooted sense of not being good enough that would manifest in a ferocious, extremely distressing rage. She had worked hard in psychotherapy looking at the emotional roots in childhood of this damaged sense of self. Replacing the negative belief with a positive one seemed reasonable but did not seem to actually work. She was confronted time and again by this solid, fixed sense of herself being not good enough.
During our discussion I was reminded of the Tibetan practice of Wisdom of Chöd (literally “to cut off”), during which a meditator would go to a particularly frightening place, like a cremation ground, and deliberately generate a state of fear so that the vivid sense of “I” would arise. Once this vivid feeling of “I” was generated, the meditator would look it directly in the face, so to speak, and recognize its completely fabricated nature. Recognizing that this “I” had no true existence would directly cut through ego-grasping (hence the name Chöd), releasing the mind from the emotional distress of the fear.
In effect, this woman had the perfect Chöd context. She was constantly confronted by this vivid sense of her ego-grasping and could, if she faced it, recognize its empty nature. As we spoke, it was clear that she had previously thought she needed to replace the negative sense of self-identity with a positive one. The danger with this approach was that she would cling to this new identity just as solidly. It would then be cracked by some experience and she would again be back to the wound. I suggested that clinging to a fixed identity, whether positive or negative, was just another form of ego-grasping that needed to be cut through. Returning to her meditation, she had a clear sense of the object of ego-grasping and, for the first time, could begin to loosen the ego’s grip.
So long as we still hold on to a sense of self, even a positive one, we are caught in the roots of anxiety and suffering. Only once we can go beyond this disposition can we experience liberation. However, the journey must begin with recognizing the wounding that lies at the heart of our sense of self. This recognition of suffering is part of the call that brings us to the path of awakening. When I reflect upon the elements of my own life that caused me to embark upon the spiritual path, I am aware that anxiety was central. The absence of any satisfactory solution to my deep existential anxiety gave me little choice but to embark upon a journey to find an inner peace. In my journey it became apparent that the only thing that truly gave a sense of relief was meditation and the cultivation of a particular quality of awareness that enables a gradual opening of the ego’s contraction.
In meditation we can gradually release the surface tension that holds together our ego-identity like a bubble of water. As this tension releases, our sense of self becomes more permeable and more flexible. As the contraction opens, it gives a profound sense of spaciousness and restores the natural fluidity of our responses. We will live with a more natural capacity to be in harmony with the events and experiences of our lives, whether positive or negative. In our happiness there will be less need to grasp and hold on to our experiences. In our distress we will no longer cling to and identify with a sense of disaster that is permanent and unchanging. When we let go of the contraction around our identity we open to our inner space, to a freedom that is no longer wounded. Life can then unfold freely. This may sound simple, but the habit of contraction is ingrained in every cell of our being and takes time to unravel. The journey, however, must begin with the knowledge of what is at the root of our suffering and that we can reach a place of wholeness and liberation.