Scanning the coffeeshop for somewhere to sit, my gaze caught on a undergrad woman sitting in the corner. She was mainly working on one table, with her bag spilling over, taking up a second. My first reaction was disgust. Why would you do that in a busy coffee shop? Rude. My second reaction was: Nah girl, you take up space! I mused that I don't know how her day is, how she is, who she is. Taking up two tables might be an amazing step in her journey of self-liberation. For someone like me, who was raised to be small, to yield, and to default to taking up as little space as possible, two tables could be huge. Knowing what 'two tables' means for her is hard, no, it's impossible to know, from the outside. It's also none of my business. But what I do is completely my business. And this coincides with questions I've considered with friends: what's the "right" thing to do, when we both want to be polite (perhaps only taking up one table) but also practice self-liberation of taking up space? Today I see clearly, the answer is motive. What is driving me to give up the table, so to say?
This table metaphor serves us best when we can see this process in play in other places. Another version of this comes in First Nations story, a often quoted story of wolves: Your motives are your wolves. I had fed my fearful wolf for decades before realizing that I was sustaining the pattern of reacting in fear each time I reacted fearfully. I have been able to slowly change that from a predictable pattern of action to an impulse! A huge success. And I did it all by paying attention. I paid attention to my motives. I considered how feeding each felt. Ultimately, I chose to feed the motives that would move me in the direction of my larger goals: taking care of my self and others. When I choose fear, I close myself off, and then I'm no good to you or anyone.
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I want to highlight this paragraph by Dzigar Kongtrul and place it in context of my own experiences, both in and out of the academy as I move between and through them. Through the nonviolent practice of simmering, we can work to change our basic reactions to the world around us, and this has a positive effect on others. Then we can feel good and safe in the world of unpredictability, and we will not feel so intimidated by various states of mind, such as anger. In fact, when we simmer with our aggression, we not only burn the seeds or latent tendencies that give rise to further aggression, we also make good use of those seeds as an opportunity to cultivate patience. We might begin to question the nature of anger: What is anger, really, when we don't react to it? You might be surprised to find it isn't as substantial as you thought. I am trained to under appreciate myself. I know, because every time I have been accepted to an academic program, an institution, or simply complimented on my work, I tell a story. To myself and others, I tell a story about how lucky I was to receive it. Call it modesty, call it humility, but I was lying, to myself and others. I didn't know how to appreciate my work, to see it as a natural outcome from intentional effort. Intentional effort is key, and is what I hear in the quote above. When I can see myself clearly, I can note, with simplicity and ease, when my intentional effort moves me, my situation, my work towards my desired outcomes. Not always, certainly, but I am able, as it says, to face that unpredictability with more curiosity, more gentleness. It allows me to explore, to experiment, to fail and fail better. I gift myself with the confidence that comes from patience, and I see the results in my work: "It means you refuse to give in to anger because you know the result of aggression and you want to experience the confidence that comes from patience. So you summon up all of your strength and let yourself feel how strong the tendency is, without rejecting it or giving in to it. In other words, simmering wears out the tendency to react habitually." When I choose acknowledging and valuing myself, I am choosing to not react habitually. This shows up when I compliment myself, when I respond to a professor's comment ("You will really go far in this field") with a nod and reply of "I know." Not to flaunt, but instead to show up, to stand upright, and bite back the habitual pattern of making myself small. The institution also provides me ample room to practice with anger. When I see and feel the institution asking me to keep my head down, telling me to make myself small instead of being honest to my peers, I feel anger arise within me. Here is the key difference: when I use this practice of acknowledgement, I can see each rise or anger, simmer in it, and value my nonviolent practice because, in these moments, I am often surrounded by humans that "mean well" or whose advice or companionship I value. Or, frankly, they are my superiors with power that could prohibit my academic career. Either way, I would rather be honest with them when I can do so in a kind, constructive, activist-to-activist way. The alternative with this moment of anger, previously well rehearsed, is to stuff my feelings, to spend massive energy and attention in the process of rejecting them. They disrupt my body, and I have still been violent--violent to myself. Simmering Practice
"Once we have identified our aggressive tendencies, we can apply the principles of nonviolence. We will need to make a firm decision not to feed our aggression. If we were to go on a diet to slim down, for instance, we would need to refrain from old patterns of eating that don't support weight loss. Of course we would be able to eat--but no brownies! We would need to decide beforehand that brownies would not support our weight loss. Then, if a craving for brownies were to arise, we would need to practice abstinence--we would refrain from eating the brownie. It may seem natural to just go ahead and eat one, because that's our habit, and it may seem artificial to refrain. But our wisdom tells us that "the no-brownie" way provides the only path to weight loss. If we were to stick with this wisdom, we would have to simmer in the discomfort of not having our brownie. We would have to starve our brownie-eating tendency ...and maybe go get a carrot stick instead. But in the end we would feel lighter and more confident about having moved forward with our aspirations. Similarly, when we decide to practice nonviolence, we make a deliberate choice to simmer with our aggression. Simmering doesn't mean you boil in your aggression like a piece of meat cooking in a soup. It means you refuse to give in to anger because you know the result of aggression and you want to experience the confidence that comes from patience. So you summon up all of your strength and let yourself feel how strong the tendency is, without rejecting it or giving in to it. In other words, simmering wears out the tendency to react habitually. Athletes do this in their own way. They love the pain of burning muscles when they exercise. They appreciate that kind of burning sensation because they know it makes them stronger and builds endurance. Through the nonviolent practice of simmering, we can work to change our basic reactions to the world around us, and this has a positive effect on others. Then we can feel good and safe in the world of unpredictability, and we will not feel so intimidated by various states of mind, such as anger. In fact, when we simmer with our aggression, we not only burn the seeds or latent tendencies that give rise to further aggression, we also make good use of those seeds as an opportunity to cultivate patience. We might begin to question the nature of anger: What is anger, really, when we don't react to it? You might be surprised to find it isn't as substantial as you thought. Many people consider reaching the peak of Mount Everest a great accomplishment. But imagine accomplishing the practice of nonviolence. Through simmering in the raw discomfort of our tendencies, we can gain victory over our aggression and experience the confidence and well-being that come from patience. When you climb Mount Everest (and this is no insult to climbers), you still have to climb back down, but, accomplishing the practice of nonviolence, we just keep moving forward, building our confidence and sense of freedom. We move from one good place to an even better place. Because of the peace that comes from nonviolence and the pain that we experience from aggression, Shantideva, the eighth-century Indian master and author of The Way of the Bodhisattva, says that patience is the noblest austerity. Most of us know at least one person who is really patient. Patient people seem to have a jovial mind, a mind that is happy at the root. Some people seem naturally patient, and we marvel at how lucky they are. But in most cases, a patient, jovial mind needs to be cultivated through the practice of tolerance and nonviolence. So much of this has to do not just with calming irritations but with how we shape our minds--how we replace aggression with patience. It requires a since of broad-mindedness that comes from seeing the effects of aggression and, conversely, the effects of patience. This takes some contemplation. Someone told me recently that through simply contemplating the ways in which she feeds her mental unrest, she had the first good night's sleep she had had in a long time. That is what we all want, isn't it? A good night's sleep: a mind that is not reactive, a restful mind, a mind free from struggle." By Dzigar Kongtrul, From All the Rage: Buddhist Wisdom on Anger and Acceptance In the car with my partner, I was discussing a mutual friend. More specifically, I was sharing my perceptions and thoughts around this person, so you could say I wasn't actually talking about them (as a human) at all.
I want this person to be better. I think s/h/ze could be better. To say, I want them to be less complicit to the structural racism and sexism they are surrounded by. I want them to be a better advocate and ally and champion of (my) causes. But they have repeatedly shown me themselves authentically, differently, so I know that my expectations are faulty. I could fall into the trap of saying "oh, I don't trust that person" which is actually saying >>This person acts in ways that I don't expect or approve of. Instead, I can say, "I trust FRIEND to do x, y, z" because s/h/ze reliably *do* act in these ways. They are actually quite predictable and trustworthy, in that sense. My impressions of "trust" are truly just expressions of my own expectations and preferences--they have nothing to do with the other person's "character." In this case, their worldview is small, so s/h/ze prioritize themselves, when I would like them to prioritize community. With this person, I was musing my delight that [[although they make choices I would rather they not]] I am still able to [[enjoy their company and engage with them without suffering myself]]. That's huge! With so many others, especially in the academy, I shut them out. [[Trust]] does not equate to [[character]] [[My approval of their behavior]] =/= [[how I have to experience engaging with them]] |
AuthorWoman of color, surviving the academy, writing myself down Archives
March 2018
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