Learning to Cooperate with Life
Life sometimes gives us what we want. It more often gives us what we need. But it always gives us what we have.
We can focus on what we want and be happy some of the time. We can be grateful for what we need and be happy more of the time. Or we can accept what is here and find contentment right now.
We sometimes romanticize our relationship with life. We tell ourselves that everything is meant to be, that it is all part of a plan, or that every possibility is available to us. But the truth is simpler: we can only work with what’s here.
What is actually here?
Over time, meditation develops the mind’s capacity for what Buddhists call valid cognition: the ability to see clearly. This matters because fear, doubt, prejudice, and wishful thinking often distort our perception.
This is also where Buddhists tend to place their prayers—not simply in *Can I get that job?* but in *May I see clearly enough to know how to move toward that possibility. May I see what’s here.*
To me, this is a reasonable way to relate to the universe, God, a higher power, or whatever part of life lies beyond our grasp. Rather than wishing for something that may or may not happen, I can ask for the clarity to see what is here and the guidance to work with it.
This is not to disparage hopes or dreams. They are part of our vision. But vision remains a mirage until we find a tangible path toward it. Wishes are also fickle: I have often wanted something in May that I no longer wanted in July.
We are especially unreliable at distinguishing what we want from what we need. Marshall Rosenberg’s work with Nonviolent Communication illustrates the difference. We might say, “I need you to be quiet.”
But I don’t need *you* to be quiet. I want quiet—or perhaps I need rest, concentration, or peace. That is less coercive and less personal. It names my experience without assuming that anyone is doing something wrong, and it opens the possibility of negotiation.
In this way, I’m working with what’s here. Maybe I’ll even get what I want—especially if I’m willing to go into another room.
Much of what we present to our lovers, ourselves, God, and the universe takes the form of a demand: *I should have this. I must have that.* I sometimes treat the universe as though it were my personal assistant, expecting it to give me what I want.
But the universe is a big place. The fact that much of it is unknowable doesn’t mean I can’t work with it. It simply doesn’t help to scream into the void.
Our task is to find a kind of synchronicity among what is possible, what is here, and what we can presently do. Dreams may inspire us and wishes may motivate us, but meditation is about opening our eyes. Seeing what’s here is the first step toward making life practical—and practical is possible.
What is before me? What is actually happening? What can I work with?
We can still hold a larger view of where we would like to go, but it is better held as a direction than a demand. Goals can narrow us around a fixed objective; a wider view keeps us open to the whole situation.
“I would like to have a new job by the end of the year.”
That can be a useful direction without becoming a demand. It is like looking through a window and seeing a mountain. The mountain may inspire you, but you don’t have to climb it immediately. You may never climb it. It simply awakens a sense of direction.
Then you look at the ground in front of you. Nothing happens until you take the first step.
The mountain is the aspiration. The ground beneath your feet is your life.
If I stay in relationship with what is actually here, I may discover by the end of the year that I’m moving in an entirely different direction. Another opportunity may appear—one I would have missed by focusing too tightly on a single outcome.
An aspiration is not necessarily something we deserve, need, or must have. It is a view through the window.
Then:
Look down.
See what’s here.
Take the step that is possible.
Perhaps, when we learn to see clearly, we discover how much we can do with what we already have.
