My friend is a kind person, yet she was weary from these encounters. It is hard to walk gracefully in such treacherous territory, she said. Most of all, she was sad that her spiritual practice did not seem to protect her from the vagaries of human temper.
I said yes, that was a tough one. No question about it, relationships may be one of the hardest lessons we ever face.
It seems so personal, after all! It is one thing to accept unruly acquaintances and strangers whose bodies dance by us only rarely. It is quite another to feel genuine acceptance toward disturbances that issue from our own immediate circle. To imagine we can brush unkindness away lightly is unrealistic: most of us have hidden expectations toward our friends and families, and it hurts when they go unmet.
A mother, for example, was destined to love us. But what if, for one reason or another, she cannot? It happens here and there, and when it does, wisdom would say accept it and let it go. But typically our own primal needs interfere with such acceptance; we might go for years hoping silently for a sweep of nurturing from a withholding parent -- without even noticing we have such a hope in tow.
We don't notice our hope because to our friends we are saying with grownup common sense: "That's the way she is, I expect nothing more." But our cells are not in agreement; and so we visit the parent wearing our adult reasoning on top and our primitive yearning underneath. This results in a split mind; no peacefulness can come from such a state.
So what do we do when we find ourselves caught in a web of dislike?
For one thing, we look with gentleness on our own response, and allow it to be there. No forgiveness of another is possible if we are snarling at our own human reactions. Thoughts along the lines of "You shouldn't be feeling this way!" are ludicrous and lead to a dead-end street. I know that because I've had thousands of such thoughts, and, trust me, they aren't worth the neurons they travel on.
What I can do, though, is intercept my own train of thought. When I notice I am feeling hurt or victimized, and place those thoughts on a screen to give them breathing space, they immediately begin to grow smaller. For one thing, I can see where they come from: old longings, and I can see where they lead: more pain. The more I take time to observe the thoughts and see their mechanical origins, the less power they retain. Eventually, they tend to dissipate and deflate like stabbed balloons. Why? Because they met no resistance.
Zen teachers call this observation process "bare noting". The question is, does it help me in an encounter with an ogre?
In my own case, it has helped enormously. Ogres are frightened people using a loud horn to create distress. If I have dismantled my own hidden agenda, and am free to observe the horn's technique -- how can it alarm me? When mayors light firecrackers and shoot them up into the sky, we know there will be explosion sounds. We are prepared; they are not personal, there is no alarm when they actually burst into noise.
We accept the noise and enjoy the dazzle of light.
And, as most of you know, there are even occasions when our own sense of calm will mysteriously defuse an oncoming storm.
So with my friend's mother (and we all have a relative like my friend's mother) we can work to disarm ourselves, accept the noise, and enjoy the dazzle of light. All beings have something miraculous about them. It may be the way they cook poundcake; it may be their shrewdness with stocks and bonds; it may be the way they laugh -- in large, loopy dollops of hilarity. It may be their unadorned grumpiness -- which can seem almost comical. Or it may be that someone is a miracle because, although their heart is closed in a knot, the freckles on their face are arranged with awesome precision.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is letting it be. Learning how to let things be awful and love them anyway. And I promise you: we can do it.
We are miracles, you and I.
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