by Susanna Weiss

Allan Lokos tells of an extraordinary experience of the power of truly listening to another in his article about Skillful Speech in Tricycle Magazine.  Briefly, the deep listening of a sangha was such a great comfort to a young woman who was recently widowed that she chose to drop all her other support groups.  This was because in the sangha she found what she needed to begin to heal.  It stunned the group to hear her announce this, as they were using the time-honored practice of simply listening as she spoke of her grief–no comforting words, no hugs, no tissues passed, just fully and completely honoring her with deep listening.  While they had felt rather inadequate, this powerful practice turned out to be the deepest comfort for the grieving woman.

While our impulse is often to help and fix and actively comfort someone in emotional pain, I wonder how much of the way we do that is about us, and not the person who is hurting.  I think that always beginning with that practice of deeply listening will lead to us finding the best possible way to help.  To listen without judgment, without forming an answer in our minds, without figuring out what we’re going to say next is not a usual skill.  I rarely truly listen to someone that way, even if I manage not to interrupt.  Sometimes, as happened in the sangha, that total presence is enough.  It is healing, it is honoring, it is an amazing gift to offer to someone.

And if and when they need something more, we are more likely to offer them what they need, not what we want to give.  We can bypass our own discomfort which almost always arises  when confronted with another’s suffering, and give them what they need, not what we want to express.  We’ll sense if they need a hug, or not.  We’ll understand if they just want to cry, or talk about it.  We’ll feel if they want comforting, soothing words, or just the space to let out their sorrow.

Deborah Tannen, a professor of linguistics who writes about the way we talk to one another, brings up the differences that often surface in men and women.  A man had told Dr. Tannen about spending the day with a male friend going through a painful divorce.  When he came home, his wife asked how the friend was doing.  When he replied, “I don’t know, we didn’t talk about it.” she chastised him.  His friend must have needed to talk about the feelings he was experiencing about the divorce.

But his friend was indeed helped by his presence.  It would have felt intrusive and “fake”, even condescending, for him to push the issue.  Their time together, sharing what they usually did, was comforting and felt supportive and caring.  The wife was used to a different style of grieving and comforting, and to force that style upon the two “buddies” would not have been the most helpful way, even with the best of intentions.

The Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh says that the greatest gift we can offer another is the gift of our presence.  If we have the courage and strength to do that, we are certainly on the right path to being the best help we can be to someone in need.

by Susanna Weiss

I recently completed a week of silent retreat with a Tibetan teacher.  It’s always hard for me to be on retreat, I feel vulnerable and rather lost (I believe that’s the point, actually!)  The absence of all the usual comforts and distractions, the things that we use to soothe ourselves (including speech–it’s a week of total silence) helps us to find an open mind, staying present with what comes up–after all, what else is there to do?

I looked down at my hand at the end of a pre-dawn meditation session and saw that my wedding ring was missing.  A wave of total panic subsided as I calmed myself with logic…it must be nearby, it slipped off my hand, it’s on the floor….and then crawled around on the floor searching the dusty cracks and crevices of the old monastery–with no results.

I didn’t spin out completely. I kept breathing and trying to establish a modicum of equanimity.  After all, that was one of the reasons I go on retreat, to develop more tranquility in my life.  However, as waves do ebb and flow, I had to keep returning to center and allow the panic to subside.  When I did, I noticed that I felt the loss fully, it didn’t turn at all into, “oh, who cares? it’s only a ring.”  But deliberately adding calm to the mix of my emotions allowed other thoughts to arise–I remembered that the true value of the ring was what it represented, and though the ring was gone, I still had my beloved husband.  The devotion of our marriage was still there, and he would certainly be loving and comforting when he found out that I had lost my wedding ring.

I began to feel better.  I felt that elusive concept of putting “space” around an issue.  The feeling of loss was still strong, as well as sadness, but no longer panic.  Of course, I still had the hope that someone had found the ring and in the silence it would find its way back onto my finger.  I remembered losing a favorite handmade Navajo bracelet at an airport, knowing that it could never find its way back to me.  I was able to let go of that one by wishing great joy to whomever found it, that they would love its old silver and careful stone work as much as I had.  I couldn’t quite get to that easygoing relinquishing with this loss, though.

The inner space around the feelings grew for me, and I began to see the deeper sense of what the loss of the ring could mean to me.  I know that one day my husband and I will have to separate, that death comes to us all, and we don’t know when that will be.  It’s a very painful thought for me, but it felt like a good moment to practice my awareness of that inevitable fact. As the day progressed, the Lost Ring seemed like a perfect retreat challenge, a chance to invite more peace into my life through its lessons.

Coming–next blog:     On Retreat: the Ring Part II

by Susanna Weiss

It’s amazing how the insecurities that come up inside of me on retreat can be manifested in the most absurd ways–deciding if someone is likeable or not (on a silent retreat?  Come on!), getting territorial (with only a little square of zabuton and zafu and a tiny monk’s room to my name? Ridiculous!)  The silliness of all that became clear to me as my lost ring was returned to me.

I posted a note on the bulletin board asking for help in finding the ring.  Almost immediately, the retreat manager wrote “Come see me, I have your ring.”  She said to me as I claimed it (she’s allowed to talk), “The man sitting behind you handed it to me after this morning’s meditation.  He was so distressed, quite upset that someone had lost it.”

OK, this was the man with whom I was terribly annoyed.  He was what I term a “nester.”  As the days of retreat pass on, the spots where each retreatant sits and meditates often becomes a little square of messy comfort.  First, just the zafu, then the blankets & pillow & notebooks & water bottles & teacups & more shawls & pillows.  Those who are nesters have their junk spilling out all around them.  So what?  It’s something to get annoyed at, that’s what!  It’s someplace to deflect the discomfort that I’m feeling within myself.

So I approached the guilty party, that dastardly nester (now my hero) and bowed to thank him.  He had such a sweet look on his face that I hugged him.  I identified with the feeling it seemed he was having.  A few days before I had found someone’s wallet in a NYC cab.  It was hard to track her down, but when I did she was so relieved that she burst  into tears on the phone.  It was such a good feeling, and that same sort of happiness was present in his eyes.

With my ring back in its place on my finger, I felt a renewed appreciation of it, just as I felt a deepening of my pleasure of being with my husband again after our week of separation.  I had a new resolve to let go of judgments and criticisms of others, whether I deemed my perceptions well-founded or not.  It was one of those little dramas that sometimes are the most valuable moments of being on retreat.