With luck, I’ll be leaving the hospital tomorrow. A long convalescence stretches before me, starting with a minimum of two weeks without any sustenance by mouth: I’ll be receiving nutrition only via intravenous infusion. An X-ray after the first fortnight will show whether my intestinal blockage has diminished so I can start to add in actual food. I’m hoping for the best in that regard, since the alternative will be surgery to bypass the obstruction.

My body has been weakened by this episode. After a week of starvation I have lost both abdominal fat (yeah!) and muscle mass (ouch!). How completely I can regain my conditioning while being fed with milky fluid streaming directly into my heart remains unclear. Most likely, robust health will only begin to return once I’m on solid meals.

A friend visited yesterday morning and I told her that my default position on hardship is that it teaches me about life. Looking at setbacks this way is my main mechanism for sidestepping discouragement. You’d think, perhaps, that simply living through this life-threatening episode would be sufficient, but I’m perverse enough to still worry about the fate of my acupuncture practice. And I’m carnal enough to feel frustrated that I couldn’t join my wife last night as she ate at a restaurant with friends. Only by seeking meaning can I quell the riot of discontent.

How can we be sure meaning even exists? Some of us are convinced the universe is random and pointless; others believe in a creative God; many find comfort in spiritual practice but resist religious dogma. Whether reality as a whole seems of deep significance varies accordingly. But there is a difference between unveiling the purpose of the entire cosmos versus finding meaning in the stories of our individual lives. We can all discover meaning in this smaller sense of the word.

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl paraphrases Nietzsche: “He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.” My own personal why has become a quest for ever broader understanding of human life, suffering, and fortitude. This means I look for patterns in the cosmos that illuminate our daily lives. It means I examine when and how difficulty gets transmuted into wisdom. And I investigate why most of us continue to value life despite its trials.

Here is one pattern I’ve tried to keep in mind throughout this ordeal: all living things are connected so intimately that it is artificial to conceive of individual persons as separate from the whole. The appearance of division is superficial, whereas the reality of unity is profound. All that I experience is part of what everyone goes through, and vice versa. As a result, I feel less alone and beleaguered. This conviction that life is shared greatly reduces my sense of suffering. Moments of hardship are like the troughs among ocean swells: they are transient depressions that blend seamlessly with the peaks. At this moment I may be far from the higher, more pleasurable heights of living, but somewhere out there a couple is making love for the first time, or cradling their new baby, or sitting on a veranda appreciating nature and retirement.

Here’s what this disease taught me about how hardship can transform into realization: When pain gets extremely intense, past and future recede from consciousness and only the present moment remains. During my most agonizing hours of abdominal pain and vomiting, I no longer worried about my acupuncture practice, or even whether I might have cancer. I remained utterly fixated on my body and its insistent sensations. Since absolute present-moment awareness is the goal of many meditative practices, I see the tendency of intense pain to focus the mind as a surprising consolation prize that ameliorates its awful sting.

And here’s something I’ve known intellectually but understand on a deeper level after spending so much time on an inpatient ward, where the mostly elderly population deals with so much disease and discomfort: No one gets through life without hardship, illness, and death. It may seem that the first two get distributed unevenly, but sooner or later every person sees his or her share of life’s dark side. And yet, everyone also enjoys moments of contentment and affection. Life is not as unfair as it seems, since all are privileged to live it, all must cope with infirmity and mortality, and all discover moments in the sun.

These observations place my current difficulties in a larger context. I see how my tribulations are balanced by others’ joys. I appreciate that pain connects me with the instantaneous jolt of life. I recognize that illness and death are universal, but so are pleasure and love.

This major illness has proven a wise teacher. How much it has enlarged me! Even though my recent problems have been uncomfortable and disruptive, I see so much meaning in them that I feel grateful. Because I find lessons, I embrace my troubles despite the agony, uncertainty, and grief.

Do my words sound like hollow rationalizations? I suppose people will interpret this essay according to personal beliefs, but I’m sincere when I say that these perspectives helped me find precious moments during the past few weeks, despite the arduous challenges.

Many times in years past I believed my trajectory so punishing that I planned to truncate it. Now that I’ve learned to create meaning out of those same hardships, I can’t imagine wanting to shorten this spectacular span of living.

With luck, I’ll go home tomorrow. With Grace, I’ll keep seeing humanity as shared, imminent, and balanced even as my life gradually returns to normal.

Pain, illness, fear, and hunger make clear thinking difficult. They undermine efforts to behave well toward others. These effects have become obvious to me in this hospital bed, where I’ve hung out for seven days without eating, feeling pain ranging from mild cramping to agonizing pressure, and suffering with ongoing nausea that at one point morphed into twelve hours of retching.

To my chagrin, I’ve seen myself act more selfishly and distractedly than usual. When visitors arrive I sometimes talk about my dilemma non-stop, whereas other times I stare blankly without truly hearing what they say about their own trials. I try to remain focused on the needs of others, but it’s hard.

As never before, I understand how maturity and effectiveness can be undermined by adverse states of body-mind. But I’m trying to cut myself some slack and simply review the effects of starvation and pain on my actions and words. I want to learn from this experience but not suffer excessively because of it.

Life inevitably veers in unwanted directions. How much misery we feel depends to a large extent on how we respond to fate. This is true when life disappoints us, and also when we disappoint ourselves.

People sometimes slight us, leading to mild irritation. But as we mentally replay the offense later, we may build up resentment or even rage. Of course, we could instead view the occasion from a broader perspective and forgive the insult. Similarly, a personal gaffe can be made worse by negative obsession, or better by viewing it as a learning experience.

Before we begin to mature as adults, we may not be aware that such choices exist. Resentful obsession seems like the natural and inevitable response to an insult. Humiliated rumination seems like the deserved consequence of social mistakes.

Fortunately, as we gain skills we learn to transform resentment into forgiveness. We abandon narrow focus on a single slip-up for a broader and more compassionate perspective on our personality.

When we are faced with really serious illness or other trying circumstances, our resources can get overwhelmed. Our healthier skills are most likely to fail us when we are hurting, hungry, frightened, or lonely. Not only are we more likely to overreact to minor injustice, and to act childishly, we are more likely to punish ourselves afterward.

My system has seldom felt so physically stressed as it does now. As already mentioned (in this essay and the last), the duress has increased my tendency to behave with embarrassing immaturity and selfishness. Before I started paying attention to this cause and effect relationship, I had begun to berate myself for getting so far off track.

Yesterday during a conversation about these issues with a dear Buddhist friend, we talked about how the Buddha distinguished between what he termed the first and second darts.

Fate throws the first dart into our sphere. For instance, an unexpected major illness arises. It could be anything. For the sake of argument, let’s imagine sudden pain arises in the abdomen and doctors discover a nest of abnormal blood vessels near the pancreas, along with a bleeding aneurysm. Prolonged hospitalization becomes unavoidable, along with its discomforts and inconveniences.

We toss the second dart ourselves. Perhaps it penetrates consciousness in the form of worry: does a cancer lurk under that tangle of vasculature? Is death on the march? The second dart drives resentment and frustration: plagued by worry and feeling persecuted, we complain and act out. The second dart accentuates our misery. If we simply experienced unavoidable hardship without layering on toxic interpretations and retaliations, we suffer less.

During yesterday’s conversation with my friend, we came up with the idea of a third dart. We use this missile to attack our unskillful response to fate. Just as the second dart arises in reaction to the first, in that we worsen a bad situation by distorted thinking, the third dart flies as we reject our own negativity. We could choose to be compassionate toward the second dart: “Oh jeez, I yelled at that phlebotomist after he jabbed me a third time trying to suck blood out of my arm. How predictably human I am! When he comes back I’ll apologize.” Quite often, however, we instead launch the third dart and berate ourselves for shortcomings: “How ugly of me to sound so hostile! Didn’t I learn anything from all those years of meditation and acceptance practice?”

Notice we won’t be susceptible to such self-reproach if we don’t value skillful behavior. The red-faced tailgater leaning on his horn as traffic slows for a yellow light is unlikely to suffer from the third dart, though he is hitting himself hard with the second one. He probably won’t be blaming himself for his intolerance. In this sense, being self-critical shows more maturity than being self-righteous. Even so, the third dart does little to actually improve our responses. It simply makes us pay a higher price after we misstep.

The third dart is a danger to those of us who hope to tread a spiritual path, because we replace helpful noble intentions with damaging self-criticism. We feel painfully aware of our inadequacy compared to the highest exemplars, like the Buddha or Christ. To intend skillful behavior is edifying, but to punish ourselves for human failings is destructive. We gain nothing from the third dart.

I’ve been pulling a lot of third darts out of my butt lately. A prolonged hospitalization for a confusing, painful illness is a great way to lose one’s grip and begin acting unskillfully. Instead of giving in to my inclination to beat myself up afterwards, I’m working to recover my balance as quickly as possible: correct my behavior, apologize to whoever I hurt, and forgive myself. I yank out the third dart and keep aiming for my better path.

Criticizing people, systems, or the entire modern world has become too easy. My last post made some valid points, I’m sure, but it looks unbalanced to me as I reread it. Without doubt, since I entered the hospital occasional staff members have treated me with shocking insensitivity. On the other hand, there have been some pleasant interactions, especially during the past two days.

One older nurse took time to inquire about my dogs. It was the first set of truly personal questions I’ve answered, and it felt good to be talking about subjects that warm my heart rather than abdominal pain, nausea, and constipation. It felt delightful to be treated as a unique individual rather than just another patient.

Another nurse shared with me her feelings of conflict about whether to continue living far from her boyfriend or move closer to him. She grew up in this area and is loathe to leave it for a region she likes less; and yet, long distance relationships never fully satisfy. I appreciated her confiding in me, if only briefly. It increased my sense that we share the common human experience, with its constant ebbs and flows of pleasure and pain.

And I must admit that my behavior as an inpatient has not always been laudable. I’ve accepted cell phone calls while staffers took my vital signs, when I should have kept my attention on the living, breathing person next to me rather than tuning in to a plastic box. Even when the box is transmitting words from a loved one, and the person checking my blood pressure is a stranger, the latter deserves my attention more.

Plus, I’ve acted demanding and entitled at times. When they moved me out of my private room into one with three beds, I raised a fuss. Indeed, the shared room robbed me of sleep and raised my anxiety, but why should I feel myself above experiencing such duress when someone must? What makes me so special? They eventually isolated me after I spent twelve hours vomiting: obviously a distressing experience for my fellow patients. But I feel a little chagrined, looking back on my whining.

In my defense, I haven’t eaten a meal (or at least not one that stayed down) for six days. I’m in constant pain and sleep poorly. I’m worried about my future and discouraged that my budding acupuncture business has been dealt another body blow. But don’t we all have excellent reasons for acting like jerks? The trick is to be kind regardless.

The point isn’t to punish myself here. I’m only human, just like everyone else. We all need to work on improvement; it’s a never-ending call. I still believe that modern health care could be enhanced with more attention to personal warmth and less emphasis on technology, but I need to remember that many people who work in the field feel strongly about their mission and strive to provide compassionate care.

Criticism is easy, but so is praise. In the end, we do best with a little of the former and a lot of the latter. This is true whether we are on the sending or receiving end of things. The health care system needs reform, but it also deserves praise for managing so much suffering, day after day.

Most of my blog posts get titled after completion. Only rarely do I start with the caption and build an essay out of it. This morning the two words above best express what’s going on in my little world. In truth, I could stop there. It probably isn’t necessary to write anything more, but I’m going to anyway. Don’t expect too much from the text that follows, since my creativity feels dulled, and my energy is flagging.

The past eight days have been among the most trying of my adult life. First came the abdominal pain, internal hemorrhage, and hospitalization. My confinement taught me a lot about modern inpatient care, little of which was comforting. After discharge I tried for three days to get by without analgesics until the pain became so overwhelming that thought nearly evaporated, leaving nothing but raw suffering. So on the advice of my doctor I finally gave in and started taking a Percocet twice a day. This enabled me to start functioning again, but now I’m stuck on narcotics (exactly what I was trying to avoid). Since getting off them the last time was such an ordeal, I’m very worried about this necessity for pain relief.

A close friend of mine visited me the day after I returned home. He confronted me with some very upsetting opinions about our interactions on a day when I felt highly vulnerable. This makes me feel wounded and sad.

I’m worried about dying. Looking around I see how my life, as humble as it is, has so much precious beauty. It contains far more of value than I ordinarily acknowledge. For all my years of suicidal thinking, I don’t want this show to end right now.

A cousin of mine and I have been carrying on an email conversation that has expanded my understanding of our families and my own past. This feels quite useful to my growth, but it adds to my sense that everything that seemed solid in my life is dissolving.

The doctors still have no idea what went wrong inside me. Although they tell me not to worry about malignancy, my own medical training tells me that it remains distinctly possible. I realize that many people battle cancer, and that many survive. I’ll fight the good fight if necessary. But at this point there isn’t any disease to battle, only uncertainty.

The weather here was gloomy until yesterday: chilly, damp, and gray. Before this week the winter climate had little effect on my mood, but now I’m feeling oppressed by it.

The discomfort continues, even with the pills. In addition to pain I feel fatigue, malaise and nausea.

In short, there is a great deal going right now, I’m a bit overwhelmed. It feels like living does when it gets challenging. I am feeling life.

Too many of us grew up in families wracked with pain. Emotional wounds accumulate in settings of neglect, abuse, bereavement, molestation, violence, and misery. As adults, these ancient injuries undermine our happiness. We often choose poorly in relationships, careers, and pastimes. Even if we don’t make gross mistakes, we lack the confidence to endorse our own choices. We feel uneasy in good times and overwhelmed in bad. This is the legacy of childhood trauma.

At times we shut down emotionally, closing ourselves off from the affection we crave. Other times we act out and hurt the ones we love or destroy our own reputations.

Still, healing can happen after even the worst of upbringings. It takes time, and backslides are unavoidable, but eventually we stabilize in greater maturity and emotional openness than we ever imagined.

In the last post we highlighted the body’s gentle wisdom and how often we ignore it. As I move further along the path to peace of mind, the importance of befriending physical nature becomes ever more obvious. The injuries of the past are stored in our biology, where they affect every aspect of our lives.

For instance, upon remembering painful events from our past, our minds recoil in shame, anger, or sorrow. In equal measure, our bodies respond with corresponding feelings of hollowness, tension, or exhaustion. Just as emotional surges reflect the state of mind that accompanied past trauma, somatic symptoms recreate the physical feelings recorded at the time of the original hardship. Often, such emotional and somatic reactions arise without any conscious memory of the childhood injury that caused them. For example, when a spouse criticizes us, we may feel ashamed and small, or furious and explosive, without overtly connecting these responses to the parental harshness that first established the pattern.

Before we learn healthier strategies, our habitual response to distressing sensations is avoidance. We turn our mental spotlight away from our body’s messages. We may lose ourselves in thought and analysis, ignoring the cramp in our gut, the ache in our shoulders, or the shallowness of our breath. We may evade direct, felt experience by focusing on the actions and misdeeds of others. We may use the distraction of intoxicants, food, sex, or television as shields against painful emotional and sensual turmoil. We become skilled escape artists.

The solution can be found in the body. In fact, we cannot fully transcend our pain until we face its somatic legacy. At first, this feels excruciating. When we begin to tune into our bodily responses, we become aware of a sensory universe populated by knots, soreness, burning, blockage, agitation, and numbness. These discomforts are the physical counterpart to the emotional uproar that also arises. We discover how underneath our superficial and obsessional thought, our core system buzzes with anxiety, grief, anger, and fear. It all seems so noisy and confusing that we may find ourselves pouring a bowl of cereal with little memory of rising from meditation and heading to the kitchen.

The good news is that as we reacquaint ourselves with our bodies, the sensations become less intense. We relax into nonjudgmental awareness, which lessens the stimulation of tension and pain. It can seem like our systems shout less loudly when they have our attention.

Furthermore, we can learn to enter even the most unpleasant symptoms with an attitude of openness, acceptance, and love. In my own case, I experience deep, burning pain in my neck and upper back that worsens during times of stress. It is easy to hate this discomfort and resist it, but doing so only increases the misery. A better strategy is to move toward the soreness with focused attention and gentle affection. I apologize to my neck for all the times my activities harmed it. I feel compassion for its burden of muscle spasm, arthritis, poor posture, and neglect. I honor the hard work it performs in service of supporting my head every day.

By treating my body with the same care I would treat any beloved animal, I send a message of acceptance and affection to my entire being. The self-compassion resonates on the somatic, psychological, and spiritual levels. It feels profoundly healing. Often, the pain seems to abate with this practice, but the goal isn’t to alter my experience in any way. I seek only to honor my body and whatever it communicates.

All painful experiences can be approached in similar fashion. Crushing sorrow, vertiginous loneliness, shattering fear, and even livid rage can all be embraced with this attitude of loving, wise embrace. One finds that life is full of pain, but that this does not mean it is going badly. For as we open to our discomfort and terror, as we accept uncertainty and loss, we automatically increase our ability to feel joy, love, and spacious bliss.

The body will teach us the inexhaustible majesty of life when we surrender to both its wounds and its strengths.

Every once in a while I hate blogging. Why? Because it fails to satisfy my desires. (So yes, I’m still on the topic that’s consumed the past several posts.)

Usually my disillusionment with blogs happens when the work seems to go nowhere. If there are neither comments nor emails, or if the visitation drops, it can feel like I’m writing into a void. The project fails to satisfy my yearning for service, connection, and (let’s face it) recognition.

On the other hand, when the site garners responses, and especially if readers seem appreciative, blogging strikes me as a rewarding endeavor. Satisfaction elevates my mood; my self-esteem rises.

Wherein lies the problem. My mental state varies according to factors I can’t control. The best way to attract comments is to provoke controversy, but this tactic is hard for me because I generally like to write in a way that doesn’t offend. And even when I try to evoke some disagreement, my efforts often fall flat. Sometimes blogging meets my expectations and sometimes not, and nothing I do can guarantee success. It’s easy to believe I’d be better off not wanting anything in return for writing.

So it seems to me that not desiring is the safest path, but of course things aren’t so simple.

I didn’t expect desire to a controversial topic, since my treatment of it was not different from what I hear regularly at Buddhist and Hindu meditation events. But this is a case where what sounds perfectly reasonable in some contexts can sound perplexing in others. Without the common agreement that one finds in a group of people attending a spiritual gathering, the idea that desire is bad sounds troubling.

And I see why. Yearning seems to underlie much of what’s good in life, from chocolate to social progress. Thinking back to my early days in Buddhist centers, I remember the philosophy first struck me as dry and life-denying. (And keep in mind I still don’t consider myself Buddhist, though I’m quite accustomed to the language by now.) After all, I’m a biologist at heart, and I admire the teeming, expansive, hungry, fertile, and beautiful qualities of life. The idea of remaining detached from the panoply of organic urges and turmoil struck me as escapist, if not Puritanical.

Obviously, I see Eastern “non-attachment” in a more nuanced light these days. But that has taken time and practice. It has required me to recognize how many of my hungers do, in fact, ultimately lead to frustration. Even so, I remain captivated by life as it is lived across the biosphere, not just by the human slice of it. For most biological forms, urges ensure survival.

However we, as intelligent apes enjoying abundance (obviously, a large portion of humanity is not so fortunate, and lives near starvation–but I doubt many suffering such privation are reading my blog), need to ask ourselves if perhaps our desires are propelling us so far beyond mere survival that our existence is now threatened by the very yearnings that once assured it. Are we not sublimating the hungers that once kept us alive into impulses less useful and more destructive? Aren’t animal forces that were once essential now inviting catastrophe? This would seem a strong argument for reigning in desire.

But then there is the question of higher motives. A number of commentators point out that there can be spiritually inspired desires, and I don’t disagree. Who could deny that there can be yearnings that aren’t base? But even (or especially) such higher causes can get frustrated, and for that reason may lead to suffering. As I’ve tried to make clear, the objection to desire isn’t a value judgment, it’s a viewpoint that derives from observation of effects. To desire often means to feel disappointed.

Does that mean that all desire should be avoided? No, I don’t want to insist on that. Going further, is it necessary for all suffering to be avoided? I would say not. Suffering can be beneficial. Look how often it leads to growth. As is always the case, the situation is complicated.

So here’s another reason for discomfort with blogging. This time not because it feels pointless, but because it seems incapable of capturing deep truth. In a short blog post, or even a series of posts, important points inevitably get left out or glossed over. An entire book (or dissertation) could be written about subjects I try to cover in brief essays. The desire to do a topic justice was one of the reasons I recently considered writing a book. A blog is not sufficient to the task.

I like hearing from my readers, so the fact my treatment of complex subjects is inadequate turns out to be positive. My failure prompts others to correct my understanding, which helps me sculpt my views to be more comprehensive and less dogmatic. But I still feel like the blog is failing to convey the deep peace that comes from efforts to reject desire, and to completely accept life despite its chaotic failure to satisfy yearnings. It’s frustrating to write about something that feels true and helpful, only to realize that my words are inadequate.

In addition to blogging failing to garner the attention I crave, and failing to convey the truths I hold dear, there is yet another reason it frustrates me sometimes.

For all my recent talk about the value of rejecting desire, today I’m feeling a lot of it: I wish for more happiness and less dreariness. This time of year is hard on me as we in the Northern Hemisphere enter the short, cold days of winter. I yearn to feel better, to smile more easily, to walk outside and feel the sultry passion of summer.

So despite my elevated take on desire, right now I feel trapped by it. And once again blogging feels wrong. On this website I often write about how much life has taught me, and how clarity has graced me, but I still end up in occasional funks. When that happens I wonder if all this writing is not mere fraud. Yes, at times the world feels glorious even in the midst of heartache and loneliness, which is when I feel most moved to post essays. Other times, the glory seems unreachable, and I am left with the ordinary blues. More often that not, during those times I remain silent.

So even with a project as mundane as penning an obscure blog, desire causes problems. Desire for connection. Desire to feel helpful. Desire to be acknowledged. Desire to be understood. Desire to be authentic. All these yearnings, all these openings to disappointment and, yes, suffering.

But like I said above, suffering is not always a bad thing. And so perhaps, neither is desire. The secret may lie in observing the process of both yearning and frustration, and identifying with that part of the Self that stands outside and smiles at the amusing uproar of it all.

This will be my last word, for now, on desire. So far I’ve summarized the Eastern view on it and dealt with two of the questions that inevitably arise: How do we motivate ourselves if not by desire? and Are there not healthy forms of yearning?

To round out the discussion, let me point out that although one post was titled “The Road to Hell Is Paved with Desire,” I did not mean to imply that desire is sinful in the usual sense of the word.

We in the West are conditioned by Judeo-Christian theology. Within these religions, there is a presumption that God judges our actions and condemns our sins. Lust, greed, sloth, wrath, pride, gluttony, and envy are all related to desire in one way or another. When we yield to these “seven deadly sins,” and hence to our base hungers, God rebukes us. Or so we are told by the Abrahamic lineage.

This kind of thinking is at odds with the views of Eastern traditions. The Hindu God is a complex entity with many facets and manifestations. But if God appears in personal form at all, he (or she) is more a companion and neutral witness than a punitive judge. The Hindu and Buddhist concept of karma implies that we are free to choose and suffer the natural consequences of our choices. If we elect to cause harm, we will reap darkness in this or future lifetimes. If we choose compassion, we will receive mercy in kind, eventually. The emphasis is on inevitable cause and effect, not just desserts.

In spelling this out, I am not claiming that one view is necessarily right and the other wrong. Rather, my point is that both Divine punishment and Karmic consequence deal with ultimate effects, not immediate results. In contrast, these essays were not written to suggest that desire leads to a hellish afterlife or unhappy future birth, but to misery in the here and now. Craving creates hell on earth.

Desire causes suffering automatically. It is not sinful in the sense of leading to eternal damnation. Nor do we necessarily accrue bad karma if we choose to live by desire. But if we bank our happiness on satisfying wishes, on constantly adjusting our circumstances to meet our expectations, we are doomed to suffer disappointment. This is a utilitarian judgment, not an ethical one.

The many questions that arise when one proposes rejection of desire become less important when we see things this way. Those who prefer to live passionately, or who feel strong hungers and enjoy pursuing them, are perfectly free to do so. Such people are neither unworthy nor unspiritual. They are free to ride the stormy waves of yearning, satiation, and more yearning. No doubt they can, as much as anyone, find realization if they want it badly enough. They can choose ethically supportable desires and reject destructive ones; they can hunger for social justice and world peace; they can elevate their passion to mystical ecstasy and so counterbalance the grinding frustration of appetites.

But those of us who tire of the roller coaster, who seek equanimity, can find it by rejecting the promise of desire. We can see how pursuit of hungers leads to nagging dissatisfaction. We can transcend the yearnings of body and ego, and move to a deeper and quieter space within.

Yes, there will be a price to pay. Life will lose its power to stimulate and arouse. But we will gain steadiness and profound insight in exchange.

The choice is ours and ours alone. The universe will love us either way.

It’s funny how life confirms your beliefs, and as attitudes change, so do the people you meet. Five years ago it seemed obvious that the mood instability and chronic melancholy I suffered directly resulted from the trauma of my past. Over and over I met others from devastating childhoods who seemed to grapple with the same emotional issues: high sensitivity, easy sadness, chaotic relationships, erratic performance, and so on. Every time I heard of another disastrous upbringing from someone who seemed to struggle just like me, it confirmed my belief that childhood trauma had wrecked me.

These days, I’m less sure. Several times recently I’ve spoken with others who suffer from similar mood issues and sadness, but whose childhoods were not as glaringly awful as mine. Intact families, superficially normal parents, and safe homes seem to be no guarantee against adult angst. Of course, the underlying theme in these cases betrays a more subtle dysfunction: the lack of genuine trust and selfless love. Overbearing mothers, stern fathers, resentful parents, capricious decisions, and chronic stress can all feed into later problems.

Adult emotional dysfunction doesn’t require the equivalent of nocturnal strangulation. Because that was my story, I had assumed the same true for everyone who struggled with the same severe distress I used to endure. For a long time everyone I met who seemed to suffer as much as me had experienced major childhood trauma. But now that I am less sure that the trauma was to blame for my ‘issues,’ and instead suspect it was simply the lack of consistent love, I’m coming across people whose stories justify my new perspective.

No doubt this is mainly a question of selective attention. Perhaps I previously discounted the angst of those who didn’t share a traumatic story; maybe I assumed they suffered less. Narcissistic, I admit, but at least my horizons are now broadening.

There are two points to walk away from here: First, subtle forms of rejection and neglect can damage a person. Mental distress doesn’t require overt torment and contempt. Second, we will always see what we expect to see.

The second observation leads to a behavioral corollary: our patterns tend to self-perpetuate. If we believe we are uniquely damaged, we will look at the world through that filter and recognize only the most traumatized individuals as like us. If we believe our angst to be more ordinary, we will realize that we are not that different from the average person.

This is a genuine problem that explains a lot of discord. Each person is continually finding confirmations for his or her prejudice, and so becoming more and more entrenched in established beliefs. Breaking into new ways of viewing the human situation will only happen if we open our eyes to the unexpected and even to the undesired. Otherwise, our opinions will ossify and conflicts will escalate. Or, on a more personal level, failing to open to the possibility of being mistaken will thwart our growth into higher levels of maturity.

I admit to error and narrow views. Wanting to feel justified in my distress, and wanting to ease my shame, I emphasized the unique aspects of my upbringing as causative in my unhappiness. Now that I’d rather join the human condition than separate myself from it, I’m more able to see how my suffering is universal.

And isn’t that a basic Buddhist teaching? The principle is easier to understand now that I’m less invested in my old story. That’s the advantage of trying to open to new perspectives: you become more receptive to the greatest truths.

After so many posts and comments about hardship, an essay about pleasure seems appropriate. I should warn you, however, that what follows might be just as unpopular as my saying that life’s ordeals foster human growth.

Most readers will be familiar with Positive Psychology. Championed most prominently by Martin Seligman, its thrust is that researchers have learned what makes people genuinely happy, and this information can be put to practical use. It is a movement away from traditional therapy, where the client talks about his or her misery, and toward more proactive intervention. Why seek assistance only to quell despair? Why not get help building genuine and lasting satisfaction?

Positive Psychology prods us to plumb the deepest fonts of satisfaction in life. It’s promoters, and Seligman in particular, seem well aware that fleeting ‘good feelings’ do not lead to contentment. We need richer fare than that. We need to feel useful, and ethical, and wise. We need more than just momentary “up” emotions.

Unfortunately, this message is not widely accepted in our culture. We live in a world where marketing coaxes us to impulse buy. Why do we so often comply? Because purchasing the shiny new thing leads to a short burst of elation. But for how many weeks does a new car make someone happy? And how many minutes of true satisfaction come from a morsel of chocolate? Just how long does the heady rush of a new love affair last?

In all cases the answer is the same: not long enough.

Sooner or later, every “good” feeling ends, and the brain is wired in such a way that the decline of elation leads to craving for more. Soon we want another car, another treat, and another lover. Of course, if we are sensible we will remember the practical issues of money, waistline, and the myriad problems of switching romantic partners. If we look at the larger picture we can avoid acting on the desires our bodies create, but we still feel that tingle of want.

Because the end result of a “good” feeling is often a let down, pursuing “up” emotions ultimately leads to angst. Although I don’t consider myself a Buddhist, there is wisdom in what that tradition tells us about suffering and desire. Both subtle wants and gross cravings lie at the root of much if not all distress. We feel deprived if we don’t get what we desire. But we also feel uncomfortable when our cravings get satisfied, because satiety never lasts. No matter how sleek the car, how sweet the candy, or how sizzling the lovemaking, the peak feelings fade and we are left feeling hungry again.

I’m anticipating the objections. Am I suggesting we should deny all sensual pleasure? Am I a prude? Do I believe that hardship leads to growth but pleasure leads to misery?

Not at all. There is nothing wrong with enjoying sensual gratification (if done in a way that doesn’t harm others). One of the beautiful features of being alive is how good it can feel. I would never advise that we shun the healthy pleasures of living.

But we need to hold these things lightly, or we will suffer. Just as hardship is made easier by not resisting, pleasure is made healthier by not grasping. Just as sorrow becomes less painful when it is embraced, joy becomes less addictive when it is released.

We live in bodies that are wired to seek pleasure and avoid pain. But following the dictates of the body traps one in an endless cycle of hunger, satiety, and recurrent hunger. Or pain, relief, and more pain. The Buddha understood that one can break free only if one accepts what comes without desiring anything different from this present moment. If we are in the midst of a luscious kiss, we do well to savor it and not worry about the job market. If we just got fired, we will recover faster if we acknowledge our fear and humiliation rather than grasping for distracting pleasure.

These are not popular truths, but they are truths. The more we live in the moment and accept life’s ever-changing maelstrom of downward and upward currents, the more we feel at peace. If we hold joy lightly, we can achieve the lightness of genuine contentment.

Does trauma edify? Does bereavement educate? Do we learn from hardship?

Anyone reading my recent posts would get the clear message that I believe so. In truth, I doubt many would argue the point. Sure, in the face of recent loss the potential for growth may be hard to accept, but when people look back years later, many dreadful experiences can be seen as transformative. And the idea that life teaches us lessons has obviously been around a long time. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Right?

Then why do we balk at our ordeals? Why is hardship so, well, hard?

You would think a universe constructed to help us grow would make the maturation process easier. Of course, we have no proof that the cosmos serves any particular purpose. The fact that we learn from life doesn’t mean the purpose of life is learning.

But human existence is made easier by organizing beliefs. All the spiritual paths I know of provide a reason for tribulation. Karma. Original sin. Desire. God’s will. Even the religion of material atheism provides an answer: utter randomness. It seems very hard for people to simply live without trying to understand what causes their hardship.

There’s nothing wrong with trying to gain insight, but let’s face it: we cannot solidly identify the motive force behind life. The new atheists are convinced there is no such motivator, but they build that conviction on faith, just like the rest of us.

I’m playing with these ideas to try to separate belief from effect. We learn from life no matter what we think about it. Atheists mature the same as spiritualists. Growth is the one principle that cannot be denied.

Think about that: growth is the one sure thing. And what characterizes life in the first place? Growth. What is the touchstone of modern economics? Growth. What do we gain from our hardships? Growth.

So what do we harvest from our toil on this plane? A more or less steady bounty of movement toward maturity. Some develop more than others, of course, but the process occurs in every life, starting with conception.

So why do we resist the hardship that helps form us? Because it hurts, and our native inclination is to avoid pain.

And why isn’t life easier? Well, what education is easy? Do you learn to be a physician without struggle? Do virtuoso musicians acquire their skill without effort? Does a poet blossom without heartache? If growth is a principle of life, pain is a principle of growth.

But so is joy. The final irony is that by rejecting our instinctive avoidance of pain, and embracing all the lessons of life, the heart finds bliss. This spiritual truth has been announced by saints throughout history. In the present day, even ordinary people are awakening to it, often as a result of meditation.

Is hardship, once accepted as a path to realization, still hard? Of course. But if we abandon our fear, open our hearts, and accept the vicissitudes of life, are we still suffering? Perhaps a little, but not as much as when we resist.

So here’s my larger point: We can find peace no matter what we believe. We can start with the undeniable truth that struggle brings growth, and then accept hardship as ultimately beneficial. The alternative is to fight fate, suffer terribly, then grow anyway.