Author: joseph mauricio

Posted on by joseph mauricio

HONORING THE MOTHER LINEAGE

By Nurturing Our Natural Kindness

 

I wanted to reach out in the spirit of my mother, who passed a few years ago and for whom I will always carry a quiet torch. In many ways, she was the great love of my life—a spiritual guide, a dear friend, and a near perfect mom. Trudi, as everyone knew her, was a relentless acceptor of everything in life, including me—her damaged, broken boy soldier, ever faithful, yet rarely grateful.

Like many children, I accepted her for the blessing she was, but never realized how rare that was, or how lucky I was. If there is any part of me that is loving, kind, and accepting, it is my mother still alive in me.

We grew up around a tight-knit Pentecostal church. She was the preacher’s kid, and the only boy who could reach her was a rough, arrogant Spaniard with a world to conquer. Everyone loved “Boy,” as he was called—charming in the way of men for whom the world is opening. Years later, I found a new familial community rooted in an American form of Tibetan Buddhism. My mother cried as she drove away, leaving me at a mountain retreat center blanketed in snow.

In Tibetan Buddhism, we speak of mother and father lineages. While equally important, they are understood differently—not as men and women, but as essential energies within each of us.

The father lineage is seen as creator and protector. The mother lineage as nurturer, holder, and the great agent of understanding that speaks from heart to heart. In many traditional cultures, men traveled and taught, while women held together the fabric of family and community.

My family, unknowingly, echoed this. My father traveled—first as a soldier, then as a businessman—while my mother, who also worked, carried the responsibility of raising us. It was not an easy life for either of them.

I lived in Baltimore during the riots, and as dangerous as those streets could be, the violence often softened when grandmothers stepped out of their homes. I still remember the image of a grandmother scolding a cowering grandson. The mother lineage need not be overshadowed by the father. Ideally, they work in tandem.

During times of difficulty, returning to the sense of protection associated with the father, and the nurturing and connection associated with the mother, can be deeply supportive. This is something we can carry within us.

The image of my father as protector, while potent, also evokes a sense of competition within me. This may be natural for boys and fathers of my generation. But I never worked well with competition. I tried to best others and spent a lot of time in aggressive disconnection. That was not necessary.

I saw my parents as separate and never appreciated how they might be conjoined. As a result, those energies have not been fully integrated within me. I feel deeply and care deeply, but I also fight and compete where it isn’t needed. Perhaps learning to unify these is my life’s task.

It is my view—and the view of the practice I’ve been given—that we begin to resolve the masculine and feminine within our own minds. We do this by recognizing the generosity of these energies, and how fortunate we are to have known them through others.

When times are difficult, we do not have to forget the softness, kindness, and compassion of the mother. When times are generous and forgiving, we do not have to forget the discipline and uprightness of the father.

I want to offer the idea that we can find calm in the storms of our lives and in the storms around us—that this calm and openness is itself an expression of strength. We can rely on our strength without losing our heart, and open our heart without losing our strength. The union of mother and father is strength.

The openness of the mother, protected by the strength of the father, allows us to find stillness in the midst of turmoil.

In remembering my mother, I feel again the presence of that balance—already here, already alive within me. I feel held, reminded that I do not have to do this alone. Something softens, and something becomes steady.

 

Posted on by joseph mauricio

IN THE EYE OF THE STORM

Choosing Peace in Times of War

These days many of us describe our world as crazy, cruel and chaotic. It seems socio political dysfunction is a common experience.  This lack of stability in our outer reality understandably influences our inner health and wellbeing.

When our mental health is attacked, even the pressures we normally face seem might amplify to catastrophic proportions. Our emotional tolerance becomes compromised and we fall prey to any number of adventitious afflictions such as depression, anxiety, compulsive thinking and extreme beliefs. Our kneejerk solutions may be to arm our hearts with corresponding violence or check out in retreat. But these kneejerk reactions are not intentional. They are not mindfulness.  They only add to the confusion.

However, there is a place within experience that is not at war with what is happening. This experience of space allows, what Tara Brach calls, “radical acceptance.” Radical acceptance is not acquiescence. It is not supporting, nor is it ignoring. It is the simple and powerful act of facing what we face. Before we can take the right action to help ourselves or our world we need the emotional balance to see clearly.

This is not a poetic idea. It is not something we manufacture through strength or rigidity. It is something we discover—often accidentally at first—in the middle of chaos. A space within where, despite all the  movement around us, something is not moving. Despite the noise, something is not making noise.

We might talk about basic goodness or Buddha nature—not as something elevated or distant, but as something so immediate we often overlook it. It’s not reactive, it’s an open space that births an inner kindness that is so powerful, yet hard to grasp. When we are punched in the gut, our first reaction is not to relax, be kind to ourselves and open to our natural stillness.  Our kneejerk is to grip and harden, not open.

It is so important that we train the mind away from its tendency for gripping reactivity toward the open space of mindfulness. That may seem crazy, if we believe the craziness around us.  But in the midst of chaos is a space that offers the capacity to be aware. And within that space, knowing each experience as it arises.

This knowing is not disturbed by what it knows.

Thoughts race. Emotions surge. The body tightens and releases. The world presents itself in all its complexity—joy, sorrow, fear, beauty. And yet, the awareness of these things remains open, ungrasping, and fundamentally undamaged. The problem is not the storm.

The problem is that we believe we are the storm.

We identify with the movement—“my thoughts,” “my fear,” “my situation”—and in doing so, we lose access to the space in which all of this is occurring. The eye of the storm is not something we create. It is what remains when we stop trying to follow everything that moves.

So how do we find this eye?

Not by stopping the storm.  This is where the path becomes both simple and confronting. We are so conditioned to improve, adjust, and control our experience that the idea of not doing that feels almost irresponsible. But the practice here is not passivity—it is precision.

We begin by taking a seat.

Literally, in meditation, we sit down. We place attention on something simple—often the breath—not as a solution, but as a reference point. Something stable enough to return to as the mind moves. The instruction is deceptively basic: notice when you’ve wandered and just come back.

But what we are actually doing is far more radical. We are learning to see movement without becoming it. A thought arises—we notice it. An emotion surges—we feel it. A memory, a plan, a judgment—we see it pass through. We don’t need to suppress it. We don’t need to follow it. We simply return.

Again and again.

At some point, something shifts—not because we forced it, but because we stopped interfering. We begin to notice that there is always a gap. A moment of simple presence before the next thought takes hold. A space in which experience is vivid, but not solid.

This is the beginning of discovering the eye.

Off the cushion, the practice deepens. In conversation, in conflict, in the rush of daily life—we notice when we are pulled into the storm. The tightening, the urgency, the need to assert or defend. And then, if we can, we pause. Even briefly. We feel the body. We hear the sounds around us. We recognize the movement of mind as movement, not identity.

So how does this help anything?

This is not about withdrawing from life. It is about finding the balance to face life without losing our seat. When we are no longer trying to control or escape our experience, we begin to meet it more directly. The sharpness of pain, the warmth of connection, the unpredictability of life—it all becomes more vivid, not less.

But there is space around it. This space allows for compassion.

If we are no longer overwhelmed by our own storms, we can begin to sense the storms in others—not as threats, but as shared human experience. The anger, the confusion, the grasping—it is no longer foreign. It is recognizable. And from that recognition, something softens.

This recognition is not disturbed by what it sees because it is resting in basic goodness.

This is what it might mean to “live in peace while witnessing war.” The eye of the storm is not an escape from the world. It is a way of being in the world that does not amplify its chaos. And perhaps most importantly, with mindfulness, it is always available. Not later. Not when things calm down. Not when we finally get our lives together. Right here—in the middle of whatever is happening.

Stop trying to outrun the storm. Take your seat. Don’t follow anything. Until you do, then just come back. Let it settle. Stability allows an opening to clarity. And clarity opens to the possibility of right action.

Right action is the first step to compassion where we thought none was possible.

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PLEASE RELEASE ME

The Joy of Letting Go

Learning to let go is important to our health and happiness. Letting go is releasing into openness, rather than creating tensions that to shut us down. But letting go is not getting rid of anything. It is not pushing anything away. It is simply releasing our stranglehold on the things to which we’re clinging. Sometimes we cling out of routine habit and sometimes we lunge in an existential panic to prove we’re here. I obsess, therefore I am.

Our near constant gripping and appropriation causes pain, not only for ourselves, but also the objects of our gripping. We keep the things we love strangled and imprisoned within our projections. We don’t see these captures; we see our idea of them. So even when we get what we think we want, it’s not what we have.

We cling to things we want. But we also cling to things we disdain. Whether we want or want to not want, the result is the same. We have forged an attachment with something we’re holding too tightly to see.

Attachments are often the boogeyman in Buddhist thought, but not because what we attach to is necessarily problematic. It’s because attachment creates a stickiness that keeps us from moving through situations with ease. We get stuck, as Pema Chödrön would say.

The primary binary—like/don’t like—reduces life to a two-dimensional experience. But in truth, the things we hold can trap our mind in cycles we never grow beyond.

Letting go is dropping the struggle. It doesn’t mean getting rid of anything. It’s not self-denial, nor a denial of that which we hold. Letting go is simply releasing our relentless effort to keep things in place. When we are able to release our tension, its as if we are able to open into a space of clarity. We love more truly when we allow the things we love to be themselves. We are able to protect ourselves more readily when we see what is actually there.

That sticky quality of mind—our attempt to appropriate what we see and hold it in place—keeps us emotionally tethered. The things we cling to keep us from seeing alternatives. If we have the openness and bravery to experience life as it is, rather than clinging to what we like and pushing away what we don’t, our world becomes three-dimensional.

To live a life of openness, we need to develop the bravery to open. This is more natural than clinging, so when we open, it feels like a release—a return. We can’t create openness; we can only open to it. On the other hand, we do create the blockages that keep openness at bay.

The practice is to notice the impulse to grasp, recognize it, accept it as the habit of the mind, and then release it.

 

Who are we without the things we cling to? Who would we be without the tethers we create?

Life is leading us down the river of time. There are challenges and dangers along the way, but also a great joy when we let go. Regardless, we are heading toward a waterfall we will not navigate. We are all final girls in this horror show. But along the way, if we are too frightened to open up, we will be trapped without ever appreciating the joy of our journey.

If we let go into the beauty and the tragedy of our life, we may find peace along the way. And when the time comes, perhaps we will choose to be present for our final letting go.

Letting go is not getting rid of anything. It is, in fact, accepting everything—allowing things to be as they are.

We are greedy. We want, and we want, and we want. That’s okay. The question is: can we stop grabbing? Can we stop harming? Can we stop appropriating?

Learning to accept what is here as enough—and experiencing the joy in that.

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CRYING TO THE SKY

The Role of Prayer in a Non-Theistic Tradition

 

Buddhism has largely been divorced from the idea of an overseeing creator—someone to whom we can supplicate, someone managing our experience, someone to yell at us when we’ve gone astray. This is called Theism. Turning an object into a thing that, in turn, becomes a solid reference.

Refuting the existence of God, as we know, is called atheism. Sometimes atheists can be more dogmatic than theists, turning a non-thing into a very solid proposition.

Then there is a story of the Buddha, when asked by Indian scholars why he did not refer to a god. Buddha reportedly answered, “Because that’s not important. This was not a denial of gods. It was a repositioning. By placing the question of a deity into the realm of theology, he freed himself to be a teacher, not a priest. This was his great reformation. And this is what we call non-theism.

As Buddha removed the idea of a spiritual hierarchy he placed responsibility back into the hands of human beings. The gods were not the issue. The issue was how we wake up in this life right now.

But what if I simply want to pray? 

When I am faced with confusion, reaching out to something feels important. When I have failed myself—as I have, repeatedly in my life—it would make sense to look beyond myself for solace.

Before I came to Buddhism, I would fall into treating God like my butler. Someone to do my bidding when difficulty arises. I’d ask for this, ask for that—often with more demand than humility. And when I didn’t get what I wanted, I’d recoil in a huff, turning the name I once called in reverence, into a curse.

It would seem I was invoking a codependent, rather than empowering, relationship.

The point of Buddha’s teaching was not to establish a system of divine dependence, but to guide people toward leading themselves on the path of awakening. Nonetheless, I have secretly envied the certainty of deeply religious people. I am moved when I walk down a busy street and see someone kneeling in prayer, facing Mecca. I am struck by the conviction of those who feel aligned with a power they trust completely.

Non-theism is not a denial of god. It is a refusal to rely on a deity as a solid, external savior. Instead, it suggests that when we call upon something beyond ourselves, we are co-creating an experience between our mind and the wisdom beyond the conceptual limitations that mind. So, praying to the sky, indeed crying to the sky in sadness and frustration, with the hope that we can go beyond ourselves is actually a very practical method.

When I am in states of confusion or despair, praying to Padmasambhava gives me relief. It gives me orientation outside of my habitual patterns. Over time, this has developed into a kind of faith.

But it is a practical faith.

I don’t assume this process would work for everyone. I don’t believe it is better or truer than any other object of prayer. It is personal. A gateway. A way of stepping beyond myself and receiving.

The non-theistic view suggests that we can use the idea of a deity—or prayer itself—as a gateway to access something larger. If someone believes wholeheartedly in a deity and finds strength in that, then that’s great. Buddhism has not rejected these forms. And although in its fundamental form Buddha’s teachings turned away from reliance on a deity as the teachings spread, it adapted and changed. In Tibet, for example, figures like Guru Rinpoche (Padmasambhava) were said to transform local spirits—forces of fear and chaos—into protectors of the Dharma.

Whether taken literally or symbolically, the message is clear: what is frightening, chaotic, and unknown can be transformed into something that supports, even protects, our path.

That is deeply compelling to me.

So yes—I pray to Padmasambhava. Not because I believe in a solid being somewhere granting favors, but because I have faith in the transformation of darkness into awakening.

When I am lost in confusion, doubt, or fear, I remember my teachers. I remember the Buddha. And sometimes I call out—to Padmasambhava, to the sky, to something beyond myself. My work is to find passion in a belief that opens to possibility rather than narrows down on expectation.

Whether I visualize a deity, a teacher, or simply cry to the very sky amounts to the same thing. Rather than limiting my prayer to a fixed, external god I am asking for guidance to step beyond myself.

Buddhism tells us to rely on ourselves, why do I still feel the need to pray?

Because I have run afoul relying solely on myself. So I ask for help. And the simple act of asking opens the gateway to a greater possibility. And rather than limit those possibilities to my own usual thinking I’m simply opening with the question.

Not expecting reward. Not demanding results. But praying to the open sky – and the loving spirit of the universe – removes the burden of having to do anything my way. All I have to do is open and trust that I will understand.

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OPENING TO LIFE . . .

 

And Living the Life We’ve Been Gifted

In some readings of Buddhist thought, there is the interpretation that desire is problematic—that people on a path to awareness shouldn’t be desirous. We shouldn’t want anything, and we most certainly shouldn’t hold onto it if we did.

I can’t think of a better way to forestall someone’s development on the Buddhist path than to turn them away from their basic human instinct.

The purpose of meditation is to wake up, or you might say, learn to pay attention to our life. If we are awake in our meditation, then we may wake up in our life. If we are awake in the world, then our senses would likewise be awake. In Buddhist practice, these senses are sometimes referred to as gates as these sense gates are our connection to the world.

I suppose, for the sake of developing calmness we could keep these gates locked. We could shutter our ears, wrap out mind in a cocoon, look to the ground, and live out life dutifully waiting for it to pass. We might move to a cave and lock ourselves away from everything. But even then there may be interesting stalagmites, stalactites, rock formations, and dark secrets that exist in this subterranean world.

As long as we have a mind, we will have no shortage of things that grab our attention. But shutting down the mind would be to shut out life. I think it’s a much braver to be willing to open our senses to the world. But how can we do this and keep our equilibrium?  With consistent meditation practice we can train our mind not to grasp at everything it sees, thus getting thrown out of balance.

Perception and desire are not the cause of suffering. Suffering happens when we grasp at things, often with a gripping panic as if holding on for dear life. This becomes problematic with our unbridled appetite to devour all the things we see, feel, taste, touch and think. Likewise when we lash out attacking all the things we disdain. And likewise ignore everything we deem beneath our attention.

Passion, aggression, and ignorance are the three seeds that are the cause and condition of the clinging and grasping that throws us off balance and causes suffering when we land on the ground.

Suffering comes from the friction between our solidification of things we desire, disdain, or deem unworthy, against a reality that is always moving and changing in continual dynamic flux.

The world is moving. It’s singing. It’s dancing. And we’re invited to join the party.

But if we see something we want, our attention will narrow and focus on the desired object. That’s problematic. When we objectify anything we turn it into something solid and fail to see it clearly. This is not reality. Believing in things that are not reality causes harm.

As much as anyone loves to be desired, it’s a rare circumstance when people want to be owned and objectified. Life wants to be seen. Life wants to be understood. Life wants us to dance, not growl at the wedding table because our partner is dancing with someone else.

By the same token, there are certain attachments that are entirely natural—for instance, parent and child, any of us and the pet that loves us, our favorite music, poetry, or favorite places on the beach or in the woods.  This is natural.

It becomes unnatural when we are grasping and clinging at objects  driven by a need to control. Our need to control comes from insecurity, from a disbelief within ourselves.

And hence we hold on to things that we deem valuable, things that we believe will increase our status if we cling to them, or manipulate them into clinging to us in some codependent dance. This is the dance of insecurity, not the open and flowing dance of life. Neurotic clinging and control is a stumbling, drunken reeling across the floor, bumping into tables and chairs, knocking things over. It is out of step with the natural flow of life. And it is precisely this dissonance—being out of step with the flow of life—that causes suffering, pain, and anxiety within us.

The more anxiety we feel, the tighter we cling. The tighter we cling, the less in the flow of life we are, and the more pain we are likely causing.

If we grip hard enough, we might believe for limited periods of time that we have gotten what we want, that we have wrestled that which we desire into our grasp and placed it in an immovable straitjacket. But it will never really please us, and it certainly won’t please the objects that we cling to and refuse to truly see.

We fall in love, and then we go into this state of blind gripping that keeps us from actually knowing and understanding the very thing we covet. We would rather keep a bird caged than experience birds in their natural beauty and majesty.

So how do we allow ourselves to feel natural attachment without falling into clinging and grasping?

Like everything, it takes training.  We sit in daily meditation practice and finbd the stability to see and release all that we perceive.  If we are willing to open our mind in meditation, and release ourselves from the grip of compounded thinking  then we are learning to open our eyes in life.

We start the process of releasing our grip when we see something that attracts us. Rather than grabbing and narrowing down on it, we could open up to it.  That opening can lead us to further perceptions.

We could see one thing we love and rather than narrowing down on it like a predator we can open top it in appreciation.  The same is true of things we hate, disdain, or fear. When we grab onto hatred, or really want something feared to leave us, we are still clinging. And we are imbuing it with much more power. By struggling with them, we are making ourselves smaller than the things we struggle against.  When we are smaller than an adversary, we are prone to lash out and grapple. But in the martial arts, for instance, students are trained to remain relaxed, open and balanced.

So the work here is to open up to that which we fear. Opening up simply means allowing ourselves to see the object clearly. We are not increasing the fear so much as opening to it and seeing what is actually there. And opening our eyes is the best defense.

Releasing our grip, lifting our gaze, and opening our senses to the world is not only brave, it’s an effective way to live.

It doesn’t mean we have to agree with anything. It doesn’t mean we have to like what we see. It simply means we are joining the party and becoming part of life.

So to me the two steps are simple:

open my eyes and remain open to what I see.

And when I inevitable collapse into grasping panic, I forgive that as basically human and seeing it as a departure from reality return to something present, such as out breath or our body.

There is nothing wrong with perceiving our world. There is nothing wrong with appreciating our world. There is nothing wrong with healthy attachments.

But there is nothing wrong with going wrong and clinging for dear life, as long as we realize it’s not reality and are willing to let go of the fantasy, and return to reality.  It’s okay to make mistakes. Notice them. Release your grip and come back to the flow of life in the present.

The art of being human is based on the practice of making mistakes and having the bravery to return to openness.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

SPRING AWAKENING!

Good morning.

Chögyam Trungpa often began his talks with that salutation. Regardless of the hour, he would hold his golden fan open and proclaim “Good Morning.” Even though he sometimes began his talks very late at night, there was no irony intended. He was inviting everyone to wake up.

Good morning.

Any moment can be a fresh start when we’re awake to greet it. This very moment, right in this moment, can be an invitation to open to life.

So much of our lives are lived sleepwalking. We move through our days inside protective cocoons of habit, belief, and repetition, until we stub a toe against reality. In recovery parlance we talk about “islands of clarity” – moments of awake when we see beyond ourselves with more perspective. Unfortunately, for most pre-enlightened beings, we fall back into our brown out almost instantly. The pull of our sleep is so very strong.

People say “wake up and smell the coffee”.  But I can smell the coffee just fine from bed.

Dilgo Khyentse, Rinpoche said that the difference between the dreams we have at night and the dreams we walk through in life is duration. Dreams at night last mere seconds, despite the fact that they feel much longer. In the same way, our lives feel long and solid. In truth, our lives are startlingly brief. In fact, we are dying the moment we are born. Each moment of life ends and gives birth to the next. Yet, though we know life is short, we live as though we are permanent. We believe our pain is permanent. Our fear is permanent. Our identities are permanent.

We believe in the bubble.

We often live inside bubbles made of belief—sealed worlds of fixed assumptions about who we are, what is possible, and how long our suffering will last. Once we expand as far as we can within that enclosure, we begin to dull and atrophy.

Then something merciful happens. The bubble bursts. Fresh air rushes in. And for a moment, life feels miraculous. And what is a miracle if not the sudden rebirth from what seemed lifeless?

Yet so often we try to preserve that miracle, clutching it this is like someone opening a window for fresh air and then quickly shutting it so the freshness cannot escape. But rebirth is not a possession. It is a cycle.

Nature teaches this relentlessly: winter gives way to spring, death to life, ending to beginning. They are not opposites so much as two expressions of the same movement. I once heard a Tibetan teacher ask a room full of students, “How many of you have accepted the reality of death?” It being a Buddhist gathering a few hands went up.

Then he asked, “How many of you understand that you are dying right now?”

That question remains with me.

The death of winter is already the birth of spring. The end is already the beginning. And just as surely as every beginning comes from death, every life leads to this same destination.

In birth we leave behind of the dark and protected enclosure that first held us. In our life, living to our fullest is leaving the soft enclosure of our cocoon and learning not to squint so much at the sun. But looking ahead, we always miss what’s behind. It pulls us. What we’ve experienced feels so much more real than what we’ve yet to experience. Beginning is always a barter with something we lose.

I think of my niece on her wedding day, radiant in the doorway beside her father, suspended in that extraordinary moment before stepping forward. The future seemed so luminous that I had to go and offer my blessing.

As I drew closer, she was l cursing in that abrupt jersey way that the damned dress was cutting into her ribs.

There it was all at once: the transcendent and the corporeal, the sacred and the profane, the perfect image and the very human discomfort beneath it.

Every human birth is beautiful and painful and horrible. Because awakening is not abstract. It happens precisely here, in the tender recognition that life is moving, changing, dissolving, and renewing in every moment.

Many years ago, I found myself in a mountain community of practitioners who had been deeply shaken by the death of their teacher. There was grief everywhere, yet also an extraordinary honesty and warmth.

In that open mountain space, my own heart began to soften. Something in me that had been encased began to thaw. What I discovered was that there are two kinds of containers. One is the bubble of self-protection, which suffocates possibility. The other is the cradle of love and kindness, which allows something truer to be born.

The first imprisons. The second incubates.

Perhaps this is the real invitation of spring: not merely to admire rebirth in nature, but to allow it in ourselves. To understand that every awakening asks for a small death.

Every fresh morning is also the ending of the night. So whether the weather is good or gloomy, if we’re sad or glad, any movement of mind is precious and everything we encounter is an invitation to wake up.

Good morning.

 

Posted on by joseph mauricio

IN THIS TOGETHER

The Power of a Self-Healing Community

 

A basic premise of recovery and healing is that isolation incubates pain, expanding it into suffering. On the other hand, communication, community, and connection allow space for healing.

It is true that when we are triggered, wounded, or overwhelmed, crawling into our protective space is often needed in the initial stages of healing. There is a wisdom to retreat. Sometimes the first act of sanity is to step back, become quiet, and allow the nervous system to settle.

But more quickly than we might find comfortable, isolation begins to have diminishing returns. At some point, if healing is to continue, we need to open up and connect with others, or the wound begins to fester.

Part of the reason is that the isolated mind reflects only itself. In that closed loop, it begins to feel different, separate, unique. We suffer in a way that seems as though no one else could ever understand. When we try to communicate we may feel as though no one gets us. And while this is true to some extent—no one knows the exact particulars of our experience—we are, as Maya Angelou reminds us, “more alike than we are different, my friend.”

By sharing our private pain with a trusted community, we allow ourselves to see it from a different perspective. We also give others the opportunity to empathize, often because they have lived their own version of something remarkably similar. We may begin in isolation until we are strong enough to reach out. And this makes us stronger. The stronger we become the wider our community is likely to become. At some point, our community may include those with differing opinions and points of reference. But, as the Buddha instructed the soldier, take the arrow out first. This is akin to the “putting your gas mask on first” trope.

 

HEALING.

When we are wounded—frightened, defeated, antagonized, or simply exhausted—it feels personal, as though we are being attacked by the world itself. It is reasonable that our immediate reaction is to strike back, assign blame, or clench our fists against the forces that seem to be victimizing us. But our reactions are not really the point. Blame blocks healing. Healing comes from feeling. Or, as is said, “feeling is healing.” Blame is something that happens in the head while feeling happens in the heart.

And it is our heart that has been wounded. The heart doesn’t have the same logic or language as does the mighty brain. The heart paints in abstract colors. We can only listen in and hold space for ourselves with loving patience until the infection abates.

The point is that we have been hurt and we need to acknowledge this. It’s not about who did what. It’s about what is. And what is, is pain.

The first step in working with hurt is to acknowledge it. Not what caused it. Not what it says about our personality or our place in the world. Not the story. Simply the hurt itself.

Can we face it directly?

Once we face the hurt, acceptance becomes the next important step. In time, we can train the mind to experience pain without immediate elaboration—psychological, social, or philosophical. We begin to see what is there without rushing to explain it.

Then acceptance opens into inquisitiveness. We become interested. Where is this pain happening? How do I feel it in the body? Is this pain being amplified into suffering or finding the space to heal?

 

COMMUNITY.

At some point, we may be to turn outward and speak it aloud to others. This is a brave step in the healing process. To let go our healing and begin to feel with others. This creates more space for the wound to continue to heal. There are many ways to do this: therapy, spiritual friendship, meditation communities, recovery groups, or simply trusted friends.

Sometimes just allowing someone to speak their pain exactly as it is—without fixing, changing, or judging—gives them the opportunity to hear themselves more clearly. In that simple act of being heard, something often softens. And when others respond not by solving but by speaking their own truth in a way that resonates, the person may feel less lonely, less cut off, less singled out by life.

Of course, each modality has both strengths and shadows.

Therapy can be profound, though there is always the risk of dependency on the relationship itself. Community spaces that discourage crosstalk can offer a neutral and nonjudgmental container, though at times they may feel emotionally distant. Informal conversations with loving friends can provide warmth and support, though sometimes those closest to us may only echo what we already want to hear.

To me, an ideal healing community contains something of all of these elements. Warmth. Heart connection. Support. Space. Camaraderie. A sense of being understood and a willingness to understand. One of my mentors, Michelle Killoran, introduced this to me as “the self-healing community.” We are seeking a community, built on empathy and understanding, that allows the next stage of our healing journey.

We are more alike, my friends, than we are different.

How can we help one another without adding further confusion—either through subtle judgment or through over-support of each other’s neuroses? How can we help one another see our own minds and our own path toward healing? And just as importantly, how can each of us become clear enough within ourselves to communicate what we truly need from the group, ourselves, and each other?

Sometimes we need simply to be held, physically or metaphorically. Sometimes we need clear advice and instruction. Sometimes we need silence. Sometimes we need witness. My hope is that this community can become a place where all of that is possible.

We are more alike, my friend, than we are unalike.

Posted on by joseph mauricio

CARING FOR THE CRAZY

Awakening Our Loving Kindness

 

Our minds are huge—larger than we understand—capable of being incredibly sane, clear, and beautiful. But at times, quite the opposite. We can get lost in cul-de-sacs of unresolved reasoning, like a kid in a hall of mirrors distorting and reflecting upon itself.

Today I want to address the circular, repetitive, sometimes violent thoughts that bang around our minds from time to time. Often at the worst times. Perhaps on the eve of a busy day while trying to get to sleep our brain instigates an imaginary dialogue, as if trying to resolve an unresolvable equation.

I should have said this. I could have said that. Why didn’t I just get up and leave?

One particularly curious part of this game is when there seems to be a false resolution. We roll back toward slumber, but after a moment of peace the mind shoots up again: Waiut! I could have said this!  I should have told them that …

When this happens, we are too focused on trying to sleep. And that’s a problem. Each time we look at the clock, we calculate the remaining hours until the alarm rings, we are focused on something that is not the issue. The problem isn’t that we can’t sleep. We sleep almost every day. The issue is that we can’t stop our brain. We can’t let go of something.

When I get stuck with something after I’ve been triggered, I can feel how compromised my inner world becomes. My thoughts, my feelings, and my concerns around the issue stop being trustworthy. I am trapped in a self-referential world, trying different experiments to free myself, only to arrive at the same unhappy result. A crazy person once said this was the definition of insanity. I am flagellating myself, desperately fixated on what I can’t resolve.

But what is actually happening?

Let’s look at the particulars. This endless, expansive, extraordinary mind of ours was originally developed as a defensive organ. As humanity evolved, we lost our fangs, our claws, our venom—but we gained cerebral processing power. In early times, when we were threatened, our minds had the ability to strategize and escape. Likewise, we could strategize ways to increase sustenance for ourselves, our family and our clan. The mind became the great problem-solver. And to this day, it will try to solve problems—whether or not we have a problem. All it needs to initialize is to be triggered. And then, although the lions our ancestors ran from are no longer here to chase us, we are still running. We are still strategizing. We are still trying to find a release from danger.

Unfortunately, when nothing is actually happening—when we are not facing a tiger but simply a feeling of being threatened—the mind can’t find the culprit. Without a real object to land on, it spins freely, unable to find what isn’t actually there. Sometimes we’re trying to find a way out of a problem we can’t find.

So how do we work with this? I have come to think of it in five stages.

  • The first stage is knowing that it will leave.

This matters because when we are caught in the cycle, it feels permanent. We are in pain, and we are desperately trying to find a way out. But even in the most intense moments, there are gaps—moments of forgetting, moments when the deluge softens, when the mind is calm, even for only a moment.

This stage is about recognizing that those moments of peace are not accidents. They are evidence. When the storm returns, it is not because the temporary storm is stronger. It is because the calm, which is the mind’s true nature, is trying to break through.

  • The second stage is recognizing what is happening now.

If we trace the experience backward—looking for causes and conditions—we can quickly open a Pandora’s box. Whatever is happening now likely connects to past wounds and future fears. But this stage is about cutting through all of that with Occam’s razor, or the sword of Manjushri. What is actually happening?

Not what we wish were happening. Not “I’m not getting enough sleep.” Not “I’m driving myself crazy.” No judgment, no speculation. Just simple recognition: This is what is happening. We can’t stop our mind. That’s what’s happening. You might call this “facing the crazy.”

But stop calling it crazy.

  • The third stage is

Instead, look at what’s happening without judgment or speculation. Allow it to be as it is. There is a basic law here: until we accept something we can’t discover how to work with it. And until we do that, we’re kind of stuck with it. So, before we do anything, we have to stop labeling it as broken and simply say: This is what’s happening.

Acceptance does not mean approval. It means we stop fighting. It means acknowledging reality.

  • The fourth stage is beginning to work with it.

This is usually quick up to this point, but here’s where the work begins. Once I have recognized and accepted this experience, and once I have stopped judging or trying to fix something I don’t yet understand, I can turn toward it with care. Maybe even respect. Damn this is some powerful shit.

I can ask: What is this really about? What does this need?

Usually, the surface story is not the whole story. Anger may be covering fear. Fear may be covering hurt. But beneath all of that, something more immediate is happening.

This stage is about listening rather than solving. We are not trying to fix anything. That fixing impulse can be aggressive—a kind of inner patriarchal clampdown. Instead, we are opening to something sensitive and delicate inside us, something that may be wounded. We need to proceed with caution. We’re holding space and listening in. And by doing this we’re accessing a larger part of the mind that sees and cares for the spinning.

A mind that can navigate past the defensive layers, and without triggering them, touch that wound directly. And that does not need words, language, prescriptions, or explanations. It needs to be felt, acknowledged and held.

Why can’t the wounded child go to sleep?

  • The fifth stage is loving-kindness.

Rather than struggling to change anything, we can recognize, accept, and work with the experience through love and kindness. By taking the time to do this with love and care it becomes clear that we are not the turmoil. We are the love. Rather than being victimized by the torrent of mind, we access the greater mind of loving acceptance. We are that mind. We can rest in her arms.

When a child runs into the room because it fears monsters, it does not need a clinical explanation. It does not need a scientific breakdown of why monsters do not exist. It does not need to be yelled at or pushed back into bed. It needs to be held. Comforted. Assured that it is safe.

Even as adults who know there is no danger, something inside still needs to feel that safety before it can rest. Before we send the child back to bed, we might ask: Are you okay to be brave now? Are you brave enough to sleep? We are not speaking to logic. We are speaking to feeling. We are taking the time to find the tenderness, to feel it, and to listen. If this process robs me of sleep, it will have been worth it—because I have learned how to work with something I cannot control.

The tigers of mind and the monsters beneath the bed are not what’s real. What’s real is the power of our love, and the truth of our suffering—that we have been hurt, that we have been shaped by experience, but that we can learn to care for ourselves.

And sometimes we’re late for work.

________________________

 

Can’t sleep?

Can’t still your raging mind?

Can’t find serenity in the storm? 

Turn your attention away from the clock

To your heart 

Let the anxiety remind you

You have access to a heart so big

It can hold a screaming mind 

A heart so strong it can ease your panic.

A heart so steady it can still the storms we all endure 

The brain screams loudly

And loving kindness is quiet

so it needs to be awakened and engaged

Awaken loving kindness

And let that hold you 

 

 

Posted on by joseph mauricio

THE JOY OF SADNESS

Posted on by joseph mauricio

HELP

 

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