Turning Towards Pain

I didn’t post last week because it was my birthday week and I wanted to give myself some time off. But that was just part of it. At the heart of it was that I was feeling grumpy and down for a couple of days, and when it was time to write a new post I felt like I needed to have digested that grumpiness into a nice little piece of learning for you all. Once I made the decision to take the week off from writing I was able to just let my grumpiness be without needing to end it in order to gain some insight about myself. That time off ended up feeling pretty nice and within a day or two much of the veil of grumpiness had lifted enough for me to see that without realizing it, I had been shunning my pain and working hard to “fix” it instead of just letting myself feel it.

It’s interesting to see how fear and pressure mount, telling us a story that’s not based in reality. I was going on believing my stories until I paused long enough to turn towards the pain I felt and see it for what it was. I felt disappointment and sadness at not getting to be with my extended family on my birthday. I felt shame and guilt for those feelings, knowing that our situation is so privileged compared to that of many others. I felt a sense of unsatisfactoriness and frustration with the stuff of life, “Is this it?”. And with all of these thoughts and feelings I felt worried and nervous that they’d stick around forever. But as soon as I paused to honor them and allow them into my heart, everything softened.

Then this week came along and has been tearing at my heart with relentless intensity. My news feed scrolls through a troubling list of headlines detailing the unfathomable loss of lives from this pandemic, the staggering jobless numbers in the US, and the deadly cost of racism in our country - be it structural racism that has made this pandemic far deadlier and costlier for communities of color or the reprehensible actions of a growing handful of murderers who only see skin color instead of their own fear. Just writing that sentence calls for a pause to stop and let the pain be for a minute. Please, if you’re reading this, take a moment with me and just feel your breath, your heartbeat, your heart center, then notice your limbs, your contact with the ground or seat beneath you. Breathe.

Sometimes it all just feels so heavy. After I’ve cried what tears I have and talked through my anger and frustrations all that’s left is to love it. As was the case last week, this isn’t always my first inclination, nor is it the easiest thing to do. But, all it takes is one breath of attention, a moment of turning towards instead of away, to remind me of the strength and potency that awareness can have on my pain.

I don’t always think I know how to love these terrifying parts of myself and the world, and at first it can feel kind of awkward and intimidating to switch from my stance of resistance to one of open heartedness (especially when it feels like the pain will be too much to bear). But I’ve done it enough times to trust my heart’s capacity to handle it — even when it’s cracked or ripped open from some new injustice or great loss. In fact, it usually ends up being those times that have most opened my heart to the world.

In mindfulness practice this can be as simple as pausing to notice the pain that’s calling out to be seen or felt. It may feel intimidating to acknowledge and allow such an immense pain into our awareness, but that’s the magical thing about awareness, there’s no end to what it can hold with equanimity and grace. Even when I don’t feel equipped to handle something, my awareness can make space for it. I just have to be brave enough to give it a chance.

As we notice the pain we feel, can we notice our reactivity to it? How often do I brace myself against the idea of the pain, steeling myself to stand up to my story about the pain? The story running in my mind is generally far worse than the actual sensations making up the experience. When I’m able to just explore the sensations of the pain, noticing the pulsing, throbbing, heat, tingling, shifting experience, a couple of things happen. For one, I can see that it’s not constant, but rather, it’s constantly shifting and changing with each breath, each heartbeat. And I can also notice that it’s often not as intense as I’d thought, without the additional story and my tensing in resistance to an imagined future pain, there is more space for the pain to dissolve into. Granted, the pain doesn’t always go away or diminish, but as my reactivity does, the experience of it all is more tolerable.

In my experience, my pain, both emotional and physical, is usually just wanting to be given space and attention. Once I pause to feel and honor my pain, I’m better able to respond to it with compassion and love. I can tend to its needs, my needs, with care and a better understanding of what’s needed - a bath, some aspirin, or a good cry. The energy I spend actively, and sometimes passively, pushing down my pain is far greater than the energy it takes me to face it and care for it. Bringing our awareness to these uncomfortable areas of our bodies can serve as a practical experience to open our hearts and better prepare us to wake up to uncomfortable areas in our society.

As I write, I’m watching live helicopter footage of looting and buildings burning in Los Angeles. The reporter on the ground interviewed a young black woman and asked her why there was so much property damage being done and what her primary message was as a protestor. She responded that as a black person she is suffering, as a law abiding citizen she is in constant fear of the police, as an older sister she is constantly afraid that her little brother will be killed by police officers anytime he leaves the house. She was not participating in the looting, but did not condemn the looters’ actions, explaining that black people are all suffering, and that their pain is rarely acknowledged or seen as valid. She said that the first step to responding to everyone’s pain was awareness. For white people to acknowledge and learn about the pain and stress black people are feeling and feel every day would be a move in the right direction.

Just as the pain I ignore in my body will not go away and will only be exacerbated by my resistance and willful ignorance, the collective pain felt by non-white people in America will only continue to worsen and grow if we as a society continue to fail to acknowledge and get to know it. Once we can stop ignoring, invalidating, and denying this pain, maybe then we can all begin to move towards some sort of compassionate response.

There is space in awareness for anything and everything we can throw at it. Are we brave enough to stand witness with kindness and compassion?