From Self-judgment to Compassion
We were three days
into a weeklong meditation retreat when one of my students, Daniel, came in to
see me for his first interview. He plopped down in the chair across from me,
and immediately pronounced himself The Most Judgmental Person In The World.
“Whatever I’m
thinking or feeling when I meditate … I end up finding something wrong with it.
During walking practice or eating, I start thinking I should be doing it
better, more mindfully. When I’m doing the loving-kindness meditation, my heart
feels like a cold stone.” Whenever Daniel’s back hurt while he was sitting, or
whenever he got lost in thought, he’d rail at himself for being a hopeless
meditator.
He confessed that
he even felt awkward coming in for our interview, afraid he’d be wasting my
time. While others weren’t exempt from his barrage of hostility, most of it was
directed at himself. “I know that Buddhist teachings are based on being
compassionate” he said bitterly, “but it’s hard to imagine they’ll ever rub off
on me.”
Like Daniel, being hard on
ourselves is familiar to many of us. We often distance ourselves from emotional
pain—our vulnerability, anger, jealousy, fear—by covering it over with self-judgment.
Yet, when we push away parts of ourselves, we only dig ourselves deeper into
the trance of unworthiness.
Whenever we’re trapped in
self-judgment, like Daniel, our first and wisest step towards freedom is to
develop compassion for ourselves. If we’ve injured someone and are embroiled in
guilt and self-recrimination, compassion for ourselves allows us to find a wise
and healing way to make amends. If we’re drowning in grief or sorrow, arousing
compassion helps us remember the love and connection in our life. Rather than
pushing them away, we free ourselves by holding our hurting places with the
unconditional tenderness of compassion.
When I asked Daniel how long
he’d been so harsh on himself, he paused for several moments. “For as long as I
can remember,” he said. From an early age, he’d joined his mother in
relentlessly badgering himself, ignoring the hurt in his heart. As an adult,
he’d treated his heart and body with impatience and irritation. Even in the
face of a tormenting divorce and a long bout of chronic back pain, Daniel
hadn’t been able to acknowledge the intensity of his suffering. Instead, he’d
criticized himself for having screwed up the marriage, for not having the sense
to take proper care of himself.
I asked Daniel to
tell me what happened in his body when he was judging himself so harshly, and
he immediately pointed to his heart, saying it felt bound by tight metal cords.
I asked if he could feel that right in this moment. To his surprise, Daniel
heard himself saying, “You know, this really hurts.” I then gently asked him
how he felt about this aching. “Sad,” he responded softly, his eyes welling up
with tears. “It’s hard to believe
I’ve been carrying this much pain for so long.”
I suggested he put
his hand on his heart, on the place where he most felt the most discomfort,
then asked if he might send a message to the pain: “How would it feel for you
to say, ‘I care about this suffering’?” Daniel glanced at me, then looked down
again: “Strange, I think.” I encouraged him to give it a try by whispering the
words softly. As he did, repeating the phrase slowly two more times, Daniel’s
shoulders began to shake with quiet sobbing.
Like Daniel,
offering ourselves such care might feel strange and unfamiliar—or even
downright embarrassing—at first. It might trigger a sense of shame about being
needy, undeserving, or self-indulgent. But the truth is that this revolutionary
act of treating ourselves tenderly can begin to undo the aversive messages of a
lifetime.
Over the next few
days, whenever Daniel became aware of judging himself or others, he’d check in
with his body to see where he was feeling pain. Usually he’d find his throat,
heart, and stomach tightened in fear, his chest heavy and sore. With a very
gentle touch, Daniel would place his hand on his heart and say, “I care about
this suffering.” Because he was sitting in the front of the meditation hall, I
noticed his hand was almost permanently resting there.
One afternoon,
Daniel came to tell me about something that had happened earlier that day.
During meditation, a scene had arisen in his mind of being at his mother’s
house, engaged in an angry exchange with her. As he tried to explain why it
wasn’t irresponsible for him to take a week off to meditate, he could hear her
disdainful reply: “You lazy bum, why don’t you do something worthwhile with
yourself.”
This was the same sort
of demeaning message that in his youth had made him want to shrivel up and disappear.
He felt his chest filling with the heat and pressure of rage, and in his mind
heard himself shouting, “You bitch, you don’t understand! You’ve never
understood. Can’t you just shut up for one minute and see who I am!!”
The pain of anger
and frustration was like a knife stabbing his heart, and he was about to launch
into a familiar diatribe at himself for being such a wimp, for not standing up
to her, for being a meditator filled with such hatred. Instead, he placed both
hands on his heart and whispered over and over, “I care about this suffering.
May I be free from suffering.”
After a few
minutes, the stabbing anger subsided. In its place, he could feel warmth
spreading through his chest, a softening and opening around his heart. Feeling
as if the vulnerable part of him was listening and taking comfort, Daniel said,
“I’m not leaving you. I’m here, and I care.” Throughout the rest of the
retreat, Daniel practiced like this, and some of the most painful knots—the
wounds of his young, anguished self—slowly began to release.
When he came in
for his final interview, Daniel’s whole countenance was transformed. His edges
had softened, his body was relaxed, his eyes bright. In contrast to his former
awkwardness, Daniel seemed glad to be with me, and told me that while the
judgments and self-blame had continued some, they were not so unrelentingly
cruel.
No longer
imprisoned by constantly feeling like something was wrong with him, Daniel was beginning to notice the world in new
ways—other students seemed more friendly; the acres of forest were an inviting,
magical sanctuary; the dharma talks stirred up a childlike fascination and
wonder. He felt energized and somewhat bewildered by the fresh sense of
possibility in his life. By holding himself with a compassionate presence, Daniel
was becoming free to participate more fully in his world.
Like Daniel,
whenever we’ve become addicted to judging and mistrusting ourselves, any
sincere gesture of care to the wounded places can bring about radical
transformation. Our suffering then becomes a gateway to the compassion that can
free our heart. When we become the holder of our own sorrows, our old roles as
judge, adversary, or victim are no longer being fueled. In their place we find
not a new role, but a courageous openness, and a capacity for genuine
tenderness—not only for ourselves, but for others as well.
Adapted from Radical Acceptance (2003)
Enjoy this talk on: Cultivating Compassion
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