In case anyone’s wondering about my near-daily posting, rest assured it will be over soon. I’m aiming to exceed my previous record for number of essays in one month, but after November 30th (my birthday), the pace will slow. I may even take December off to give everyone a chance to catch up.
Not long ago a reader emailed me a narrative of her struggles with mood issues and painful events. What impressed me most was her eloquent capture of something I believe characteristic of maturation: inconsistent embodiment of wisdom.
As we gain insight and self-awareness, our behavior doesn’t always keep pace. We may know better than to criticize our spouse, but speak harshly anyway. We may understand how obsessing about a friend’s failure to acknowledge a gift undermines our serenity, and why true generosity makes no demands, but feel resentful even so.
These lapses alternate with times when we find it easy to forgive others and graciously give of our time and resources.
Readers can track the unevenness of growth by comparing my posts with one another. Scrolling through my archives, I see essays that celebrate realization mixed in with tracts that whine about fate. Some days I can view my life from the distant vantage of wise detachment, and other days I get lost in a muddle of mediocrity. It’s as if there are two brains in my head: one aimed at self-realization and the other at self-gratification.
This dynamic interplay between the higher and lower minds seems built into the metamorphic process. Granted, some people enjoy a single mystical experience and are forever changed, like Saint Paul on his way to Damascus. But the majority, I believe, achieve grace in fits and starts.
Zen Buddhism is comprised of two schools that differ on this point. One faction believes satori happens suddenly, jolting the practitioner into permanent enlightenment. The other expects realization to build more gradually, through long practice. Observing myself and others as we stumble toward maturity (no doubt a lesser attainment than satori) convinces me that most people climb in stepwise fashion, and at first with many backslides.
Ken Wilber distinguishes between state and stage. A person can have a profound state experience, a mystical awakening, that leaves him or her feeling radiant and enlightened for days. But sooner or later the system settles back to its habitual stage of development. Brief spontaneous elevation may accelerate personal growth by showing what’s possible, but seldom effects immediate, sustained improvement.
In my own case, I was locked in a self-centered and materialist frame of mind at age 41, when a series of breakthrough experiences transported me to an enlightened state of being. For a time I felt and acted like a happier and more generous person. But eventually I sank back into pessimistic selfishness. Only after years of contemplation and meditative practice did I grow more consistently alive to my better nature, and I still suffer many days of impoverished attitude.
I’m currently reading A Universe of Consciousness, by Gerald M. Edelman and Giulo Tononi. Edelman is a Nobel Laureate brain scientist, and the book summarizes contemporary theories about the neural mechanisms underlying mental life. He explains that the millions of circuits in the brain intertwine and feed into one another in complex and rapid cycles. Each pathway competes with its neighbors, and the ones that so-called “value” systems highlight get strengthened, while others fade away.
If we never question our thoughts and behaviors, they get rated by instinctive value systems that crave immediate gratification. We gravitate toward food, comfort, sex, and aggression. But if we intervene as thought unfolds, we can encourage healthy attitudes and discourage negative ones. We can deliberately build up maturity and wear down selfishness. This is the essence of neuroplasticity.
But make no mistake, this is life and death competition. The egocentric circuitry fights tooth and nail for its survival. It has no interest in fading quietly and would sooner destroy happiness than face dethronement. So when we are tired, distracted, or agitated, the old pathways seize the day and we act badly.
This is no cause for alarm. Many addiction experts believe that relapse is part of recovery. Occasional napping is part of awakening. At first, our eyes may only open briefly and under the most favorable circumstances. But as we work and grow, they stay open longer and in the face of greater adversity. Finally, the day comes when depression howls as loudly as mine did yesterday, but we stay alert and open to the experience. We don’t close our eyes or turn away. We don’t hurt ourselves or anyone else. We just settle into our deep core of serenity and enjoy the storm.
This pattern should be familiar to anyone who has mastered a skill of any sort. At first one executes clumsily, but as time goes on performance becomes better. And at first quality is uneven, but with practice consistency improves. When I learned oculoplastic surgery, my early cases were slower and less skillful than those that came later. And in between the beginning and expert phases passed an interval when some of my operations looked brilliant and others amateurish. Eventually, however, I acquired the ability to reliably perform procedures of high quality.
This is how we learn, whether to be surgeons, musicians, athletes, or yogis.
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