WillSpirit!

Here comes another book-inspired post. Since my last essay, I’ve finished Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha, by Tara Brach. Coincidentally, the text launches with a discussion of the biblical story of Eden’s Garden and the Fall. The same saga figured in the conclusion of my last post even though I had not yet begun Brach’s book when I wrote the piece.

Brach focuses her discussion of acceptance on the self, or perhaps I should say the person, since as a Buddhist she recommends we not hold too tightly to self-identity. She points out that with the story of the Fall, Judeo-Christian tradition has bequeathed to most of us feelings of core inadequacy and sinfulness. Our culture teaches us that we are fundamentally flawed and undeserving, thus effectively locking us into lifelong struggles to prove our worth. We are trained to reject much of what comprises us; we criticize our bodies, remain dissatisfied with our accomplishments, and reject our feelings.

Brach’s book offers one great suggestion after another, including meditations that can help us accept our personalities, our discomforts, and our cravings. Most of what she writes rings true for me: not just her descriptions of modern angst, but also her prescriptions for transcending the curse of self-doubt. Her meditative exercises sound a lot like my own practices of recent years, and her tales of how she and others have found relief resonate with my own recovery.

I was particularly impressed by how she helps people cope with the aftermath of childhood trauma. Because Buddhist practice cautions us against believing all the many stories we tell ourselves about our lives, it occasionally happens that those who’ve suffered child abuse end up being told that their suffering results simply from clinging to stories.

This happened to me in a recent meditation retreat that was aimed at those who battle depression and anxiety. During a discussion session, I explained that because of an extremely adverse childhood, I’d struggled most of my life with depression. I then asked about a meditation practice I’ve been exploring. Sometimes I imagine a different upbringing. In this practice, I build for myself a lovely and love-filled childhood, completely fictional. It’s a surprisingly comforting visualization.

The meditation teacher endorsed this practice. The mind, she said, doesn’t know the difference between reality and imagination. So long as I remained clear about what I was doing, and didn’t get lost in denial or idle fantasy, she thought it a skillful means to improved frames of mind. But then she opined that my so-called terrible childhood was in itself just another story.

I didn’t question her at the time, but later emailed her and gently suggested that it is a bit hazardous to tell victims of child abuse that their traumatic memories are ‘just’ stories. I asked her to clarify what she meant, since I am convinced she would never tell a person who suffered abuse that his or her experience was unimportant. I’d love to hear her thoughts, but she has not yet responded.

Brach negotiates these waters well. She is able to show how one can remain realistic about one’s past injuries, and yet find resources to transcend the victim role. For instance, she tells a touching story of a woman who visualized a fairy godmother visiting her as a frightened child. The guardian angel explained to the terrified little girl why she was having certain feelings, and how she could protect herself. The woman felt much better after this style of meditation.

I am all for using the imagination to heal trauma, but only if it honors the suffering of the injured little one. To dismiss abuse as ‘just a story’ risks perpetuating the plight of the mistreated child, who often is accused of making things up or inviting molestation. I applaud Brach for finding ways to help those with harrowing childhoods reframe events while remaining loyal to the wounded youngster’s need for validation.

Those of us who suffered abuse were kicked out of the Garden at early ages. Even more than those with more ordinary upbringings, we learned to feel worthless and ashamed. We learned to feel like irritants and toys, like ‘things’ that adults could treat however they wished.

Meditation allows us to approach and heal the dreadful feelings that remain after these torments. We must proceed gently and with great caution, but we can begin to work with the core agony that remains, and to explore the still-inflamed emotional wounds. We can quit feeling like frightened children running from deeply embedded monsters, and instead face our demons as the seasoned adults we have become. From there, we can begin to rediscover our purity and innocence, our childhood passion and budding joy. We can acknowledge the scars left by mistreatment, but let go of the mistaken belief that they define us.

Addendum (7 July 2010): The meditation teacher called to explain her meaning. As I’d suspected, she did not intend to downplay the impact of trauma on my or anyone’s history. On the other hand, she points out, people fall into habitual patterns when remembering their lives. These fixed ways of seeing the past can become boxes from which we have a hard time escaping. I certainly agree that on top of the factual events that haunt me there is an overlay of interpretation, as well as a fear that the past dooms me to an unhappy future. This accretion is not ‘truth’, and it is not helpful. The overlay indeed must be recognized as false and constraining, and it must be challenged. The teacher says she now questions the use of the word ‘story’ in this situation. Since that word gets used so often by Buddhists in describing the limitations of thought, it may be hard to abandon. But there is a definite need to distinguish between historical fact, which usually must be acknowledged and accepted in order to heal, and the retrospective myths the mind constructs around past events. The myths can and should be countered with healthier (or fewer) interpretations.