Our Own Mother

Yesterday, after posting my short bit,  I realized I had left out one important factor in the filling of the glass: 

If we want a realistic relationship with ourselves that is conducive to growth, when we need to become our own mother. A sensible mother can distinguish between behavior that is useful for her child and that which is detrimental, but she does not stop loving the child when it misbehaves. This may be one of the most important aspects to consider in ourselves. Everyone, at one time or another, misbehaves in thought, speech, or action - most frequently in thought, fairly frequently in speech, and not so often in action. What do we do with that? What would a mother do? She would tell the child not to do it again, reassure the child of her continual love, and get on with the job of bringing up her child. Maybe we can start bringing up ourselves.

~ From Be an Island, by Ayya Khema ~ 

Staying with the filling the glass image, what happens when one is cut from the source, or when the water cannot flow freely, or when the water that flows is polluted with undesirable elements? What happens when we have not internalized the capacity to be a good mother to ourselves? What are we do do? Are we to keep on meditating, hoping that sustained mindfulness will bring to light our chronic self-hatred and dissolve it ultimately? Are we to pay a visit to a psychotherapist and get reparented? Or are we to do both?

So many folks have trouble forgiving themselves for their imperfections, and when they sit, the process of seeing their misdeeds up close, only reinforces their sense of badness. This is where contemporary meditation teachers such as U Tejaniya, U Jotika, Thich Nat Hanh, or Mingyur Rinpoche can play such a crucial role in emphasizing that core issue of one's fundamental attitude towards oneself. 

Psychotherapy is another path towards self-forgiveness, and internalizing the good mother image. This is the road I took before I discovered meditation. Actually, the same can be accomplished through a personal relationship with a meditation teacher as long as he or she is sufficiently grounded in the feminine principle.  

Can you forgive yourself? How tolerant are you of your imperfections? Do you basically love yourself

Unpacking the Boredom

Sitting with myself, not quite knowing what to expect, as usual. I am starting in a good place, lots of love, and tranquillity. Yesterday's poems still very much present. Not the words, but the general movement from the heart, opening. Breath moving in and out, at ease. The vast expanse feels almost too big. Fear comes in, of getting lost in unfamiliar land. Thoughts pass and do not insist, leaving room for feelings. Fear, now joined by boredom. Boredom soon taking over, and threatening my concentration. To not get swept by it, instead noticing my dislike of the boredom. Breathing into it, exploring its boundaries. Thought of Gil's words during my interview with him, 'to unpack the boredom' . . . Tenderness, I need to be tender, and not tense up. Boredom becomes frustration. Big time. Another difficult guest in my house. Breathing, loving, at least trying to be. The anger's got a sad flavor to it, very subtle. Wishing it would go away. Realizing I am to follow Thich Nhat Hanh's practice. Breathing, loving, at least trying to be. It's hard. I get really tempted to open my eyes, and check, how much more time? Maybe the timer's not working this morning? No, to stay strong, and open for the moment. Anger still there, knot in my throat signaling definite sadness. Bell ring.

Holding Anger Like a Baby

Sitting, the thing inside comes up, quick. Unwanted guest. Takes too much space. Doesn't leave me much breathing room. Literally. Each breath, forcefully, trying to make its way through. The thing resists. Becomes bigger with each insisting breath. I realize I'm going nowhere. I need to change tactic. Go for softness instead. Go with the thing. Imagine it as a guest that's here to stay. I might as well become its friend. Thought of Thich Nhat Hanh's video, about holding anger like mother holding baby, tenderly.

I am not even sure what the thing is, really. But Thich Nhat Hanh's advice feels right. And I start breathing with the thing. Small breaths, to respect the space that's asked from the thing. I come to rather enjoy it. I am joining along, now. Big sigh, and a yawn. The thing's responding.