The Mindful Path to Self-Compassion Read online

  “Jack and I have learned to accept each others idiosyncrasies, like my passion for cashew brittle, and his going out every night and not coming home until dawn.”

  What’s Self-Compassion?

  Self-compassion is a form of acceptance. Whereas acceptance usually refers to what’s happening to us—accepting a feeling or a thought— self-compassion is acceptance of the person to whom it’s happening. It’s acceptance of ourselves while we’re in pain.

  Both acceptance and self-compassion seem to happen more easily after we’ve given up the struggle to feel better. This is known in Alcoholics Anonymous as the “gift of desperation.” When everything you’ve tried has failed, you’ll probably be more receptive to acceptance and self-compassion. Although you may still want to feel better, you doubt that anything will help you anymore. Your faith is nearly gone; the mind has exhausted its possibilities.

  This is an opportunity to move from mental work to heart work. Self-compassion has a distinctly nonintellectual and noneffortful feel to it. If we can find ourselves in the midst of suffering and acknowledge the depth of our struggle, the heart begins to soften automatically. We stop trying to feel better and instead discover sympathy for ourselves. We start caring for ourselves because we’re suffering.

  There’s an important distinction between “care” and “cure.” Cure is what we try to do when we have some way to fix a problem. Care is what we can still do when all efforts at curing have failed. It’s like attending to a dying person; we let go of the struggle and tenderly join in the experience of dying. In emotional life, the sooner we stop struggling to fix things, the better. Paradoxically, then, care leads to cure.

  Compassion comes from the Latin roots com (with) and pati (suffer), or to “suffer with.” When we offer genuine compassion, we join a person in his or her suffering. Being compassionate means that we recognize when someone is in pain, we abandon our fear of or resistance to it, and a natural feeling of love and kindness flows toward the suffering individual. The experience of compassion is complete abandonment of the inclination to resist emotional discomfort. It’s full acceptance: of the person, of the pain, and of our own reactions to the pain.

  Self-compassion is simply giving the same kindness to ourselves that we would give to others. As noted in the Introduction, it’s a small shift in the direction of our attention that can make all the difference in our lives, both when we’re in intense pain and as we negotiate the travails of daily life. We all have an instinct for self-compassion, perhaps forgotten or suppressed, that’s even stronger than the instinct to resist suffering. Fortunately, self-compassion can be cultivated by anyone.

  LET IT BE EASY

  If these ideas seem remote or confusing, please don’t be put off. When you practice them, they’ll make more sense. The following chapters will lead you step by step until you can experience self-compassion whenever you need it.

  Chapters 2 and 3 will introduce mindfulness, or how to recognize what’s going on inside you, moment to moment, with kindly awareness. Most of us are too caught up in the details of our lives even to be aware when we’re suffering. We need to locate the problem—the thorn in the heart—before we can implement a solution. Chapter 2 will show you how to become more aware of your body, safely and compassionately, and Chapter 3 will expand that awareness to the world of emotions. Then, starting in Chapter 4, you’ll learn how to cultivate self-compassion.

  Don’t expect to do a lot of work. A patient of mine once said about self-compassion, “It’s not about fighting, so it’s not as difficult as I thought it would be.” You might, however, occasionally catch yourself practicing an exercise with grim determination. That’s to be expected—old habits die hard. Try to recognize when you’re straining and see if you can do the same thing more enjoyably. We’re not trying to add anything to our lives; we’re subtracting. It’s about giving up the tension we unconsciously impose on ourselves to control or manipulate our experience.

  The principles of mindfulness and self-compassion are at least as important as the techniques you’re about to learn. The rationale behind the techniques has to be clear. For example, if you feel an exercise isn’t working, maybe you’re practicing “self-improvement” rather than “self-acceptance.” You need to know the difference. Once you’ve thoroughly understood the meaning of mindfulness and self-compassion, you can modify the exercises given in this book to fit any situation you encounter.

  Finally, if you ever find yourself doubting that you can become more self-compassionate, stop and bring a little kindness to yourself in that very moment. You’ll be practicing the essence of what this book has to offer.

  TRY THIS: Waiting on Yourself

  We usually attend to others—what they’re feeling, saying, and doing. It’s rare that we wait on ourselves with equal care and consideration. Let’s try that now. This exercise takes only 5 minutes. You can’t do it wrong.

  Choose a quiet place, sit comfortably, close your eyes, and notice what it feels like to be in your body. Just be with the physical sensations in your body as they come and go, without choosing to pay attention to any particular one. If it’s a pleasant one, feel it and let it go. If it’s an unpleasant one, also feel it and let it go. Perhaps you feel warmth in your hands, pressure on the seat, tingling in the forehead? Notice those sensations as a mother would gaze at a newborn baby, wondering what it’s feeling. Just notice whatever arises, one sensation after another. Take your time.

  After 5 minutes, gently open your eyes.

  2

  listening to your body

  It is just simple attention that allows us to truly listen to the sound of the bird, to see deeply the glory of an autumn leaf, to touch the heart of another and be touched.

  —CHRISTINA FELDMAN AND JACK KORNFIELD, meditation teachers

  It’s not easy living in a human body, but fortunately we have what it takes. We’re endowed with the human faculties of awareness and compassion. The first step toward being at ease within the body is to pay attention to it. We need to know what ails us. Then we can respond with compassion.

  When we’re suffering, it’s not always immediately apparent what the problem is. If I get fired from my job, for example, I might think that I was treated unfairly and that my boss held a personal grudge against me. Sleepless in the middle of the night, I’ll despair that I’m a poor provider for my family and imagine taking revenge on my boss. Where am I, the sensitive, wounded soul, in all this? Gone! I’ve run off into my mind—taken the elevator to the top floor—and blocked out my feelings of fear and sadness. I’m arguing with the world about my personal value and scheming about the future. It’s often like that when we suffer. We can’t find ourselves in the crowd of thoughts and feelings that swirls around in our heads.

  Mindfulness is a special type of awareness that can keep us anchored safely in our bodies when the going gets tough. It can grow into a way of life that protects us from unnecessary suffering. When we’re mindful, there’s less need to escape unpleasant experience—there’s a little breathing room around it. This chapter will explain what mindfulness is and what it isn’t in a way that will clarify how resisting the urge to escape pain sets us free. I’ll offer a few easy mindfulness techniques.

  THE MINDFUL PATH

  Mindfulness has to be experienced to be known. It can’t be expressed adequately in words. A moment of mindfulness is a kind of awareness that comes before words, such as the twinkling of stars before we call them the Big Dipper or a dash of red at the door before we recognize it as a friend wearing a new red dress. Our brains go through this preverbal level of awareness all the time, but we’re normally too caught up in the drama of everyday life to notice.

  Poetry captures the simple experience of mindfulness:

  Every day

  I see or I hear

  something

  that more or less

  kills me

  with delight,

  that leaves me

  like a needle
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  in the haystack

  of light.

  It was what I was born for—

  to look, to listen,

  to lose myself

  inside this soft world—

  to instruct myself

  over and over

  in joy,

  and acclamation.

  Nor am I talking

  about the exceptional,

  the fearful, the dreadful,

  the very extravagant—

  but of the ordinary,

  the common, the very drab,

  the daily presentations.

  Oh, good scholar,

  I say to myself,

  how can you help

  but grow wise

  with such teachings

  as these—

  the untrimmable light

  of the world,

  the ocean’s shine,

  the prayers that are made

  out of grass?

  Mary Oliver reminds us in this poem, “Mindful,” how simple perceptions like the dance of light on a blade of wet grass can fill us with delight.

  The definition of mindfulness that I find particularly useful is from meditation teacher Guy Armstrong: “Knowing what you are experiencing while you’re experiencing it.” Mindfulness is moment-to-moment awareness. There’s freedom in mindfulness because paying attention to our stream of perceptions, rather than our interpretations of them, makes every moment fresh and alive. Life becomes a festival to the senses when we’re mindful. Consider this moment of ordinary life in a poem by Linda Bamber:

  Suddenly the city

  I live in seems interesting

  as if feeling indulgent

  towards the human race, its way of

  living in cities and

  tearing up roads so the traffic has to be

  re-routed around a collapsing white mesh barrier

  as in this intersection here.

  The people of this city

  walking back and forth on the sidewalks

  each one having gotten up and dressed this morning

  look like this, this

  movie, almost, of people crossing the street.

  The questions,

  is this scene in any way rewarding to look at?

  e.g., architecturally, in terms of city spaces and human interest; and

  are things diverse enough here? and

  are these people, in general,

  older or younger than I am? just now are

  in abeyance. In their absence is this

  pleasant sense that there are many cities in the world

  and this is one of them.

  It rained earlier. I think I’ll go see the monks

  make a sand mandala on the Esplanade; and

  who knows, later I might get a sandwich.

  Mindfulness has a quality of being in the now, a sense of freedom, of perspective, of being connected, not judging, of flowing through the day. When we’re mindful, we’re less likely to want life to be other than it is, at least for the moment.

  Some people seem to be more mindful than others, but no matter where our starting point is, we can increase mindfulness through practice. And you don’t need to be a monk or a poet to benefit from mindfulness training. You don’t even need to be calm to be mindful; you just need to make a personal commitment to be aware. You can wake up to your day-to-day life at any time or place by recognizing what’s going on in and around yourself. Ask yourself: Am I feeling confused, bored, elated, stressed, or peaceful? Can I sense tension in my stomach, warmth on my cheeks? Am I worrying about the future, what will happen when I visit my father later? Is that the sound of fluttering leaves on a poplar tree? Any awareness in present time can be a moment of mindfulness and a relief from our usual tension-producing mental machinations.

  The opposite of mindfulness is mindlessness, which happens, for example, when you:

  Forget someone’s name right after you are introduced

  Don’t remember what you just walked into the kitchen for

  Eat when you’re not hungry

  Fret about being late when you’re stuck in a traffic jam

  Act like a child when you visit your parents

  Drive for an hour on the highway with hardly any memory of it

  These are times when we’re preoccupied, unaware of what we’re thinking, feeling, or doing, and reacting as if we’re on autopilot. You may have noticed how mindlessly we spend most of our lives!

  Mindlessness is not a problem if the movie we’re playing in our heads is sweet and enjoyable, but sometimes it’s scary and we’d like nothing better than to get up and leave the theater. Our attention gets kidnapped by our suffering. This was the situation for one of my patients, George.

  By all outward appearances, George was doing well in life. He had a job he liked, he had recently bought a home, he had a partner who loved him, and he could delight his friends with his skill on the guitar. But the more he flourished, the more George found that memories from his difficult childhood plagued him. He had grown up in a poor and abusive household, and his beloved sister had committed suicide when she was 16 years old. George couldn’t keep himself from sobbing whenever something good happened to him, such as getting a raise at work, buying a new car, or going on vacation. He thought about his sad childhood with his sister and how she had never had a chance to enjoy her life. His regret would not allow him to be happy. Sometimes George had flashback memories when he read news reports of battered children. His wife became concerned that she was losing her connection to George, who seemed to become increasingly preoccupied with his past as good things came their way.

  George really wanted to remain close to his wife, who couldn’t help losing her patience with him at times. One day, while walking on the beach, preoccupied as usual, George noticed a beautiful round stone. He picked it up, rolled it around in his hand, rubbed it on his face, and enjoyed its cool, smooth texture on his cheeks. Since George was a collector, he absent-mindedly slipped the stone into his coat pocket. When George got home, he rediscovered the rock when he emptied his pockets. Again, it felt good to the touch: smooth, cool, and round. George noticed how rubbing it with his fingers soothed him. He dubbed it his “here-and-now stone” and kept it with him always. Whenever George found that he had a flashback memory of his childhood and didn’t want to get lost in it, he took the stone out of his pocket and ran his fingers over it.

  Without any outside instruction, George had stumbled upon a way of managing his mind through mindfulness—bringing his mind into sensory awareness of the here-and-now. At first, George used his here-and-now stone to shift his attention away from what was bothering him and into the present moment. Later on, when the present moment and his stone became a reliable place of refuge when he was emotionally overwhelmed, George felt the courage to turn toward his traumatic memories, exploring them in detail. Mindfulness is both knowing where our mind is from moment to moment and directing our attention in skillful ways.

  An attitude of openheartedness is necessary for mindfulness to be healing. Like a mother gazing at an infant child, we can look at something for a long period of time if it’s something we love or if we feel loved and supported while looking. It’s not possible to be aware of anything for very long if we’re disgusted by it. We can experience the exquisite beauty of a rose, or a piece of music, or ourselves only if we’re emotionally open. That’s the spirit in which we practice mindfulness.

  BEGINNING TO PRACTICE MINDFULNESS

  If you did the “Waiting on Yourself” exercise at the end of the last chapter, you’ve already had a taste of mindfulness. Your mind was in a relatively receptive state, aware of a series of perceptions without needing to compare, judge, label, or evaluate them. It’s easy to live in our own minds if we simply notice what comes and goes. Problems occur when we unconsciously recoil at discomfort, grasp for pleasure, and slip into mental fantasies about how things should be. Every one of us, without exception, soon discovers that a si
mple exercise like sitting still for a few minutes and allowing our thoughts to come and go is anything but easy.

  TRY THIS: Mindfulness of Sound

  This exercise takes only 5 minutes. Find a reasonably quiet place, one in which you won’t be distracted by the TV, music, or people talking.

  Sit in a relaxed, comfortable position with a straight spine. Let your eyes close, fully or partially.

  Imagine that your ears are like satellite dishes picking up any sounds in the environment. Just sit and receive sound vibrations. You don’t need to label the sounds, you don’t need to like the sounds, and you don’t need to keep your attention with any particular sound— just hear whatever presents itself to you. Let the sounds come and go, one after another. Don’t try to search out sounds around you. Let them come to you.

  When you notice that your mind has wandered away on a train of thought, as it inevitably will, simply return to the task of listening.

  After 5 minutes, slowly open your eyes.

  You might have noticed how relaxing it can be to simply pay attention to sounds, perhaps even more comforting than other methods you may be familiar with, such as relaxation training or self-hypnosis. That’s because you let go of whatever was on your mind, including the task of “relaxing,” which may paradoxically keep you on edge. You were just “being” with the symphony of sound around you.

  Maybe you also discovered that you added a few extra tasks to the simple act of listening. For example, you might have labeled the sounds: “car,” “child laughing,” “door shutting.” That’s more work. You might also have wished you were in a more beautiful place, like the countryside, with sweeter sounds. That creates a little stress. And your mind probably started wandering in a very short time; perhaps you wondered if you were doing the exercise correctly, or you thought about buying a quieter air conditioner. Each of these automatic mental functions—labeling, judging, wandering mind— makes listening a little harder than it needs to be.