From Suffering to Peace

by Mark Coleman

  As you notice this, can you release the reactivity and orient to meet and feel whatever emotion is present? If that is not possible, then bring awareness to the reactive state itself. No matter what the contraction or fixation is, like fear or longing, turn to it with mindfulness, which allows a more complete embracing and understanding of it. The more we can hold such states in awareness, the less likely we are to act out from them.

  Next, notice any grasping or reactivity to your thinking. While meditating, do you resist, judge, or contract around your busy mind and its commentaries and memories? What about your thoughts themselves? Do they express grasping in the form of fantasies, rehashing an argument or desire for any number of things or experiences? Awareness can be like the sun, evaporating clouds of thought upon contact. Rather than engage or reject the flurry of thoughts, shine the light of awareness upon them, which allows the ability to release mental fixations.

  Lastly, track your relationship to the environment, including to temperature, smells, and sounds. Noises you hear during meditation are an excellent place to practice letting go. Notice any reactivity to sounds: Do you grasp after silence or resist unwanted noise? If there is a contraction against certain noises, bring awareness to the aversion itself. The more we can bring mindfulness to reactivity, the less we are caught in it, which expands our capacity to be with a fuller range of experience.

  We may dislike many sounds, like traffic, truck engines, people shouting, and dissonant music. Cultivating the space of nongrasping allows us to hear these sounds without becoming riled. They are just sounds, fleeting, often unpleasant, but all workable. Thus we learn to move through the world with greater peace. Notice this for yourself directly as you meditate. Notice how mindfulness gives us the ability to hold all experience with a nonreactive attention.

  • • •

  Chapter 17

  Freedom from Attachment

  Great trouble comes from not knowing what is enough. Great conflict arises from wanting too much. When we know when enough is enough, there will always be enough.

  — LAO-TZU

  I have heard that when monkey hunters set traps, they drill small holes in coconuts and put a banana or peanuts inside. When a monkey reaches their hand in and grabs the food, they get caught because they can’t remove their clenched fist from the coconut and they won’t release the food. We are no different. We get attached to so many things in life, often to our detriment, that it seems like it must be in our DNA.

  Living in a consumer culture doesn’t help. Years ago, a magazine ad for a Ford pickup even commodified consumerism as a spiritual pursuit. In the ad, a man sits in front of his truck surrounded by all the toys and gear any young adventurer might want: a surfboard, scuba equipment, a TV, a computer, skis, golf clubs, climbing gear, a guitar, a dog, and on and on. Below, the caption says: “Spence put a new twist on an old philosophy. To be one with everything, he says, you’ve got to have one of everything. That’s why he also has the new Ford Ranger. So he can seek wisdom on a mountain top. Take off in hot pursuit of enlightenment. And connect with Mother Earth. By looking no further than into the planet’s coolest four-door compact pickup. He says it gives him easy access to inner peace. Which makes him one happy soul.” When we are bombarded with advertising like this, no wonder we get attached to stuff!

  Mindfulness can help illuminate our attachments, not just to our stuff, but also to our preferences, views, beliefs, self-image, and a host of other things. In all cases, the strength of our attachment influences the extent of the pain we feel when we can’t have or we lose what we want. Yet we rarely realize how tightly we hold something until it is challenged. Then we feel the full force of this reaction, as a mama bear protects her cubs.

  Sometimes we don’t see our fixations until someone takes away the very thing we cling to. We may not feel attached to coffee until we can’t have it for a week while on a cleanse. We might feel relaxed about money until the stock market crashes and financial insecurity sparks panic. We may not realize until retirement just how dependent we are on our professional identity. We take youth for granted until our hair thins and laugh lines etch deeper into our face. On a silent meditation retreat, we may feel a desperate need to check our phone and be entertained. We grasp in so many ways. The key is to recognize all the myriad ways we get attached, for it is this awareness that allows us to disengage from the vice-like grip of attachment and find peace.

  For myself, I have a certain preference for peace and quiet at home. I am reminded of the strength of this predilection whenever construction workers are jackhammering nearby, gardeners turn on their noisy leaf blowers, or my neighbor’s TV is turned up loud. My own reactivity can erupt quickly to this noise, and it’s humbling to see how fast I can go from reading or quietly writing to frustration, contraction, and blaming. Then, reminded of the strength of my attachment, as evidenced by the clutching in my belly or my judgmental thoughts, I can reestablish awareness, which allows me to hear the sounds and be present to the noise without the inner disruption of reactivity.

  Of course, no one likes to be disturbed by loud noise. And everyone has preferences. Likes and dislikes are a natural part of the human experience. This is even a biological imperative: to survive, we prefer safe environments, nourishing food, and companionship. There is also nothing wrong with preferring peace and quiet or a particular flavor of ice cream, car, or sports team. It’s fine to prefer certain political systems, social mores, and religious ideals.

  Opinions and predilections are not problems in themselves. Our level of attachment to what we prefer, however, can wreak havoc in our lives. If we demand, expect, or insist that an experience, other people, or the political or social world conform to what we want, we will suffer. The equation is simple: the larger the attachment, the greater the pain. We create so much unnecessary distress this way because life is inherently out of our control. It does not bend to our will or our desires.

  My English friend Phillip is quite attached to sunshine. Many people are. But because he lives in northern England, bright days are relatively few and fleeting! The real problem, however, is that Phillip actively resents every cloudy or rainy day. He tends to become contracted and grumpy when the inevitable rain and stormy skies blanket the landscape, and so he spends much of his time in a bad mood. Sunshine may make him happy, but his attachment to sunny days, far more than the actual rain, is what fuels his unhappiness.

  The Third Zen Patriarch, a famous Chinese Chan meditation master of the fifth century, wrote: “The Great Way is not difficult for those not attached to their preferences. To set up what you like against what you dislike is the disease of the mind. Make the smallest distinction, however, and heaven and earth are infinitely set apart.” Jesus of Nazareth pointed to something similar when he said that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. That is, our attachments to wealth and possessions are what stand in the way of spiritual peace. The Great Way, the peace we all seek, is already here, but only if we let go of attachments to our preferences, if we release the tight fist that grasps after what we want and recoils when what we desire eludes us.

  Consider for yourself: What is it you are attached to that causes disease? What for you sets heaven and earth apart? How do you demand that life be a certain way? Do you insist on solitude, a slim body, a certain political party to be in office, your partner to be more communicative, or the need to own a new car every year? We all have preferences. They are not problems in themselves. The key is to make them conscious, to realize we have a choice and so not be driven or enslaved by our attachments.

  Sometimes I laugh at myself about all the small ways my mind gets hooked by attachment. I once became particularly fond of a blue Patagonia shirt that I wore every time I backpacked. I must have worn it for ten years, and I associated it with every hiking trip. Then one day it got caught in a bramble patch and an arm ripped off. I was shocked, and I immediately resented the thor
ns for tearing apart the shirt that had become my wilderness companion! Then I had to laugh at my own pettiness. We cannot rid ourselves of preferences, and I’m not suggesting we try. However, we can come to release the grip of our attachments to them, so we can find the space and ease to dance with life, rather than demand that it conform to our desires or have tantrums when it doesn’t.

  Another common place I see my own attachment is when I watch my favorite boyhood soccer team on TV. I love soccer and am very attached to the success of my team, Newcastle United. However, this is a bit of a setup for misery, since my team is notoriously hopeless, often lying close to the bottom of the Premier League they play in. Yet I continue to watch in the vain hope of a great victory or a thrashing defeat of an archrival team. Of course, my attachment to my soccer team creates as much or more anxiety, stress, and tension as joy. During a game, I sense my body become tense, my breath shorten, and my heart and mind tighten. When I do, I try to release my attachment to the result, which allows me to relax some and actually enjoy the very sport I am watching to bring me pleasure! I remind myself that it’s just a game and will be over in ninety minutes, which also helps me to lighten up.

  Indeed, a useful support for living free from attachment is to realize the transience of everything. As the Taoist philosopher Lao-tzu wrote: “If you realize that all things change, there is nothing you will try to hold on to.” The wisdom of awareness is our greatest ally here. It helps us see how nothing lasts, how we are unable to hold on to anything because experience is always slipping through our fingers like sand. This knowing allows us to hold everything lightly. Rather than feel entitled to what we want, and feel animosity toward what we don’t want, we foster the conditions to grow the heart of acceptance and ease for whatever happens.

  • PRACTICE •

  Abiding in Nonattachment

  Find a comfortable posture. If you are sitting on a chair, have both feet on the floor and keep your spine upright yet relaxed. Place your hands on your legs and either close your eyes or keep your gaze lowered.

  First attend to any sounds. As you listen, notice if you have any reaction to or preference regarding the soundscape. Notice which sounds you prefer, like birdsong or rain, and which you don’t, such as sirens, traffic, or mechanical noise coming from a heater or AC system. Be present to whether you are attached to particular sounds and whether that attachment triggers any reactions. If you feel contracted against a certain sound or grasp after quiet, notice what that is like. Feel the rub of discomfort that arises when attachments create a certain desire for or resistance to experience.

  Notice how the spaciousness of awareness can support you to release the demand that sounds or experience be a particular way. Is it possible to let go and simply be with whatever sounds are present? If it helps, remember that all sounds are fleeting. No matter how pleasant or unwanted, sounds will not last long. Observe how much more peace is available when you simply let sounds be, letting them wash through you like wind blows between the limbs of a tree.

  Now become aware of your body. Scan your physical experience. Notice the places that feel pleasant and those that feel tight, tense, fatigued, or in pain. Then observe any attachment that arises, whether preferring what is relaxed and pleasant or wanting to avoid or be rid of what is challenging, achy, sharp, or restless.

  Observe how you may want your body to feel a particular way and what happens when it does not. Do you reject the experience, hate it, contract around it, or long for a different experience? If so, notice how that makes you feel. Rejecting ourselves or our experience can be alienating and painful and can even create more physical discomfort. If it helps, remember that all is transient, and notice if this knowledge allows you to find ease within the ebb and flow of your physical experience.

  Next, bring awareness to your mind and heart. In the quiet of meditation, notice any attachment related to your emotions and mental states. Do you want to feel and think in a particular way? Do you want your mind to be quiet and your heart to be happy? Observe how grasping or contracting can arise with these preferences. When we demand that we be a certain way, it creates a lot of unnecessary internal conflict. If it helps, remember that what we think and feel changes ceaselessly, and we rarely remain in one state for very long.

  When you end the meditation, maintain your attention on how attachment functions as you go about your day. Notice how easily you can get attached to wanting events to go a particular way, such as a conversation, a work meeting, or a sports event. When that happens, without judgment, notice the tension or contraction this can create. Life is full of unexpected events, many of them unwanted and challenging. Paying attention to the force of attachment creates the possibility of disengaging from it. This can help you navigate life’s innumerable vagaries and find some ease within the uncontrollable nature of life.

  • • •

  Chapter 18

  The Changing Nature of Self

  Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.

  — RUM I

  When we are born, we enter this world without a sense of self, free from any identity. We are simply an undifferentiated flow of experience. However, by the time we are less than a year old, the mind has begun to construct a sense of self, one built from a conglomeration of physical, emotional, mental, and relational processes. As we age, that notion of “self” becomes more solid, definite, and real, so much so that we genuinely believe that our image or identity is who we are.

  Yet this idea of self is not as substantive or enduring as we like to think. It is a constructed notion, based on a matrix of ideas, memories, perceptions, and reflections from people and the world around us. As we investigate the “self” with awareness, we see that it is as elusive as it is unreal. It is like a mirage or rainbow that appears solid and substantive, but under close examination, it fails to have any enduring existence.

  The felt sense of our self is a defining aspect of our personal existence. We know ourselves by a sense or feeling of “me-ness.” Hard to describe and define, this identity is a familiar sea of feelings, thoughts, perceptions, bodily experiences, and memories. Sometimes we call this our personality, but if we look closely, we notice how this, too, is just a concoction of fleeting experiences that change day by day, hour by hour.

  We tend to think of our sense of self and our identity as fixed and enduring over time. But are they really? On wilderness retreats, I invite students to contemplate their own sense of self while in nature, and I often offer my own experience as an example of how the self is constantly in motion, flighty, changeable, and elusive.

  One morning during the retreat, after a cold night camping on uneven ground, I wake up having slept badly. I may feel a bit irritable and tired, and I notice “grumpy Mark” is present. He tends to look at the world somewhat negatively. From the perspective of that “self,” the day’s activities will look like hard work. Then I will have a strong cup of black tea, my morning ritual, which helps wake me up and brightens my mind. Between the caffeine and splashing my face with cold water, I will feel brighter, more positive. In the short period of time it takes to drink some tea, “grumpy Mark” vacates and I feel excited about spending the day outdoors. I start to look around at the natural beauty all around me and feel rejuvenated, inspired, and happy.

  This buoyant sense of self may not last long. I might remember a disagreement I had with a teaching colleague the night before who critiqued my course structure and teaching style, and now reactivity surfaces: I become angry over being judged; I feel a little hurt inside. A righteous personality quickly emerges, one filled with indignation, and this self gets swept up in a flurry of planning how to rebut my colleague. Usually, after a few minutes, I recognize this reactivity and laugh at myself: “the mindfulness teacher” planning revenge! A wiser self now takes the place of the vengeful one, and I adopt a different view of my colleague: he is, in fact, an old friend whom I know appreciates me and has on
ly my best interests at heart.

  Seeking further relief from that confining straightjacket of anger, I decide to hike to a nearby meadow, a beautiful landscape of emerald grasses. Soft dawn light illuminates the ponderosa trees that flank the meadow. I breathe in the fresh mountain air and feel a moment of heartfelt gratitude for being in this magical place, far from the bustle of my urban life. I’m transported into an expansive sense of self that feels love and appreciation for nature and its beauty. In that expansion, I feel the rigidness of the angry one fully dissolve.

  I then sit at the foot of an old Douglas fir tree and meditate. As I abide in that contemplative state, my mind quiets, my heart opens, and I have a sense of merging with the landscape. In that quietude, “Mark” as a sense of self becomes hazy. There is no more self-talk, no more feeling separate, just a flow of experience. There is a visceral sense of being one with the living forest. This is all witnessed effortlessly in awareness. The familiar sense of self fully dissolves, leaving just a quiet, awake presence.

  Then I am jarred out of this tranquil, serene place by the sound of the retreat bell, summoning everyone to the meditation circle by the campfire. I am jolted out of this sense of connection, where all sense of me, my life, my little separate part of the universe, has disappeared, with no self to be seen. Rapidly, “teacher Mark” emerges, the self who is concerned about getting to the meditation on time and busy planning what kind of practice to lead that morning. This sense of self feels more dense and opaque in comparison to the state where all self-referencing disappears.