The recent marriage between neuroscience and meditative traditions may hold the key to the future of human civilization. Few other modern trends hold any potential to derail humanity from its track of destruction. Many of Daniel Siegel’s writings demonstrate how a combination of internal (meditative) and external (scientific) explorations of the mind can relieve age-old sufferings of humankind. Rick Hanson’s book, Buddha’s Brain, distills this fertile and vast field into a roadmap for personal breakthrough to peace.
Living north of San Francisco, I am fortunate to be able to attend a weekly meditation event led by Dr. Hanson. Recently he guided a discussion about the fruits of practicing a venerable Buddhist meditation called Satipatthana. In the course of such work, one sequentially pays attention to body, to feelings, to mind, and to the obstacles and vehicles one encounters on the path toward awakening. Rick inquired about our personal takes on the benefits of this system of meditation. My thoughts cohered too slowly for me to participate in the discussion, but after returning home I wrote down what I believe Satipatthana is teaching me. I soon recognized a close connection between this meditation practice and what I’ve been saying on this site about the value of sorrow.
Back when I still suffered from chronic depression, my mind seemed like a monolithic psychic prison. With effort I could adopt a few moments of positive thinking, but all-too-quickly my internal world spiraled back into its baseline state of despair and negativity. It was as if my emotional habitat had been formed of poured concrete; it looked like a solid and monotonous block of cold gray stone. Changing my inner experience seemed about as likely as a prisoner breaking through the walls of a penitentiary with his fists.
Partly as a result of Satipatthana, I now understand that my mind is actually a fragmentary collection of mental activities that can be reshaped with the right kind of effort. The gray monolith turns out to be no more rigid and massive than the Styrofoam used to make stage props. By using this meditation practice to explore my body, feelings, and thoughts, I have learned that my mind is composed of many different parts. There is a module that directly monitors sensations; another evaluates what has been perceived; a slightly separate unit grasps or rejects the judged experiences. Further along the line, there is a component that suffers when desired experiences dissipate or undesired ones persist. Finally, there is an expansive region that remains detached and simply observes. While enjoying the steady peace of meditation, I can shift my focus and attend in turn to these distinct elements.
This helps me recognize the difference between the bodily and mental sensations that accompany sorrow, and the suffering that results. In the ordinary course of mental life the experience of grief and loss seems inseparable from the anguish that arises. In actual fact, there is a sequence: first comes identification of loss, then comes the sensation of grief (often felt as a hollow ache in the viscera), and finally comes the mental anguish.
Loss is inevitable. Grief is a natural and largely unavoidable reaction to major loss. But we can influence the depth of anguish and despair to which we descend. Before I started this work, the experience of grief almost always led to depression and a loss of all enjoyment of being alive. Meditation helps me embrace ongoing sadness while appreciating that life is a beautiful gift.
There is a difference between the sorrowful ache of mourning and the choking darkness of despair. The second does not necessarily follow the first. One can experience and even savor pangs of grief and remain grateful for every moment of human life.
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