The Best Buddhist Writing 2010 - Melvin McLeod [71]
Paradoxically, as I embraced my basic goodness, I could be more honest about my shortcomings. When I had treated myself harshly, I had needed to deny my very real flaws and mistakes to avoid my own self-judgments. As a hanging judge whose every transgression merited the death penalty, I couldn’t afford to see the effects of my behavior on others. Now I could face facts. I could admit that I had spoken too quickly or been unreasonable. After all, don’t all of us make these mistakes?
I developed mantras to help with self-acceptance. “I forgive myself for losing perspective, for being fearful, for being overconfident and for lacking confidence. I forgive myself for being ungrateful and for chiding myself for not feeling gratitude every moment of my day. I forgive myself for the thoughtless remark, the inattentive moment, the careless gesture, and the undelivered gift.” “Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven. I am forgiven.”
Although with others, I was not a demanding person, I had sent myself a different quality of message. I developed new ways of dealing with myself. The first time I noticed I had changed was when I accidentally spilled tomato juice on our light gray rug. My internal dialogue began with my habitual responses: “You are stupid, careless, clumsy, and awful,” but suddenly I asked myself, “How mad would you be at a friend who did this?” I smiled and told myself, “Accidents happen. Let yourself off the hook.”
I practiced what the Dalai Lama calls “inner disarmament.” Of course, I still had judgments, but I tried to accept even my judgments without judgment. At a glacial pace, I moved beyond repression and self-criticism to something more skillful. I discovered the difference between recoiling from feelings and opening to them. I trained myself to be more curious than fearful. Sometimes I even felt compassion for myself as I struggled.
Taking the Leap
Pema Chödrön
Perhaps you’ve seen those paintings of the wrathful deities of Vajrayana Buddhism. They are a manifestation of fierce compassion, because sometimes that’s what we need. People rightly love the American Buddhist nun and teacher Pema Chödrön for her warmth and gentleness, but I think of her as one of those fiercely compassionate deities. Her message is loving but tough: we can’t hide, we can’t fool ourselves, and all our tricks only make things worse. It’s called truth. She’s faced it herself, and we need to, too.
Before we can know what natural warmth really is, often we must experience loss. We go along for years moving through our days, propelled by habit, taking life pretty much for granted. Then we or someone dear to us has an accident or gets seriously ill, and it’s as if blinders have been removed from our eyes. We see the meaninglessness of so much of what we do and the emptiness of so much we cling to.
When my mother died and I was asked to go through her personal belongings, this awareness hit me hard. She had kept boxes of papers and trinkets that she treasured, things that she held on to through her many moves to smaller and smaller accommodations. They had represented security and comfort for her, and she had been unable to let them go. Now they were just boxes of stuff, things that held no meaning and represented no comfort or security to anyone. For me these were just empty objects, yet she had clung to them. Seeing this made me sad, and also thoughtful. After that I could never look at my own treasured objects in the same way. I had seen that things themselves are just what they are, neither precious nor worthless, and that all the labels, all our views and opinions about them, are arbitrary.
This was an experience of uncovering basic warmth. The loss of my mother and the pain of seeing so clearly how we impose judgments and values, prejudices, likes and dislikes, onto the world, made me feel great