Near the Mojave Desert National Reserve, I saw a desert tortoise on the shoulder of the highway. I was driving 70 miles an hour, but in an instant, decided I needed to stop. So, I skidded to a halt on the shoulder and walked back to where I’d seen him.
The tortoise, who I affectionately named Ted, had been trying to cross the highway. When I reached Ted, he had retreated fully into his shell. So, I sat down and waited for him to emerge again. In time, he slowly poked a centimeter of his head out, waited a few moments, then poked out a bit further. But he never got very far in his mission, because with the roar of each approaching car he’d take refuge in his shell entirely again, and start the process anew. Despite playing this game of hide and seek two or three dozen times, overall he seemed undeterred in his need to cross the road.
After many minutes of waiting, I realized I needed to move on; and so, in parting, I began to speak to Ted, “I know you want to cross the road. But you will likely die. The cars are too big. They will kill you.” He poked out his head a little bit. I fell back in silence. “It isn’t that they want to kill you. It’s just their nature.”
In my last post I wrote how I’m trying to reframe my complaints. You might have thought – “Well, that’s cute – but surely it isn’t that hard to overcome annoyance with a stranger (even if he is your doppelgänger) when you’re traveling and in a boojie coffee shop. How do you deal with your anger toward someone who really deserves it? I bet you wouldn’t be so Zen if someone callously ran you over and left your pride, your heart, your trust, or your career broken and bloodied?”
Shamefully, I have to admit, you are right.
This point came home to me when an old friend called me last week while I was still in Zion. In the course of our conversation he mentioned a mutual connection (let’s call him or her Sam). While a moment before I’d been telling my friend how much peace I was finding on my journey, upon mentioning Sam it was as if he’d blown a dog whistle. My inner animal, which I thought had been subdued, went into frenzy. Without even knowing what I was saying, I launched into one of the vilest, most vituperative tirades of my life – which ended with this choice line, “Sam isn’t even capable of experiencing happiness. I’d wish him an early death, but maybe a long life would be a better punishment – (an additional string of expletives can be imagined by you here)”
So much for non-judgement and inner peace…
For years, I felt like a desert tortoise around Sam. Without divulging too much (as that wouldn’t help anyone), every time I crossed Sam’s path I anticipated being mistreated in some way (major or minor). So, like that tortoise, I’d wait and cower at the sound of Sam’s approaching footsteps. And ultimately, I felt my fears were justified, as in a metaphorical sense Sam did run me over in multiple of the ways that left me emotionally and psychologically bruised and battered.
I can analyze my anger at Sam through the prism of the “complaints framework”. I understand the “goodies” it gives me to attack him from afar with my words. I also see how holding onto the anger is hurting me: stealing my peace, causing me to feel ill, and making me look bad in the eyes of my friends.
And yet, knowing that, it’s still been so hard to let it go. Even many thousands of miles away – I can’t outrun past hurt. Either painful memories emerge back to me in moments of stillness, or someone (usually innocently) will mention the name of someone who hurt me. When either of these things happen, the mere thought can be enough to feel as though I’ve been administered new wounds.
So, how then can I let it go? Part of my journey these past few months has been to try to answer that question. While I don’t have any easy answers – I have found several things are really be helping me (both as it relates to Sam, and to several others as well).
First, stop pretending that “everything is okay.” It isn’t weakness to admit you are in pain. Pain is a real sensation, and to ignore it isn’t a sign of wisdom. It’s willful blindness. Pain, all pain, has something to teach. Since my conversation with my friend, I’ve tried to meditate on Sam, and sit with the feelings of anger and sadness that have often swelled up inside of me when I do. Moreover, what I’m finding again and again on this journey is that the fear of pain is more dangerous than the pain itself. When I sit with pain long enough, it can be excruciating. But it always passes. And when it does, its power to wreak havoc on me is greatly diminished.
Second, get beyond myself and my own pain. In my meditations, at first it was hard not re-live the moments Sam hurt me. But in time, I have been able to move beyond that more and more, and move toward a contemplation of Sam, and how Sam became who he or she is. Surely, as a child Sam was not always so joyless or so cruel. If my scathing line that “(Sam) is not even capable of experiencing happiness” is true, that must be the result of great unresolved suffering in his / her own life. The longer I meditated on Sam, the more I realized the inevitably of his / her actions. I could call Sam a monster, but to what end? Do I yell at a snake to lose its fangs, or a tiger to rip out her claws? I have no power to change Sam’s nature. Sam is like the driver barreling down the highway, looking out to the horizon, not even noticing the tortoises he is running over. My anger and resentment alone will not change Sam. All my anger is doing is trapping me in an endless cycle of suffering. The most I can do is see what is real, protect myself, cultivate compassion for Sam’s suffering, and someday if we ever meet again, try to show Sam the kindness that I wish we would have given me.
Third, cultivate gratitude. Yes, Sam was cruel to me, Sam made my life miserable for years. And yet, am I dead? No. Am I more open to joy and connections than I used to be? Yes. Are my dreams richer and more meaningful today than the ones I used to hold? Yes.
Admittedly my suffering has been minor compared to many friends, who have experienced far worse – some have lived through wars, others have experienced severe physical and sexual violence. In the face of such horror, I don’t know if all suffering can be redeemed. All I can speak to is my own experience, and in that I cannot think of a time when my suffering has not been an invitation to grow. I could wallow in the pain Sam caused me, or I could focus on the ways it helped me develop new eyes for seeing others in pain; compassion for those whose dreams have not played as planned; and gratitude that in pushing me off one path he inadvertently helped me find the one I’m on today. Surely then, rather than curse him, I should thank him for these gifts.
But lastly, before I get too proud of myself, meditating on Sam has been an invitation to look more deeply into my own actions. Sure, I have been the tortoise, but I’ve also been the car just as often.
This, more than re-living past traumas, has been the most painful consequence of remembering Sam for me. In stillness, I’ve found many, many moments I’m ashamed of. At times I’ve left a trail of wreckage in my wake. Sometimes I did not even notice, other times I believed my own pain was somehow a justification for it.
If I am to heal, it must start with me. I don’t need to wait for other people to change. I too am broken. I too do not deserve forgiveness for things I have done. But despite these truths, I still have the power to forgive, to cultivate compassion, and to thank those who hurt me. I can apologize for the hurt I’ve caused. And I too can prioritize learning to live more mindfully, so that I cause less suffering to others in the future.
I do not need to wait to do these things. This is all available to me now. And so I should do it now. After all, if not now, when?
