This post recently appeared on Huffington Post. Check it out to see the amazing comments.

I have been a student of Buddhism since 1995, and the study and practice of dharma inform my actions, friendships and creative focus. When you become a Buddhist, part of the commitment is to take off the training wheels and do your best to put the dharma into play in all situations. It’s no longer theoretical. It is your life. It’s a fun, scary, and noble challenge.

When the Buddha became enlightened, the first thing he handed out was the four noble truths and upon becoming a Buddhist, they are your benchmarks.

1. Life is suffering. (Doesn’t mean “life sucks,” by the way. More like, “life changes.”)
2. Suffering is caused by attachment. (Wanting things to be other than they are.)
3. It is possible to stop suffering. (Phew.)
4. There is an eight-fold path to liberate yourself from suffering, which includes such things as Right Speech, Right Action and so on.

There have been countless words written on each of these four and you could definitely spend a lifetime in contemplation of just one of them. To apply them to everyday life means to accept that things won’t ever quite work out (at least not in any conventional sense); that when you hold on to anything too tightly (even the idea of not holding on to anything too tightly), it backfires; you can definitely figure all this out and, finally, that there is a step-by-step explanation for how to do so, via practices, insights, devotion and so on.

Okay, all very well and good. It’s not like I can do any of this, but I am fairly diligent about trying to in every area of my life. Well, every area but one. Work — check. Money — check. Family — check. Society — check. Romantic relationships — check NOT.

When it comes to love and partnership, I definitely try to wiggle out of the four noble truths. I can halfway toy with accepting that everything changes, even that I will die and this body will be a corpse. But when it comes to love — I need that to be permanent. There, I said it. When my husband tells me he loves me, that cannot change or I’m going to be very, very upset. When we make a commitment to share our lives with each other, that too must be rock solid. When he disappoints or angers me, I have every right to expect him to change. And when it comes to acknowledging that one way or another, this relationship will definitely end, well, I just need that not to be true. Otherwise it is simply unbearable.

(I believe that this, by the way, is why most relationships fail, because to come to terms with this last truth is just too painful. It’s easier to break up with someone because they don’t make you laugh/take you seriously/earn enough money/eat dairy, but really I think it’s because, at some point, we become unbearably precious to each other. But I digress.)

Even among deeply practiced and skillful Buddhists, I can’t help but notice that it is difficult to apply the dharma to anything that involves love and medically unrelated nakedness. When it comes to relationships, we believe our version of reality is absolutely solid and correct. There is no oxygen when you feel neglected, dismissed, suffocated, or enraged by the one you love. Oddly, it is our intimate relationships that most challenge our ability to be open, non-judgmental, compassionate, and kind.

The hardest people to love are the ones you, well, really love. What is up with that?

Unfortunately, I don’t know, but I still think about it all the time. It may be useful to take a look at the four noble truths again and try really, really hard to language them to apply to relationships. I’ll go first. Let me know what you think.

1. Relationships are uncomfortable.
Right? Whether you’re on a blind date, worrying if you’ll like each other or have been married for 20 years, groaning yet again “why are you doing that thing that I’ve asked you eleventy billion times not to do?” there is a kind of discomfort. Of course, there are also times of sheer delight and deeply gratifying intimacy, but even in the sweet moments, there is the shock of dissolution.

I’ve come to think that the most deeply loving gesture I can make within my relationship is to tolerate my own discomfort — to recognize my feelings and leave the story behind; to cease & desist threatening my husband with consequences should he fail to be the person I need him to be rather than the person he is. There are only so many times you can choose your make-believe husband over your real one before he balks. Hard.

Too, there is something magical, yes magical, about this discomfort. You’re right there, never quite in your comfort zone. Always a tiny bit on the edge, like you’re trying something new for the very first time. Which, when it comes to love, is not such a bad approach. Brilliance and inspiration and everything fresh is discovered on this edge, including how to open your heart beyond what you ever thought possible.

2. Thinking they’re supposed to be comfortable is what makes them uncomfortable.
It is pretty hard to get away from the idea that love is supposed to make you happy. No, wait, it is supposed to make you happy — if happy means alive, open, giving, and touchable. When it’s defined as safe and predictable, getting what you want, or finding the perfect man/woman, we might run into a few problems.

When we say we’re looking for love, most of us really mean we’re looking for safety, a way to get comfortable. We’re looking for someone to love us first, and then we will love them back. (99.9 percent of relationship self-help books are about how to get love, not how to give it. That’s kind of odd, no?!) “Relationship” is equated with a protective cocoon. It’s understandable. Loving is so vulnerable, maybe the most vulnerable thing you can do. Love is not for sissies.

There is nothing less safe than love. Love means opening again and again to your beloved, yourself, and your world, and seeing what happens next. The moment you try to make it safe, it ceases to be love. Believe me, I’m not saying you shouldn’t be very smart, practical, and skillful when it comes to your relationships. But relationships and love are two separate things.

3. It is absolutely possible to love and be loved unconditionally.
You know this is true. You know it from experience. You are in the house of unconditional love every time you are touched beyond thought by the beauty of your fellow human beings, and every time one has been touched by you. Even something as simple as the smile a stranger gives you when you hold the door for him or her qualifies. Or when you are moved by the success of someone you love and feel it as your own. When you are touched by someone’s sadness and want to help. When you open your eyes, you see that such moments are taking place all the time. These agenda-less instances of opening to another are, IMHO, unconditional love. I mean, they are unconditional, right? You’re not putting any conditions on things when you simply feel them spontaneously. I rest my case.

4. There is a path that teaches you how and it really works.
You can practice becoming comfortable with discomfort. The sitting practice of meditation teaches you how, exactly, directly, perfectly.

You can practice letting your dear ones — and yourself — off the hook for not being perfect. The traditional practice of Maitri (also known as Metta or Lovingkindness) teaches you how — exactly, directly, perfectly.

And you can practice letting life in, allowing people, circumstance, your own brilliance and your own foibles to touch you deeply. When you know how to navigate from discomfort back to equilibrium through the practice of meditation and can extend yourself to others fearlessly by cultivating loving kindness, you can stop looking for love. You have made your life into love itself.

Excerpt from my recent Huffington Post blog:

The recent throwdown between Amazon and Macmillan publishers is very, very interesting. I’m observing from three perspectives—as a working author trying to make a living as such; a Macmillan author, and an ex-music business exec.

When I read this on an Amazon forum: “I am not in the habit of supporting bullies…” I thought, yes. The idea that Amazon would actually refuse to sell an item because the supplier would not consent to their pricing demands was shocking, awful, a manifestation of everything that is wrong with the way we sell art/entertainment in our culture. A total and complete bully’s move.

Then I read this,  “…and will forever refrain from purchasing any book published by Macmillan [heretofore known as 'the bully'] or any of its divisions. I vote with my money and they just lost my vote.”

Oh my. How did the American public get hoodwinked into believing that the suppliers are the bullies rather than the retailers?

As an ex-music business exec (1989-2000), I’ve already seen how the story ends when an industry allows retailers (rather than suppliers) to set product pricing. Recording companies waited around for someone else to take the hit by telling Best Buy or Walmart to stuff their “loss-leader” strategies and outrageous price and position fees. But no one did. Kudos to Macmillan’s John Sargent for his bold gesture.  And shame on Amazon for calling the move to accept Macmillan’s pricing (for now) a capitulation. That word really gave me the creeps. Silly us-and-them PR, dudes. As if you were the ones struggling to hold on to margins, not publishers and not the lowest paid of all in this supply chain, the author. (Somehow, we’re never considered in this debate. If the publisher’s prices fall, so do our royalties. Which are an urban legend anyway.)

Amazon, you are being ridiculous. Just call it like it is: YOU WANT TO MAKE MORE MONEY.

And if anyone stopped to consider the author’s royalty (which is not paid by Amazon), they would see who is really being trampled here. Jeez.

To all you wonderful people out there and beyond, I have one thing to say to you. I love you!

Oh, and this too:

“Be regular and orderly in your life like a bourgeois so that you may be
violent and original in your work.” –Gustave Flaubert

OK, here I go again. Am back from retreat in Vermont where, for one week, I practiced meditation, wrote, read, slept soundly–all the things I so want to do in my non-retreat life. I realize there are major differences!! Like on retreat someone else does the cooking and washing up. That’s a biggie. But still, I long, long, long for a life of order that grounds me and keeps me focused on my personal loves: spiritual practice, study, self-expression.

Once again, I’m tired of coming to the end of each day feeling like I lived half of my life while the other half somehow got sucked up by TV, poor planning, and, most of all, self-doubt that causes me to put off things that challenge me. (Which is basically everything at this point–I’m standing right on top of some big professional and spiritual moments.) So once again, I want to marshal myself.

The theme of this GDE Redux is the same as the last one: Take all the things you say you should do everyday (or most days) and do them. Now, these things aren’t earth shattering. They’re simple and should be within my ability to accomplish. Write. Meditate. Study. Exercise. Drink water. Take vitamins. It’s so embarrassing how simple those things sound.

I learned several very valuable things from the last GDE. I want to take them into account on this go round. They are:

1. The GDE didn’t give a crap about my energy level. Somedays, I simply didn’t have much energy, while on others I did. I became very confused about how to react to all this: give in to it or plow ahead with the schedule anyway? Last time, I gave into it. This time, I’m going to plow ahead.

2.T he main failing of the GDE was that it created enormous levels of aggression towards other people. Especially the ones I really like. My husband, for example. Instead of being people I care for (or not), every single being (including my cats) became instead potential friends or enemies of the GDE. I couldn’t tell my friends and family to have their mid-life crises or muse about vacation spots only during times that were convenient for me. The people in my world needed me on their own timetable and I had no idea how to reconcile this with my needs. This time, I’m going to expect this and not get freaked out when people need me, but just try to support them the best I can and then get my butt back to the experiment.

3. The GDE lives and dies on advance planning. If I left any part of the day to chance, it all fell apart. So for instance, tomorrow, I know I want to meditate, write, and go for a run. I also know I have to run an errand at Crate & Barrel and pick up some colleagues at the airport at 630p. So tomorrow AM the first thing I need to do is examine every hour of the day and plan when I’m going to do what. I need to do this for the entire week, actually.

So here is the schedule I’ve come up with. Please hold me to it:

Monday, Thursday, & Friday
6-730 writing & meditation
730-10 personal writing
11-4 other kinds of work
4-5 run
5-530 meditation

Because I have all day meetings on Tues and Weds, they will look like this:

530-630 meditation, journaling
7-5 meeting

I am completely open to suggestions! And in the meantime, please wish me luck. I will keep you posted and if I can do it, I know you can too. xoxox Susan

Susan Piver is an ideal guide for anyone suffering from a broken heart.  Spiritually deep, funny and utterly practical, she reveals how this near universal experience can become a gateway to living and loving more fully. Tara Brach, author of Radical Acceptance

Susan Piver’s book makes the mending of a broken heart into a transformative journey, guiding us toward reclaiming our center and entering into the sacred space of forgiveness. Allyson and Alex Grey, Visionary Artists

Straight to the heart and from the heart, Susan Piver is the your best friend and wisest guide. The Wisdom of a Broken Heart is a roadmap for how to deal with all the feelings of loss, disappointment, and betrayal.  Clear, accessible, this book is for everyone. Buy it or suffer the wrath of Josh.  Josh Baran, author of The Tao of Now (and one of my very best friends who told me to definitely take out that last line. But I love it too much.)

I recently did a phone interview with The Writing Spirit. Since I’m just back from teaching a week-long meditation retreat for writers, I thought I’d post it, since these themes are very much on my mind.

JULIE:     I see that you’re about to lead a new meditation retreat for writers in a week. Are you looking forward to it?

SUSAN:    I’m looking forward to it very much. I have tremendous love for this combination, meditation and writing. They seem to go together extremely well.

JULIE:    I agree. And that’s what I’d like to talk to you about today.

So, Susan, what type of meditation practice do you teach?

SUSAN:    I teach a practice called Shamatha, which is a Sanskrit word that means calm abiding or tranquilly abiding. It dates from the time of the Buddha, about 2500 years ago, and is a basic breath awareness meditation; meaning, instead of allowing your thoughts to absorb your attention, you place your attention on your breath instead.

JULIE:    Susan, how does meditation relate to mindfulness?

SUSAN:    Well, meditation, I guess could be thought of as the cultivation of mindfulness. Because mindfulness, it’s come to be associated with many things, but I think all it is, is attention to the present moment, being in the present moment. Meditation is practicing being in the present moment so that when you’re off the cushion, you can more readily employ mindfulness as you wish.

But it’s not something in our very speedy world that we can just suddenly do. Okay, now I’m mindful, or I need to be more mindful. Well, yeah, we all need to be more mindful, but it’s not a matter of will. It’s a matter of practice and experience and a cultivation of mindfulness. And that’s what meditation does.

JULIE:    Is there any aspect of surrender in that? Surrender to the moment? Or is it more cultivation?

SUSAN:    Well, I don’t know. What do you mean by surrender?

JULIE:    When talking about the willfulness and focusing on thought and not being in the moment. To me, being in the moment is a relaxing, is surrendering. So, I’m just wondering how that relates to your view of mindfulness and being in the moment?

SUSAN:    I think you used the key word, which is relaxing…which is, I guess, the same thing as opening. I suppose surrender could mean the same thing. But at the same time, if you’re focused surrendering, you’re not paying attention. You know what I mean?

If you’re engaged in surrendering, you’re not so much engaged in what’s happening. And sometimes it feels great to be engaged in what’s happening, but sometimes it doesn’t feel very good. And you wish you didn’t have to. But, nonetheless, the ability to relax enough to relate with your world is critical. Perhaps you could call it surrendering or relaxing or allowing. I think we probably mean the same things by these words.

Here is the full transcript. Warning: it’s long….

As mentioned in a previous post, in Buddhism, there is something called The Four Immeasurables. They are:

Lovingkindness
Compassion
Sympathetic Joy
Equanimity

In this post, we’ll discuss the second immeasurable, Compassion, and how it helps quell fear.

What is fear? One way to look at it is that fear is an unwillingness to open to reality the way it is. When we’re afraid, we fight the object of our fear, try to ignore it, or become desperate for someone or something to save us. None of these things help. The opposite of fear isn’t boldness, it’s openness. Tolerance. Curiosity. Fearlessness is the ability to remain open and observant, even in the face of very strong feelings or difficult situations. This doesn’t mean you are emotionless. It simply means you are awake. When you’re receptive and wakeful, you’re in the best position to figure out what to do with your fears and their causes.

The Four Immeasurables are four ways of remaining open. The second one, Compassion, has gotten a bad rap. People think it means some kind of saintly ok-ness with everyone, no matter how they act. It conjures an image of some long-suffering person who puts everyone else first. But true compassion is much more skillful than that. I wrote about all this in my book, How Not to Be Afraid of Your Own Life.

Compassion arises when you allow someone else’s pain into your own heart without a personal agenda. This has an automatic affect: You automatically want to free her or him from that suffering, no matter what. We are each capable of this. This is how we’re built.

When I was about seven years old, I was given a kite to fly during our vacation at the beach. My father taught me how to hold it, how to cast it into the wind, and what would make it dip or soar. He held on to the kite with me until I was ready to fly it by myself and then he let go. I ran up and down the shoreline by myself, following the currents of the wind. He could see how overjoyed I was. He was so touched by my delight. Suddenly I lost control of the kite, and it blew away. I ran down the beach trying as hard as I could to catch it as it blew higher and higher. I stopped only when the kite was no longer visible. Many years later, my father still remembers how torn up he was by the look on my face. If he could have flown up in the sky to retrieve the kite for me, he would have.

My father didn’t feel my pain by sitting down and considering it. His compassion just happened, on the spot, beyond theories, values, or beliefs. A child’s pain finds its way to a parent’s heart. The door is simply open.

Lovingkindness cultivates this sense of kinship with all people and leads to the ability to feel this compassion for everyone. When you practice holding your heart open to everyone, from your loved ones to your enemies, you are training to feel for all beings the kind of compassion my father felt for me.

Sometimes, though, it seems impossible to feel compassion. It can be really, really hard when you think about all the people and situations that you find ridiculously infuriating. But acting compassionately doesn’t necessarily mean being sweet and nice, or giving all your stuff away. In Buddhist thought, compassion is synonymous with skillful action, action that is rooted in seeing reality from the largest perspective possible. When you have the proper perspective, you know without thinking what the next right action is. If you see a child with a badly cut finger holding onto a band-aid he can’t figure out how to apply, you patch him up pronto. It’s obvious what needs to be done and doing it is considered compassionate. False compassion, or “idiot compassion” as Chogyam Trungpa called it, would be, in this case, bursting into tears at the child’s predicament or sitting him down for a lecture on self-care. These behaviors clearly lack intelligence and are an“idiotic” version of this sophisticated skill.

Acting compassionately doesn’t mean refusing to admonish people who make you feel terrible or sticking with hopeless situations because you feel sorry for the others involved. Putting an end to abuse or moving on from futile endeavors may be the most compassionate—and intelligent—thing you can do. One good way of testing whether your motivation is rooted in skillful action or stuck in emotional sludge, fear, or co-dependence is to check for your sense of humor. If it’s still there, there’s a good chance that you are grounded, sane, and courageous.

Stephen MItchell & Byron Katie

Byron Katie’s February newsletter is about love…

It’s not what you think…Or is it?

An excerpt:

If you say that you love your husband, what does that have to do with him?

You’re just telling him who you are. You tell the story of how he’s handsome and fascinating and sexy, and you love your story about him. You’re projecting that he’s your story. And then when he doesn’t give you what you want, you may tell the story of how he’s mean, he’s controlling, he’s selfish—and what does that have to do with him? If my husband says, “I adore you,” I think, “Good. I love that he thinks I’m his sweet dream. How happy he must feel about that!”

If he were ever to come to me and say, “The sorriest day of my life was when I married you,” still, what would that have to do with me? He’d just be in a sad dream this time, and I might think, “Oh poor baby, he’s having a nightmare. I hope he wakes up soon.” It’s not personal. How can it have anything to do with me? I love him, and if what he says about me isn’t true in my experience, I would ask him if there’s anything I can do for him. If I can do it, I will, and if it’s not honest for me, I won’t. He is left with his story. No one will ever understand you. Realizing this is freedom. No one will ever understand you—not once, not ever. Even at our most understanding, we can only understand our story of who you are. There’s no understanding here except your own. If you don’t love another person, it hurts, because love is your very self. You can’t make yourself do it.

I loved this post so much. Something to read and contemplate over and over. I particularly loved reading the story, written by Stephen, of their falling in love. And check out Stephen’s new book while you’re at it, The Second Book of the Tao.

Rainer Maria Rilke

In my new book, The Wisdom of a Broken Heart, there is a chapter called “It is a Dark Night.” I talk about those artists, poets, and thinkers who have an affinity for darkness–not morbidity or pessimism, but for sadness, despair, and confusion. They have not insisted on the unrelenting positivity which deadens the soul, but have allowed darkness to transform them. When your heart is broken (for whatever reason) these are the artists who bring solace. I am so grateful to them. Here is my list of patron saints of the dark. Who would you add?

Billie Holiday
Bob Dylan
Bruce Springsteen
Chögyam Trungpa
Dante
Emily Dickinson
Ingmar Bergman
Isak Dinesen
John Donne
Leonard Cohen
Machig Labdron
Milarepa
Muddy Waters
Pema Chodron
Persephone
Rabindranath Tagore
Rainer Maria Rilke
St. John of the Cross
Thomas Moore
Willie Nelson

An example of beautifully dark writing:

But everything that once perhaps will be possible to many, the solitary man can already prepare for and build now with his hands, which go less astray. Therefore, dear Sir, love your solitude and bear the pain which it has caused you with fair-sounding lament. For those that are near you are far, you say, and this shews that distance begins to grow round you. And when your nearness is far, then your distance is already among the stars and very great; be glad of your growing, into which you can take no one else with you, and be good to those that remain behind, and be self-possessed and quiet with them and do not torment them with your doubts and do not frighten them with your confidence or joy, which they could not comprehend. Seek some unpretending and honest communion with them, which you are under no necessity to alter when you yourself become more and more different; love life in a strange guise in them, and make allowance for those ageing people who fear the solitude in which you trust.

--Rainer Maria Rilke

The best piece of art ever. By Alex Grey.

Don’t steal it!! Get if from the artist. I did. It’s the. best. piece. of. art. ever. Plus it supports the Grey’s dreams just as this man supports mine…

“Those who have been fearless in their search and fearless in their proclamation belong to the lineage of master warriors, whatever their religion, philosophy, or creed. What distinguishes such leaders of humanity and guardians of human wisdom is their fearless expression of gentleness and genuineness — on behalf of all sentient beings. We should venerate their example and acknowledge the path that they have laid for us. They are the fathers and mothers of Shambhala, who make it possible, in the midst of this degraded age, to contemplate enlightened society.”

–Chogyam Trungpa

OCEAN OF DHARMA: The Everyday Wisdom of Chogyam Trungpa, #264. Originally from “The Shambhala Lineage,” in SHAMBHALA: THE SACRED PATH OF THE WARRIOR, page 211.

I repeat: The best piece of art ever. By Alex Grey. $80 for signed poster. $200 for signed print on canvas. Check it out.