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.

by Susanna Weiss

From time to time we might find ourselves blaming circumstance, people, even inanimate objects for our various misfortunes.  Bursts of impatience and annoyance when things aren’t “going right” erupt like mini thunderstorms that thrash away and then pass quickly.  Just like getting caught in one of those rainstorms, we’re drenched and rather miserable afterwards. Then we might wonder why we release the lightning bolts that trigger unhappiness in ourselves and those around us in the first pace?

It’s the rather ridiculous behavior that we all know. What’s the first thing most of us do when we trip on an uneven sidewalk?  Look back at the sidewalk, right?  It’s so ingrained, so automatic.  A flash of anger at the cupboard door when we bump our head on it. Sound familiar?

Why do mishaps have to be someone’s fault?  What if we used the practice of equanimity and open awareness and just experienced what was going on before  jumping to blame?  The absurdity of flashing anger at the table on which we just banged our shin would be clear.  We would be kinder to ourselves through not allowing annoyance to arise within.  The table certainly doesn’t care one way or the other, it’s our decision whether to feel turmoil or calm while dealing with the pain.

It’s so easy to start blaming when it’s another person involved instead of a table.  Sure, people do things all the time that most of us would agree are annoying and even hurtful.  But jumping to that place of blame, of judging and looking at the supposed cause of discomfort, physical or emotional, does nothing for us except add to our dukkha, our suffering.  There might be an appropriate time later to assess a situation, a relationship, calmly viewing what has transpired, but I’ve found that releasing blame is a freeing practice.  Blame is often nonsense anyway and it fuels the side of myself that is not the person I want to be.  Releasing blame feels fresh, as if unburdened from some bitterness, some “second arrow” as the Buddha has taught.

by Susanna Weiss

I stumbled upon one of those “little known facts” the other day.  The West African country of Burkina Faso translates as “Land of the Honest People”.  That struck me.  After they had gained their independence from French colonial rule, when they were known as Upper Volta, the new name Burkina Faso was chosen.  I wonder if many of us in the modern world hold honesty is such high regard that we would name our land, our people, after that quality.

Sure, honesty, telling the truth, is one of those “of course” practices that we all think is important—but that important?  So important that we would truly commit ourselves to being truthful all the time, in all circumstances, with all people?  In the Tricycle online retreat on which Allan is speaking right now (August 2010), he begins teaching about truthfulness by acknowledging that we almost immediately think of exceptions.  And sure there are, the Buddha taught that all of the dharma should be practiced with wisdom.  But Allan recommends that we just set those exceptions aside and look at the concept of being a truthful person.

I consider myself an honest person, but I can’t say that it is as important to me as the Burkinabe.  (That’s what the people of Burkina Faso are called.  Their capital is called Ouagadougou—how cool is that?!)  I don’t know if the Burkinabe actually practice such an exalted level of honesty, but I like the idea of living with the concept—being a person of integrity. As Allan invites us in his book, Pocket Peace, consider the kind of person you would like to be.   I would like to be a person of integrity.

by Susanna Weiss  CMC Board

There is a magic to practicing awareness.  It seems simple; just be mindful of what’s going on, and we’ll find a path to equanimity, to being okay with whatever is going on.

Of course, it’s deceptive in two ways.  First, how could anything so straightforward and simple really work that well?  That’s the “magic” part.  Second, it is difficult to truly be mindful, even for short periods of time.  That’s the “having a human mind” part.

The practice of awareness offers us an opportunity to have a great deal of faith in ourselves.  The Buddha seemed to have confidence that each of us has within the stuff that it takes to navigate the difficulties of life. We can all use help along the way, but it seems that the Buddha has faith that we have all we need in the very core of our being.  Or, as one teacher put it, we are all perfect beings…and we need a little work.

Certainly being aware of our foibles and mistakes is the first step to being able to change our behavior.  Without knowing that we are doing things to make ourselves and others miserable, there’s no chance of finding a better way.  It often feels crummy to face those moments, but I find solace in knowing that it’s a great first step rather than an occasion for guilt and breast-beating.  It gives me a chance to move forward with a renewed intention, and intention is so important in what we do.  We have so little control over the results of our actions, but we do control our intentions.  We have no guarantee that we won’t make the same mistakes over and over again, forgetting and stumbling, but we do have the ability to begin again with awareness and caring rather than misery.

by Susanna Weiss, CMC Board

At the Community Meditation Center, Allan Lokos shared recently from the Buddha’s teachings about Generosity, or Dana.  The quality of being generous is considered one of the most noble and elevated practices that we can develop. It even leads the list of the Perfection Practices (the Paramis or Paramitas) coming before such exalted qualities as Morality and Wisdom.

As Allan spoke, I realized that I don’t have a lot of trouble with generosity of resources, either time or treasure.  While it often lurks in my mind that somehow I could be doing more, I do spend a good amount of time in service, and I give generously to charities. (See Wayne Muller’s new book, A Life of Being, Having, and Doing Enough, about allowing ourselves the feeling of having done “enough” without that nagging guilt of “more”.)

What I have the most trouble with is generosity of spirit.  I’m sure the Buddha must have been including that in his concept of Dana.  I catch myself all the time being impatient, judgmental, and opinionated. I can rather easily open my checkbook or offer my services for worthy causes, but opening my heart to be more accepting is a practice that needs work.  I love the concept of bodhicitta, a state in which my mind and heart would be open and accepting to others.  I’ve felt this quality grow and expand within me through the years, but still, my knee jerk reaction to a situation often includes judging.  I understand that we all have preferences, likes and dislikes, but being able to have those without going to that place of assessment would feel very good.

That good feeling is the one thing that has consistently happened for me as I’ve tried to follow the teachings of the Buddha.  Anytime I succeed in any manner with one of the teachings, I feel better. Life is softer, more easeful, more pleasurable.  Some of the knots and struggles disappear and difficult situations and challenging people simply “are”.  They don’t need my evaluation, my critique, my fixing.  I don’t know when I first got the idea that it had to be my job to assess and manage the world, but I believe I’m ready to retire.

by Susanna Weiss, CMC Board

It isn’t a mystery why it is hard to lead a life with a clear mind about what’s important.  All day long navigating the world of New York City, there is so much to mislead us about what is of value in life, about what is the best way to be in this very life.

Does anyone anywhere not know about the pressure of whirlwind pace, of multitasking?  How much more can we fit into our daily lives?  Many of the things in life are rich and wonderful, even if also mundane, but there are so many.  Between work and working out and emails and friends and shopping and cooking and bill paying and on and on, how can we take a breath and enjoy any of it?  We are constantly on a schedule, never fully enough time to complete and then stop and savor a project.  And if there is a gap in the day, we have lists of “to-do’s” that gobble up that time in an instant.  A day off for me doesn’t mean leisure, it means finally being able to tackle the lists that are growing by the minute.  No one ever gets to the end of their lists, so why do I keep trying?

We also seem to be expected to multitask.  Does anyone just eat a meal without reading or watching television, or walk down the street without texting?  I confess to trotting to my next appointment eating and texting at the same time.

There’s an ad for Blackberry that pronounces “When ASAP isn’t ASAP enough”.  Srsly.  That actually made me stop—how can “as soon as possible” not be soon enough?  And why would we want to discover the time warp that such an endeavor would lead us to even if we could?

The challenge to my values, to what I believe is important is everywhere.  Full page NY Times ad this week:  “Brushes with Greatness”.  Wow, a lecture series with great thinkers and leaders?  A museum course about extraordinary artists?  No, a handbag.  A HANDBAG!  It was a cute clutch at Saks Fifth Avenue, and it came with a makeup bonus, but really—greatness?  But then, on the next page, Ralph Lauren is offering me “The Ultimate Experience” if I buy his clothes…..
Susanna Weiss,  CMC Board

Max was about 16 months old when his mom and dad dropped him off for a day so they could do some errands. Our apartment has two large walnut doors that open into the living room and two steps down with wrought iron handrails on each side. The little guy, who had only been walking for about four months, became fascinated with opening the doors and trying to maneuver the stairs. First, using all his strength, he pulled one of the doors open and looked at the stairs. After a long moment to analyze the situation he then took three or four small but determined side-steps to get to where he could reach one of the rails and slowly descended the two steps into the living room. He hardly seemed to notice my highly exuberant cheers and accolades. I was then ready to go on to our next adventure but Max turned around and decided to master climbing back up the stairs and out of the room. This was not as easy since holding on to a rail, deemed quite necessary, put the door handle beyond his reach while grappling with the challenge of stepping up grown-up size stairs. He stopped, looked a bit concerned, but clearly undeterred. After a short analysis of the situation he reached for my hand, let go of the railing with his other, and stepped up the stairs to where he could open the door. Again he received my boisterous expressions of admiration. He closed the door behind him and I now assumed we would be going on to our next adventure, but that was not to be. Max turned back and again mustered up his full strength and opened the door. He then proceeded to go through the entire journey again––the door, the rail, the stairs, and the decent. Upon completion, kudos fit for a prince (or at least a grandson). I guess I wasn’t completely surprised when he turned, looked at the door, the railing, and the stairs, and began his return upward, again with the aid of my hand.

Let us now cut to about twenty minutes later and join Max as he completes his eighth up/down excursion and prepares for his ninth. By now his little side-step maneuvers are smoother and he has figured out how to venture forth (or should I say “back and forth”) without the need for my hand (I admit I kind of missed being needed). I was now well past my boredom and completely fascinated by his determination and patience. I wondered how long he would continue to work at this. My answer soon came. As he looked at the doors, a barely perceptible smile crossed his face. He had done his job well. He turned and toddled away ready to take on life’s next adventure.

Later, I thought about how we grown-ups go through life essentially doing the same things Max does. We approach doors, some of which seem to be closed to us, figure out how to open them, pass through, usually with the help of others, and journey forward. When we approach things with a balance of gentle purpose and patience such as Max exhibited, we tend to move through our days gracefully and with ease. When we loose patience, our vision weakens and we struggle. More often than not our impatience is accompanied by, or perhaps instigated by a sense of anxiety, haste, and an overall sense of not having enough time. So often we feel as if we are trying to get caught up. Caught up with what we don’t necessarily know. Nevertheless, trying to get caught up.

On a sunny Tuesday morning, my daughter, Samantha, twenty-two weeks pregnant with twins, called from her doctor’s office to inform me that one of her babies was no longer alive. A short while later, she, her husband, Sean, Susanna, and I gathered and held one another close for a long time. Stunned and numb, we cried together, and each in our own way struggled to understand and accept. As I held my only child, our broken hearts pressed so close together, my experience of sadness was deeper than I could ever remember. I know that it is the nature of all things to be impermanent, what arises will fade away, and what is born will die. That morning I felt the deep sorrow of seeing that what is not yet born can also die. Spiritual practice does not make us impervious to sorrow, but it can open a bit of space around our deepest wounds, release us from the need to blame ourselves and others, and allow the presence of faith to be felt.

Samantha slumped into a chair, sobbing heavily. Our golden retriever, Dodger, walked over and licked her hand. A gentle smile crossed Samantha’s tearstained face.

from Pocket Peace: Effective Practices for Enlightened Living