Two Things: Letter to a Lost Love
Every time is different; the separations, whether sharp or rough; the terminations of romance, the end of intimacy; all different. Or at least they seem so. Or at least I’d like to believe they are. And the mere fact that I can say such a thing is evidence that every time should mean something. It should become a platform for inquiry and progress toward something, even if ill-defined and requiring frequent recapitulation. Of what use is the hurt if not to serve as a lens directed toward illuminating remaining mysteries?
So it is with this intention, shedding light on a portion of what was previously unknown or unspoken, that I attempt to clarify a couple of dynamics at work in my life both during and since our long goodbye.
The theme for this message is death and choice. Your death is the first that arises because early on in our acquaintance you told me about having to face and negotiate with and treat and ultimately overcome the very real possibility of your own imminent end. And I was made aware of and assimilated and assumed the profound impact of that experience upon you in regular and direct ways. In fact, there were numerous occasions—apparently just too many for your taste—when you felt compelled to suggest to me that in the normal course of my routine dealings I might consider the possibility that today could be my last.
I confess that whenever I heard that recommendation, I both got the indirect message that I was conducting myself in some way that you found unsatisfactory and that I should indeed be paying more attention to my attitude because there was obviously something occurring that was either unintentional or out of awareness. In other words, every time I heard that from you I found myself in a dilemma.
First, I thought it was both impossible and unwarranted to imagine that I—or for that matter anyone —could manage to be constantly mindful of my own imminent death and always be able to make the immediate choices implicated by that realization. It just seemed both morbid and silly.
On the other hand, I am well aware of the definition of impermanence and invariably find daily reasons to reflect on that meaning. So hearing you suggesting that I should be more mindful of my own impermanence rendered me virtually immobile: I should immediately adopt the prescription and.......god, this is impossible.
The fact that I have so far largely escaped the swath of death through my life complicates matters. One would think that if I had at least been subject to some great personal loss or faced some challenge that brought the whisper of mortality a little closer that I would at least understand better what is at stake every day even if I might not always be able to alter either my thinking or my behavior as easily as flipping on a light. At least I could get some credit for trying.
That thing about "not be(ing) able to alter either my thinking or my behavior" is pretty important. I mean, have you ever run into someone who just seemed to be pathologically happy? Slightly manic, perhaps? Of course you have. And what is your reaction to a person like that? Do you believe them? Did you sense that there was a bit of effort involved? Or does it cross your mind that maybe they’re in a bit of denial? Or a little desperate?
How could anyone always be that happy? Well, somewhere back in my past I decided that there was no way I could just turn on the bliss—be totally comfortable in myself. Fearless. I just couldn’t find it. Maybe it’s genetic; maybe it’s environmental. But there was no way I could turn off enough of my skepticism to even make some more room for true bliss. In fact, my projection was so huge that I simply decided that if I couldn’t turn on the bliss at will, then probably no one could. I did, however, allow for the possibility that there were those whose bliss was genuine. And I also decided that I could differentiate between those who were real and those who were fakes. And I have been seeking out the real thing ever since. We all do.
Which brings me back to death. It turns out that death is currently making a major appearance in my life. My father has an inoperable brain tumor and one of my oldest friends, someone I consider a mentor and brother, is dying of leukemia. Between the two of them, they’ve had a greater influence over me than anyone else: my father for obvious reasons; my friend for strongly influencing me in my early 20’s, including instigating the entire direction of my professional life.
So I find myself more mindful of inevitable loss than ever I can recall. With that mindfulness comes the urgency of being fully present; yet ironically, not as the "self" I am accustomed to knowing and being, but as something more. Life goes on in the relative sense of connecting the present moment to the past through memory and to future plans, but has diminishing importance compared to the absolute nature of expansive, relational enduring truth.
Carrying a sense of impending loss is a forced awakening, bringing immediacy and freshness to every encounter, even to simple personal acts; a resolute discernment cutting through to the value and intention of each. No great revelations there, but considering my skepticism, past resistance, projection and self-absorption, I might have reason to regard this period of transition as daunting, maybe even overwhelming. Can I believe in my own authenticity, forgiving my own shortcomings including recent transgressions while forgiving others theirs? What further gain is to be had from presuming some limitation on bliss?
In fact, life is opening up. Fortunately, it turns out that the other of the Two Things is the perfect antidote to the skeptic: hard science. I recently had the fortune of discovering wisebrain.org, which is the home of Rick Hanson, Ph.D. and Rick Mendius, MD., who bring together brain research, neurology and Buddhism. Their firmly grounded message is that deliberate construction of positive mental states reinforces the brain to orient perception and organize neural relationships that pre-dispose it to perceive experience that way in the future. Neurons that wire together, fire together.
In a sense, just as in meditative practice, the deliberate framing of post-meditative experience to reflect our Buddhist beliefs is creating and deepening a real neural groove. We are "being there while getting there." So it turns out that the formation of positive mental constructs is no more faking joy or compassion than meditation is faking enlightenment. I can’t tell you how affirming it is to (finally?) realize this and suddenly, dramatically feel capable of doing what I profess to believe without having the internal (infernal!) misanthrope second-guessing my own good intentions. What’s more, this is the natural state, not some special condition of mind to which we should aspire, not some lofty space to be achieved.
As if this refreshing exposure to science weren’t enough, a week with Tsoknyi Rinpoche, along with a second review of his brilliant Fearless Simplicity, brings me face to face repeatedly with his prescriptions to go ahead and exercise conceptual lovingkindness and compassion even if we aren’t yet capable of manifesting the perfection of the ultimate version. For me, previously judging myself inadequate on these ultimate measures tended to trickle down to my more mundane efforts. So why bother?
Why bother is because my friend is likely entering his last days; my father may be entering his last weeks of knowing his own family; the idea of training my own brain is pretty cool and exciting; passing judgment on myself no longer holds my interest; life is very good; and besides, tomorrow I could get hit by a bus.