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Self-Love in Hard Times
From The Eldorado Sun, January 2004
By Richard Mahler
I was drawn instantly by the book's title. In
1998, When Things Fall Apart was an apt headline
for my life. I'd never heard of Pema Chödrön,
but the woman with the complicated name won me
over with these simple sentences:
"We lived in northern New Mexico,"
wrote Chödrön, who now heads a Buddhist
monastery in Canada. "I was standing in
front of our adobe house drinking a cup of tea.
I heard the car drive up and the door bang shut.
Then [my husband] walked around the corner, and
without warning he told me that he was having an
affair and he wanted a divorce."
In an instant, Chödrön's life was irrevocably
changed. Understandably, her initial feelings
were of shock, pain, anger, and betrayal. But
before long she realized that her husband's
hurtful actions allowed her to be reborn.
Annihilation of her "old" self, the
author concluded, "was the only way to
go."
I wondered, as I read Chödrön's provocative
words, whether the breakdown of my own long-term
relationship might have similar consequences. I
had split with my partner-not once, but several
times-for very different reasons than those
confronting Chödrön. After my own final
separation, I felt that a "new" self
had been struggling to emerge for some time.
"I am not the person I was five years ago,
when [my partner and I] first met," I wrote
in my journal. "I have different needs now,
and they aren't being fulfilled."
Nearly six years have passed since I began
trying to meet those needs in new ways. It
hasn't been an easy journey. Part of the
difficulty has been in redefining what I want
from and for myself as well as others. If you
had asked me in 1998 to define the "new
me," I couldn't have told you.
"Letting there be room for not knowing is
the most important thing of all," Pema
Chödrön reminds us in When Things Fall Apart.
"Only to the extent that we expose
ourselves over and over to annihilation can that
which is indestructible be found in us."
The most important conclusion I've reached
through such wise counsel is that I need to love
myself first, most, and best. This means
accepting and forgiving myself when a loving
relationship with a fellow human has
"failed." Rethinking the whole notion
of failure, I believe, is necessary if we are to
let go of "old self." Here's an
example:
In January 1998, I withdrew from the world.
Literally. And completely. For 97 days, I lived
alone in a remote alpine cabin without
electricity, indoor plumbing, or telephone.
Surrounded by snow-covered mountains, I became
deeply immersed in silence and stillness. Living
in such solitude and isolation forced me to
consider my "stuck places," while
simultaneously confronting habits of mind and
body. Some habit behaviors, like drinking
coffee, were easy to examine. Others, such as
wanting my lover to be a different person, were
not.
When I returned to civilization, I immediately
realized that I needed to express love in new
ways if I ever expected to get what I wanted.
Something had shifted. For too long, I'd built
relationships on hope: that the woman I was with
would eventually come around to my way of seeing
and doing things. I'd ignored fundamental
differences under the illusion that they didn't
really matter. Of course I was wrong. Shared
values are essential if a relationship is to
have any stamina and resilience.
The love I wanted flowed back to me when I
started to give it away to others, with fewer
conditions attached. People responded in kind.
From waitresses to brothers, those I interacted
with seemed softer, more genuine. Without being
so invested in hanging on to my old personality,
I was able to make some lasting changes. When my
girlfriend and I parted, I eventually felt
relief. We know longer had to work so hard to
live up to each other's expectations, or to bear
the daily disappointment of not being right for
one another.
Directing love to self may seem narcissistic and
arrogant. But I believe that's only a problem if
love is superficial and unaware. When we care
for ourselves deeply enough-enough to accept who
we really are, including our shortcomings-we
gain self-knowledge. Compassionate understanding
of who we really are is vital if we expect
someone else to love us the way we want to be
loved. Otherwise, relationships become parallel
lines. The two people move in the same direction
but never touch.
Through this process of discovery, I learned
lessons that apply to other aspects of my life.
Something was missing from my relationship to
work, for example. I had lost a sense of
passion, intimacy, and engagement. Although I
loved being a writer, its inherent isolation
kept me separated from people much of the time.
I cultivated a strategy for positive action. In
2000, I received professional training and work
experience in helping individuals deal with
chronic stress and acute pain. Such facilitating
demands that I interact with clients one-to-one,
confronting very personal issues and behaviors.
Now, my work is a satisfying mix of writing,
teaching, and other service-related
activities.
It's true that all these changes might have
happened without Pema Chödrön's wisdom. I could
have followed a different path to the same
place. But for me, an unapologetic "word
person," something about the timeliness and
appropriateness of When Things Fall Apart
resonated powerfully. Reading its passages still
ring true today:
"It's never too late to look inside our
minds. We can always sit down and allow the
space for anything to arise. Sometimes we have a
shocking experience of ourselves. Sometimes we
try to hide. ...Without judging, we can always
encourage ourselves to just be here, again and
again and again."
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