Real Love

by Sharon Salzberg

  When we experience inner impoverishment, love for another too easily becomes hunger: for reassurance, for acclaim, for affirmation of our worth. Feeling incomplete inside ourselves, we search for others to complete us. But the equation doesn’t work that way: we can’t gain from others what we’re unable to give ourselves.

  It’s important to recognize that self-love is an unfolding process that gains strength over time, not a goal with a fixed end point. When we start to pay attention, we see that we’re challenged daily to act lovingly on our own behalf. Simple gestures of respect—care of the body, rest for the mind, and beauty for the soul in the form of music and art or nature—are all ways of showing ourselves love. Really, all of our actions—from how we respond when we can’t fit into our favorite pair of jeans to the choice of foods we eat—can signify self-love or self-sabotage. So can the way we react when a stranger cuts us off in line, a friend does something hurtful, or we get an unwelcome medical diagnosis.

  As Maya Angelou said in her book Letter to My Daughter, “You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” I started meditation practice, as many do, with the need to turn around that tendency to feel reduced by life.

  Still, it takes a special courage to challenge the rigid confines of our accustomed story. It’s not that easy to radically alter our views about where happiness comes from, or what brings us joy. But it’s eminently possible. We truly can reconfigure how we see ourselves and reclaim the love for ourselves that we’re innately capable of. That’s why I invite students to set out on this path in the spirit of adventure, instead of feeling that real love is a pass/fail exam that they’re scared to take.

  Although love is often depicted as starry-eyed and sweet, love for the self is made of tougher stuff. It’s not a sappy form of denial. You might still feel rage, desire, and shame like everyone else in the world, but you can learn to hold these emotions in a context of caring.

  Real love allows for failure and suffering. All of us have made mistakes, and some of those mistakes were consequential, but you can find a way to relate to them with kindness. No matter what troubles have befallen you or what difficulties you have caused yourself or others, with love for yourself you can change, grow, make amends, and learn. Real love is not about letting yourself off the hook. Real love does not encourage you to ignore your problems or deny your mistakes and imperfections. You see them clearly and still opt to love.

  THE COMPASSION MUSCLE

  WE BEGIN TO cultivate real love for ourselves when we treat ourselves with compassion. In a sense, self-compassion is like a muscle. The more we practice flexing it, especially when life doesn’t go exactly according to plan (a frequent scenario for most of us), the stronger and more resilient our compassion muscle becomes.

  Katherine says: “The hardest part of this practice for me has been listening to, feeling, and grieving the intense pain of my childhood and teen years. Avoiding this pain gradually closed down my life and awareness, but my heart has begun to warm back to life. I’m able to be present in new ways for myself, my husband, my children, and my grandchildren.”

  When Katherine says her heart has warmed, it’s not just a metaphor. As psychologist Kristin Neff (Self-Compassion.org) writes in one of her blog posts, “When we soothe our painful feelings with the healing balm of self-compassion, not only are we changing our mental and emotional experience, we’re also changing our body chemistry.” She reports on research that suggests while self-criticism triggers increases in blood pressure, adrenaline, and the hormone cortisol—all results of the fight-or-flight response—self-compassion triggers the release of oxytocin, the “bonding hormone,” which increases feelings of trust, calm, safety, and generosity.

  The starting place for this radical reimagining of love is mindfulness. By sitting quietly and focusing on the steady rhythm of the breath as you draw it in and release it, you create room to relate to yourself with compassion. The breath is the first tool for opening the space between the story you tell yourself about love and your capacity to tap into the deep well of love inside you and all around you.

  Nina grew up with rigid parents who thought play was frivolous, so they kept her busy with assigned tasks. And though Nina loved to sing, her mom and dad shamed her because she had less-than-perfect pitch. When I first met Nina at a meditation class, she reported that her life was all demanding work, with no time for play, including singing, her passion. But over many months, she began to experiment with the very things that she’d once been told not to do. She recently wrote me: “I am here to stretch a toe into an area of fear … Singing has become a joy—I am learning to play.”

  Admonishment for play is a message that would cause anyone to approach any feelings of love with fists readied and a clenched heart. It creates fear. It blocks your voice, your life force, and prevents you from showing yourself to the world as you truly are—off-key notes and all.

  LOVINGKINDNESS MEDITATION

  FOR MANY OF us, real love for ourselves may be a possibility we pretty much gave up on long ago. So as we explore new ways of thinking, we need to be willing to investigate, experiment, take some risks with our attention, and stretch. We are going to try a new approach to this matter of love we may have been closed to, assuming we already know it inside and out.

  The practice of lovingkindness is about cultivating love as a transformative strength, enabling us to feel love that is not attached to the illusion of people (including ourselves) being static, frozen, disconnected. As a result, lovingkindness challenges those states that tend to arise when we think of ourselves as isolated from everyone else—fear, a sense of deficiency, alienation, loneliness. This practice forcefully penetrates these states, and it begins, in fact, with befriending—rather than making an enemy out of—ourselves.

  Unlike our pop-cultural ideas of love as mushy, related to wanting, owning, and possessing, lovingkindness is open, free, unconditional, and abundant. Lovingkindness is the practice of offering to oneself and others wishes to be happy, peaceful, healthy, strong.

  We use the repetition of certain phrases to express these wishes and as the vehicle to change the way we pay attention to ourselves and others. There are three main arenas in which we experiment through lovingkindness meditation:

  How do we pay attention? With the practice, we learn to be more fully present and whole in our attention, rather than fragmented or distracted.

  What do we pay attention to? If we are fixated on our flaws and the faults of others, without falling into denial, we learn to admit the other side, the good within us, the capacity for change still alive in us even if unrealized or covered over.

  Who do we pay attention to? We learn to include those we have tended to exclude, we learn to look at rather than right through those we have previously unconsciously decided do not matter, do not count. The spirit of these wishes is that they connect us all in our common urge toward happiness.

  Cultivating lovingkindness for ourselves is the foundation of real love for our friends and family, for new people we encounter in our daily lives, for all beings and for life itself. The classical progression of lovingkindness meditation is that you start with offering lovingkindness to yourself and move on to others with whom you have varying degrees of difficulty. After ourselves, over time we will meditate on someone we admire and respect, then a friend, then a neutral person such as your dry cleaner or a shopkeeper, then a person who is somewhat challenging for you, and then all beings. In this section, we will focus on lovingkindness for ourselves and move on to complete the arc of the practice in the following two sections.

  —Traditionally, the phrases used are ones like, “May I be safe,” “Be happy,” “Be healthy,” “Live with ease.”

  —Some people prefer to say, “May I feel safe, feel happy…” The last phrase, “May I live with ease,” means in the things of everyday life, like livelihood and relationships. “May it not be such a struggle.”

  —Fe
el free to experiment with these phrases, or replace them altogether with different phrases that might work better for you. Some common replacements are “May I be peaceful” or “May I be filled with lovingkindness” or “May I have ease of heart.”

  —The phrase needs to be general enough, open enough so that it can be the conduit for paying attention to yourself and others in a different way. The spirit is one of gift-giving, of offering. It’s a sense of blessing—we’re not goal-setting or parsing areas of self-improvement, like, “May I get better at public speaking.” What would happen when we then focused on our neighbor or grandmother? Instead, we’re practicing generosity of the spirit with each phrase.

  The power of concentration we want to be developing is challenged by constantly needing to think of new phrases for each new recipient. While you shouldn’t feel imprisoned by the phrases, it’s good to mostly keep the same phrases toward the varied recipients if you can. The aspirations we repeat should be deep and somewhat enduring—rather than something fleeting like, “May I find a good parking space.”

  INTRODUCTION PRACTICES

  Introducing lovingkindness

  1. Begin by sitting comfortably. You can close your eyes or not, however you feel most at ease. You can set the time you plan to sit for, using an app or an alarm. If you are newer to meditation, five or ten minutes would be my suggestion. Choose the three or four phrases that express what you most deeply wish for yourself, and begin to repeat them silently.

  2. Repeat the phrases, like, “May I be happy,” with enough space and enough silence so that it is a rhythm that’s pleasing to you. I have a friend who thought he’d get extra credit for saying more phrases—you don’t need to be in a rush. Gather all of your attention around one phrase at a time.

  3. You don’t need to manufacture or fabricate a special feeling. The power of the practice comes from our full, wholehearted presence behind each phrase, from being willing to pay attention to ourselves and others in truthful, though perhaps unaccustomed ways. If you fear sentimentality or phoniness, this is an especially important reminder.

  4. This is different from affirmations that tell us we are getting better and better, or insist that we’re perfect just as we are. If it feels phony, or like you are begging or imploring (“May I please, please be happy already”), remind yourself that it is a practice of generosity—you are giving yourself a gift of loving attention.

  5. You may decide it is helpful to coordinate these phrases with the breath, or simply have your mind rest in the phrases.

  6. When you find your attention has wandered, see if you can let go of the distraction gently, and return to the repetition of the phrases. Don’t worry if it happens a lot.

  7. When you feel ready, you can open your eyes.

  Receiving lovingkindness

  An alternative practice to experiment with is imagining someone who represents the force of love for you. Perhaps they’ve helped you directly, or perhaps you’ve never met them but you’ve been inspired by them from afar. Maybe they exist now or they’ve existed historically or even mythically. It could be an adult, a child, or even a pet. See if you can bring them here, get a sense of their presence—you might visualize them or say their name to yourself.

  Then experience yourself as the recipient of their energy, attention, care, or regard as you silently repeat whatever phrases are expressive of that which you would wish the most for yourself. But say them as though from them to you: “May you be safe,” “Be happy,” “Be healthy,” “Live with ease of heart.”

  All kinds of different emotions may arise. You may feel gratitude and awe. You might feel shy or embarrassed. Whatever emotion arises, just let it pass through you. Your touchstone is those phrases: “May you be happy,” “May you be peaceful,” or whatever phrases you’ve chosen. Imagine your skin is porous and receiving this energy coming in. There’s nothing special you need to do to deserve this kind of acknowledgment or care: it is coming simply because you exist.

  You can end the session by allowing that quality of lovingkindness and care to flow right back out toward all beings everywhere. That which you received, you can now transform into giving. The quality of care and kindness that does exist in this world can become part of you and part of what you express in return.

  And when you feel ready, you can open your eyes and relax.

  Being love

  When we opened the Insight Meditation Society in February 1976, we didn’t have any programming scheduled for the first month. Those of us who were there decided to do a retreat ourselves. I decided to do intensive lovingkindness practice, which I had long wanted to do. Even though I didn’t have a teacher to guide me, I relied on my knowledge of the structure of the practice (beginning with offering lovingkindness to yourself, etc.) and began.

  I spent the whole first week offering lovingkindness to myself, and I just felt nothing. No bolts of lightning, no great breakthrough moment—it felt pretty dreary. Then something happened to a friend of ours in Boston, so several of us suddenly had to leave the retreat. I was upstairs in one of the bathrooms, getting ready to go, when I dropped a large jar of something on the tile floor, and the jar shattered. To my amazement, I noticed the first thought that came to me was You are really a klutz, but I love you. Look at that! I thought. You could have given me anything in the course of that week to persuade me something was happening, and I would have said no. Yet all along, something deep and profound was shifting.

  That’s how we know if the practice is working or not. Our efforts likely won’t show results in the formal period we dedicate to meditation each day; rather, they will show in our lives, which of course is where it counts. When we make a mistake, when we feel unseen, when we want to celebrate our ability to care. We will see the effects when we meet a stranger, when we face adversity. The results reveal themselves both as a result of our dedicated practice and because lovingkindness is an accessible tool no matter what situation we are in.

  The difference between a life laced through with frustration and one sustained by happiness depends on whether it is motivated by self-hatred or by real love for oneself. There are several specific factors that either limit or increase our ability to come from a genuine place of real love for ourselves.

  Kaia wrote her thoughts about this to me: “Through experiences of fear, rejection, and pain—the experiences that for most of us are part of a ‘normal’ childhood and adult life—I eventually shut myself off from that pure love, at least part of the time. I believe that for most of us, a great deal of the time, love feels painful, vulnerable, like a golden nugget we know is contained deep inside of us, but that we feel compelled to guard at all costs. And we’re often doing this without even noticing it.”

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  THE STORIES WE TELL OURSELVES

  We tell ourselves stories in order to live.

  —JOAN DIDION

  OUR MINDS ARE WIRED TO create order, a cohesive narrative, and our stories are our anchors. They tell us who we are, what matters most, what we’re capable of, what our lives are all about.

  Something happens to us in childhood—say, a dog bites us—and suddenly we have a story. We become terrified of all dogs, and for years afterward, we break into a sweat whenever a dog comes close. If we pay attention, one day we realize we’ve spun a story in our minds about an entire species based on a single incident with a single animal—and that our story is not really true.

  The tales we tell ourselves are the central themes in our psyches. If we’re the child of an emotionally needy, alcoholic parent, we might conclude—unconsciously—that it’s our job to take care of absolutely everyone, even to our own detriment. If as adults we’re diagnosed with a serious illness, we may believe it’s our fault and create a story around that: We didn’t eat right. We stayed too long in a toxic relationship. Until we begin to question our basic assumptions about ourselves and view them as fluid, not fixed, it’s easy to repeat established patterns and, out of habit, reenact old stories that l
imit our ability to live and love ourselves with an open heart.

  Fortunately, as soon as we ask whether or not a story is true in the present moment, we empower ourselves to reframe it. We begin to notice that nearly all of our stories can be cast in various lights, depending on our point of view. Sometimes we may be the hero of our story; at other times, the victim.

  I think of Jonah, who was the first in his family to attend college. Even the first step of applying was daunting, and once he was admitted, he had to find a way to finance his education himself. That meant juggling long shifts at work and a heavy course load at school. He struggled to keep up in his classes. Still, as he proudly tells his story, the obstacles he overcame were a key to his success. Jonah graduated and got a good job, where he met his partner. A decade after graduation, Jonah says, “Look at me now.”

  But Jonah might tell his story in a different way, with pain taking a more central role. There would be more memories of lonely nights, feelings of exclusion, worries about being an impostor. Jonah might describe how the world was stacked against him and linger over the people who had slighted him. It would still be a hero’s story, but one marked by frustration and bitterness.

  Many of the stories we tell ourselves about love are like the painful version of Jonah’s story. We’re more inclined to regard past losses with self-blame than with compassion. And when it comes to the present, we tend to speculate and fill in the blanks: A friend doesn’t call at the appointed hour and we’re convinced he’s forgotten us, when in fact he had to take his sick child to the doctor. Our boss asks to speak to us and we’re convinced we’ve done something wrong, when instead we’re given a new project. Since we’re not aware that we’re spinning a story, these narratives can contribute to anxiety and depression, while constricting our hope for the future and eating away at our self-worth.

  One of my students attributes his painful marriage and divorce, as well as other “failed” relationships, to his own feelings of unworthiness and self-blame. “I am so thin-skinned because I’m beating myself up 24-7,” he says. “Had I been more compassionate with myself in my past relationships, perhaps I would’ve had better coping mechanisms.” Through psychotherapy and meditation, this student has learned to question his negative storytelling and tune out the constant chatter of his inner critic.