WillSpirit

In reading about Acceptance & Commitment Therapy (ACT), mindfulness, and other subjects, the concept of the watcher comes up often. The terms vary; other names for this entity include the observer, the true self, and simply consciousness. Quakers call it the still, small voice within.

Isn’t it odd the way something important about yourself can be discounted until you’re finally ready to deal with it? For years I’ve recognized that part of me is aware of my mistakes even as I make them. Often, when I’m about to do something ill-advised, an inner voice will comment: “that’s a dumb move, but you’re going to make it anyway, aren’t you?” Long ago, back when I still consumed alcohol, I would watch myself pour another drink knowing full well that my behavior was already edging out of bounds. Or I would say something unkind to a lover, knowing that it was uncalled for and would lead to a big blow-up. This observing part of my mind has always been wise, but until recently it remained largely passive. It seldom took the reins and averted disaster. As a result, I disregarded the watcher within. It seemed like a prudish and annoying sibling, quick to point out my folly but slow to assist. Only recently did I recognize that this watcher is my truest and strongest self.

Early on, I heard the watcher as a voice speaking words because nothing else penetrated my awareness. But the soul’s natural language is stillness. These days, by listening to its silent voice, I understand the observer better, and I am able to more frequently align myself with its resonant peace. Unfortunately, in my most despairing moments I still feel locked in a mind that convulses with regret, fear, and self-loathing, while the watcher seems far away and unable to help. In the midst of severe emotional upheaval, I have yet to find reliable refuge in my calm, silent center. Even so, I am glad that in lesser states of distress I align with the observer fairly often.

Surprisingly, the occasionally intense pain I feel in my neck has helped me find solace in my soul. As I’ve explained in past entries, severe spinal arthritis ended my surgical career. Physical pain has plagued me for years, and the experience is made worse when the discomfort reminds me of how I lost my former occupation. When that happens, I feel a hollow, nauseating sensation in my stomach in addition to the hot, gnawing ache in my neck. The pain is almost never completely absent, and sometimes its severity makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else. For several years I used narcotic pain relievers; they lessened the discomfort, but caused a new suite of problems. Before long the only time I felt good (physically or emotionally) was shortly after I took the pills; my life revolved around waiting for the next dose and the next relief. These days I take only Tylenol, and the pain is unending, though variable.

I describe the pain so I can show how it has taught me to adopt an observing stance. In times of severe neck discomfort, identifying with the watcher allows me to sidestep a lot of suffering. I can feel the pain, but in a detached and accepting way. There is a point at the very top of my head where the pain doesn’t reach, and I observe my body’s discomfort from there. Although the shift in perspective is difficult to describe, watching the pain from a distance is far better than living in its midst. For some reason, the observer stance is easier for me to adopt when the pain arises from physical rather than emotional sources, but having learned watching skills with physical pain, I can apply them to emotional distress.

Although I still get swept away by the most powerful emotional storms, I’m improving in my ability to watch feelings without losing myself in drama. The other day I found myself in a whirlpool of distress. Because I am taking fewer psychiatric drugs, my emotions are more easily and more powerfully triggered. Shortly after an upsetting situation, I found myself awash in tears and practically convulsing with anguish. Then, for a short time, I moved into what I call the ‘watchtower.’ From a safe distance, I observed the emotional turmoil. I fully acknowledged the frustration and fear, yet I did so from a wise and detached perspective; my awareness centered in the observer, not the observed. Because it was the first time I’ve successfully established a watching stance in such despair, the moment was brief, and I was soon swept back into the roiling currents. But I enjoyed a moment of peace and quiet clarity.

Without doubt, if I stay committed to watching rather than living emotional distress, my skills will improve. My practice of detaching from physical pain will generalize into an ability to separate myself from all forms of suffering, including the emotional hurricanes that have always been features of my psychic weather patterns. Who would have guessed that the neck disease that ruined my old life would provide me the key to peace in my new one?

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