Posts from — November 2007

“You see, the whole thing in marriage is the relationship and yielding – knowing the functions, knowing that each is playing a role in an organism. One of the things I have realized – is that marriage is not a love affair. A love affair has to do with immediate personal satisfaction. But marriage is an ordeal; it means yielding, time and again. That’s why it’s a sacrament: you give up your personal simplicity to participate in a relationship. And when you’re giving, you’re not giving to the other person: you are giving to the relationship. And if you realize that you are in the relationship just as another person is, then it becomes life building. A life fostering and enriching experience, not an impoverishment because you’re giving to somebody else. Do you know what I mean?” –Joseph Campbell

I was interviewed for an article in this month’s Cosmopolitan magazine: 7 Love Rules You Need to Break. TODAY show did a segment about the article about a week ago. I had nothing to do with it, but it’s interesting because you just never know where things are going to turn up.

I posted an essay some weeks (months?) back called, “Once I Had a Broken Heart.” I’ve received a tremendous amount of feedback, mostly from people who are struggling with this extraordinarily painful situation. The pain of a relationship ending is so real and cuts so deep, but we think we should just snap out of it after awhile. It’s not so easy to do. There are many Buddhist teachings on how to work with a broken heart (one might say that is what the whole entire thing is about) like this, this, and this. But much of it was summed up by this statement I read from Gloria Steinem, who was discussing her grief after her husband died:

“In depression, nothing matters.” In sadness and grief, “everything matters.”

I found this to be such a moving expression of warriorship. It makes me remember that in sadness are the gifts of deepened insight and powerful compassion. When your heart is broken, it is also broken open and from it can flow enormous tenderness.

When my husband and I began dating, we had tremendous hunger to know who the other was. Daytime was an irritating obstacle to be gotten through until we could hold each other at night, when we would make love, certainly, but mainly we looked at each other. Listened. Smelled. Tasted. Touched. He was a stranger, but I knew him. And I didn’t.

After we’d been dating for a few months, he told me a story about a defining childhood event. In his story, he was about ten years old. His father had taken him on a summer walk through a farm belonging to a family friend. In concession to the heat, his dad was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, porkpie hat pushed back on his head revealing an about-to-recede hairline. His gait was slow and steady while my husband’s revved up to rush forward and explore things of interest before running back to tell his Dad what was just ahead. They strolled through an orchard and past a henhouse before reaching a small barn. The floor was covered with a thick layer of hay and there was a ladder leading up to a platform that ringed the upper limits of the structure to create about four feet of storage space. His father encouraged him to climb up and have a look around, but to mind his footing because there was no rail around the platform, just a free fall to the ground below. The thick wooden floorboards were swept bare and felt sturdy under his feet. It was exhilarating to be up so high in a place where only a kid could fit. He looked down and saw the top of his father’s felt hat and the little gleam of sweat on his brow. His father reached his arms up and said, jump, I’ll catch you. My husband was scared. It seemed so far to go. Jump, his dad said, just do it. I’m here. So he did and at the last moment his father drew his arms back and let my husband fall to the ground. “Never trust anyone, son,” he said and walked away.

Tears came to my eyes and I felt for his elbows, shins, palms, the parts I imagined broke his fall, and covered them with kisses. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m grateful to him. It was his way of teaching me something he thought every man should know.” How awful to be a man, I thought. From then on, when I told him I was going to do something, I made extra sure to do it as stated and on time. No hidden lessons from me. My heart ached for him and my love deepened. Over time, the particulars of the story faded, our relationship proved trustworthy and our understanding of each other grew in scope and nuance.

Some years later, we were discussing the vaccinations his 6-year old son would receive at his next doctor’s appointment. Should we tell him now to prepare him (and preserve his trust) or spring it on him in the doctor’s office so he won’t get all worked up in advance (but threaten his trust)? I reminded him of his experience with his dad in the barn. “What would you have wanted?” I asked. He looked at me sort of blankly. “Oh, that,” he said. “I made that up.”

In that moment, I realized I didn’t know him and probably never would. And in that moment, the whole story came true.

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I was talking to my friend Michael Carroll today. We started discussing the nature of heartbreak. Here’s what he said. Check this riff:

The defining aspect of our nature is vulnerability. Vulnerability is the precondition for compassion. The foundation of vulnerability is uncertainty. The seed of the open mind is tenderness…this is what allows us to fall in love, cherish our children, and so on. But when we feel our tenderness, we panic at its very nature. The hypocrisy of pretending that we’re not vulnerable means we have to be checking our situation constantly to make sure it hasn’t fallen apart. This checking is the basis/trap of anxiety. The truth is we’re not okay. We’re wounded. It hurts. It takes bravery to be that open. Leaning into that not-okayness fully is the enlightened state. The ability to open to that which wounds us is the path. This is how non-duality is experienced.

It’s good to have a friend who says things like this.