I'm reading Shel Silverstein poems to a girl living in a cardboard box.
It all started with Buddha. I read Roland Merullo's Breakfast with Buddha, and it spoke to me so clearly about letting go of anger-- and at a particularly angry moment in my life-- that I picked up Best Buddhist Writing, 2011, in which there is a detailed meditation exercise that goes like this:
Imagine sending love to someone you love
Imagine sending love to someone neutral
Imagine sending love to an enemy
Imagine sending love to yourself
That is, of course, the watered down version of one essay, and you should really go out and read the book for yourself.
So I sat myself down to meditate. This is not something I do regularly, or even ever, but I've heard that it might mellow me and make me happier, and I find the idea of a happy, mellow me an appealing goal.
Each person I was supposed to send love had his or her own challenges. Partly, I just couldn't create a method for the transfer of love (Should I imagine the person's face, the whole person? Should I imagine the love as a golden light sent across the miles? Or should I just chant a little love ditty --probably not the proper word it--?) Partly, it's hard for me to let my love go.
I'm perhaps being flippant, but it's probably because -- like Otto, the main skeptic in Breakfast with Buddha-- I found the exercise, once I settled in with it, kind of thrilling and uncomfortable at the same time, like when my aunt used to whisper the story of "The Man with the Golden Arm" around the campfire at night.
The end of the meditation, sending love to myself, was the biggest challenge. My golden light and my ditty chanting couldn't touch me.
Not too long ago my friendly neighborhood therapist asked me to describe the wall I built around my heart, but it was shifty and blurry, and I couldn't get a clear image, so, while meditating I decided that I would not waste love on myself like so much water on a dead plant, and instead tried to imagine that wall. But, in fact, it wasn't a wall at all.
It turns out that inside my heart there's a little girl with long, blond, unruly hair. She's wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans that are too short, and she lives in a cardboard box. Because I have never been one for patience or subtlety, I tried to tear open the box and drag her out. I mean it's my imagination, and she's me, after all. I should be able to open an imaginary box, I told myself, but the girl in the cardboard box was stubborn. She stayed put.
I didn't realize I'd stumbled on a form of cognitive therapy until I went back to see my therapist. I think she was horrified that I'd tried to bust my younger self out, but she didn't show it. She suggested that I try to find a way to coax the girl out with the things she loves because she probably needs a lot of that.
I thought about it. She loves Shel Silverstein, of course. I pulled my old copies of Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic off the shelf, and feeling more than slightly dotty, and wondering where this could possibly take me, I began to read, "Sick."
"'I cannot go to school today' said little Peggy Ann McKay . . ."
How I cherished those poems. I had many of them memorized and would recite them at a sneeze. Poetry was my first passion, kept me alive at times, and remained a life-long comfort.
As I was reading aloud to myselves, I remembered how at the end of "The Man with the Golden Arm" my aunt wailed in her most mournful, broken-record voice, "Who stole my golden arm?" and suddenly struck out through the dark and grabbed me, shouting, "You did!" until I screamed myself hoarse.
My revelation was just as sudden and striking as the end of that story. I always thought there was nobody looking after that little girl, but someone always was: It was me. I may not have been the best of child minders, but I'm here, and that's no small thing.
And if you're here, too, the same goes for you.
Namaste.
It all started with Buddha. I read Roland Merullo's Breakfast with Buddha, and it spoke to me so clearly about letting go of anger-- and at a particularly angry moment in my life-- that I picked up Best Buddhist Writing, 2011, in which there is a detailed meditation exercise that goes like this:
Imagine sending love to someone you love
Imagine sending love to someone neutral
Imagine sending love to an enemy
Imagine sending love to yourself
That is, of course, the watered down version of one essay, and you should really go out and read the book for yourself.
Each person I was supposed to send love had his or her own challenges. Partly, I just couldn't create a method for the transfer of love (Should I imagine the person's face, the whole person? Should I imagine the love as a golden light sent across the miles? Or should I just chant a little love ditty --probably not the proper word it--?) Partly, it's hard for me to let my love go.
I'm perhaps being flippant, but it's probably because -- like Otto, the main skeptic in Breakfast with Buddha-- I found the exercise, once I settled in with it, kind of thrilling and uncomfortable at the same time, like when my aunt used to whisper the story of "The Man with the Golden Arm" around the campfire at night.
The end of the meditation, sending love to myself, was the biggest challenge. My golden light and my ditty chanting couldn't touch me.
Not too long ago my friendly neighborhood therapist asked me to describe the wall I built around my heart, but it was shifty and blurry, and I couldn't get a clear image, so, while meditating I decided that I would not waste love on myself like so much water on a dead plant, and instead tried to imagine that wall. But, in fact, it wasn't a wall at all.
It turns out that inside my heart there's a little girl with long, blond, unruly hair. She's wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans that are too short, and she lives in a cardboard box. Because I have never been one for patience or subtlety, I tried to tear open the box and drag her out. I mean it's my imagination, and she's me, after all. I should be able to open an imaginary box, I told myself, but the girl in the cardboard box was stubborn. She stayed put.
I didn't realize I'd stumbled on a form of cognitive therapy until I went back to see my therapist. I think she was horrified that I'd tried to bust my younger self out, but she didn't show it. She suggested that I try to find a way to coax the girl out with the things she loves because she probably needs a lot of that.
I thought about it. She loves Shel Silverstein, of course. I pulled my old copies of Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic off the shelf, and feeling more than slightly dotty, and wondering where this could possibly take me, I began to read, "Sick."
"'I cannot go to school today' said little Peggy Ann McKay . . ."
How I cherished those poems. I had many of them memorized and would recite them at a sneeze. Poetry was my first passion, kept me alive at times, and remained a life-long comfort.
As I was reading aloud to myselves, I remembered how at the end of "The Man with the Golden Arm" my aunt wailed in her most mournful, broken-record voice, "Who stole my golden arm?" and suddenly struck out through the dark and grabbed me, shouting, "You did!" until I screamed myself hoarse.
My revelation was just as sudden and striking as the end of that story. I always thought there was nobody looking after that little girl, but someone always was: It was me. I may not have been the best of child minders, but I'm here, and that's no small thing.
And if you're here, too, the same goes for you.
Namaste.
5 comments:
You rock my world. I am blown away by this post. And am so glad you are here and that you keep coaxing and coaxing. You are pretty much my role model for bravery, honesty and tenacity!
What a beautiful, eloquent, amazing post! I can't even get all my stumbly-bumbly words out to tell you how much I love this -- and you. Thank you.
Thank you both!
Love that meditation, its like how to practice compassion, and it really works. The first time I came across something like this, it was suggested to think of your mother (as long as this was a loving feeling) and project that feeling onto people you might have less than loving feelings for and it does work and certainly leaves one with a much more pleasant feeling than anger.
Nice to meet you, Claire. Thanks for the suggestion. It is a good meditation. My compassion goes rusty at times.
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