Struggling Through the Hangover of Delusion
There was a song by Neil Sedaka in the 60’s called “Breaking Up is Hard to Do”. Many of us have been there. It is hard to let go of someone to whom we’ve grown attached. First we try to let them go, only to find the part of us who identified as their partner also had to be let go. It’s not easy to see beyond the love bubble. It’s not easy seeing beyond me.
Waking up in life can be similarly difficult. Arising after a long, wild night we are cloudy and unsure as we try and reconstruct the events of the night before. It seemed like so much fun, I think. Maybe. But why am I suffering now? And why do the few things I remember make me cringe?
In the same way, after years, even lifetimes, of believing the delusional states we sleepwalk through, waking up can be disconcerting, embarrassing and painful.
“Waking up”refers to the glimpses or stabilization of realization that is a consequence of regular meditation practice. It might begin with flashes of insight that permeates our practice, but in time fuses into a sense of panoramic knowing. We begin to see ourselves in context to the world around us rather than being lost in ideas to which we’re conditioned. This seems like a good thing, and yet a part of us resists this. We would rather cling to sleep finding excuses to stay in a routine of non-awareness. Perhaps we can set the phone to “snooze”, but that doesn’t really work. Once we’ve seen the sunshine our slumber is ruined. We toss and turn but at some point rolling out of bed becomes choiceless.
Waking up in the spiritual sense can be disorienting because there’s seeming comfort in delusion, as we hide within layers of protective self-deception. (My autocorrect had written “stealth deception,” which is serendipitous because much of the way we fool ourselves lies deep in our psychology and goes uninvestigated.) We take “me” for granted, assuming everything we do is the same me doing it. We fail to notice how that me shifts from circumstance to circumstance. We may be one me with our mother, another me at work, another me in a bar and several others with each drink as each releases another layer of me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve excused myself with, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t wasn’t myself last night.”
“Stealth deception,” indeed.
So much of our ego — the part charged with defending us and keeping us socially acceptable — lies unseen. Buddhism describes ignorance as the primary manifestation of ego. Various ego states (plural because despite seeming solid they constantly change) shape who we think we are, yet lie uninvestigated, beyond reach. We accept the brother me, the son me, the teacher me or the pupil me without question. Hence, when we’re angry, we assume it’s justified, fixating our ire on some person or object. When we feel attraction, it must be love. We rarely go deeper and ask what else we might feel. For instance, anger covers over doubt, sadness and confusion because it’s an energy we can grasp. Anger feels strong while vulnerability feels, well, vulnerable. Since ego protects us, vulnerability isn’t its go-to — unless we’ve learned to use it manipulatively. So we sleepwalk through life, replaying the same strategies we used in the crib to get our bottle.
At work I’d grumble sarcastically “yeah, I slept like a baby, I woke every three hours screaming for my bottle.” When I quit drinking, I committed to continuing the waking-up process I’d begun in meditation. I’d come far in understanding the world and the Dharma, and developed empathy for others — but that empathy was still at the service of ego – it was provisional depending on how irritated I might be. I cared for others in order to secure my sense of worth. I couldn’t see behind the firewall into the inner workings. I could cajole, demand, intimidate to get what I wanted. Yet I never investigated what it was I actually wanted. It’s possible I never knew.
The meditation master Dilgo Khyentse, Rinpoche used to say the only difference between the dreams we have at night, and the dream of our life, is duration. We believe our life has meaning, as we believe our dreams do. Yet we don’t fully remember either, because we’re not fully cognizant of either.
I held a special ire toward those who punctured my dream-logic. Nothing got me angrier. I felt they were stupid or didn’t understand me. I believed I knew more than anyone as I lived in my dream bubble. I held the belief that I was special secret genius in a tight emotional fist. It took me a while to loosen that grip and begin to see I wasn’t so special. So, yeah waking up is freaking galling. But it’s worth it. And once we start – once we get a glimpse outside the cave – we can’t go back. Saturday night is never the same once you find out.
In order to secure our nascent awakening, I recommend getting out of bed a bit earlier, tired as we may be, and meet our mind as it may be – just as we find it. Just sit there and be with ourselves waking up slowly in order to synchronize with ourselves as we are and discover the day as it is. Our morning meditation can begin organically before we bound out of bed to a screaming alarm, rushing down the street behind our triple latte.
I sometimes joke: Have you ever woken up next to someone you didn’t know and tried to sneak out unnoticed? That happens to me every morning — and I live alone. I try to escape before I have to recognize myself. I’d jump on the subway, rushing and habitually late, never having to look at myself because I was busy navigating chaos. Fearful of disappointment, I constantly created confusion so I could dig myself out of it and avoid ever seeing who I was.
Meditation slowly changed that. It let me peel back layers of me. At the beginning of meditation, we’re groggy and unsteady. We’re learning to stand without the crutches that once propped us up. We must nourish and protect this early wakefulness.
Waking up is hard to do because we’ve never experienced the alternative. It’s easier to roll and over stay warm than it is to turn and face the ch-ch-change. But we’re missing our life in the process. At some point Ignorance may not be enough.
A sign from one of my favorite coffee shops read:
