by Matt Licata
In certain meditative experience, although challenging thoughts, feelings, and sensations continue to emerge in moments of activation, they lose their charge almost immediately. The process of arising and dissolution coemerge, revealing not two processes but one. If we observe carefully, we might not be able to separate the arising-dissolving cycle. This is something we can each experiment with, slowly, for a few seconds at a time, within the fire of our own direct experience. It can help to start with feelings and situations where there is a mild charge, and then to slow down and to begin to isolate the cycle in which we can sense directly the arising of emotion and how it stays for a short while and then dissolves back into the space from which it came. We sort of reverse-engineer the activation process, almost as if we were in slow motion, to familiarize ourselves with how the dance of emotion is at work within us. And most importantly, we can begin to discover in an experiential way whether there is suffering inherent in our emotional experience or to what degree it arises in the rejection of it—or from self-abandonment in moments of overwhelm and unexamined conclusions about what the mere appearance of certain feelings mean about us (e.g., that we’ve failed, that something is wrong with us, that we’re unlovable, etc.).
In Vajrayana Buddhism, it is said that there is a particular quality of wisdom found in the core of specific difficult emotions, and the only way to mine that intelligence is through the direct apprehension and metabolization of the underlying energy. If we prematurely “go around” the emotion—repress it or act it out—or if we become flooded by or fused with it, we lose contact with that underlying wisdom at its core. Training ourselves to go into intense emotions; stay embodied with them; and infuse them with warmth, presence, and clear awareness is essential on the path of healing and is a theme I address throughout this book.
As we become more familiar with our complexes over time, although they might continue to appear in moments of dysregulation and stress, they become background to the foreground of spacious curiosity and awareness. There is plenty of room for the trigger to play and dance and express its qualities without our becoming flooded by it, on the one hand, or having to repress it, on the other. Because at the center of each of our personal complexes is an archetypal core; Jung believed that we could never fully get rid of the complexes. Because they are not “ours” alone and emanate from the collective unconscious, arising out of psychic patterning we share with all other human beings, no matter how much we work on ourselves, the complexes never completely dissolve. But our relationships with them can transform immensely when we are able to make use of the energetic constellation to generate more insight, more consciousness, and more kindness for ourselves and others. In this way, the complexes shift from being enemies to allies, revealing themselves to be important friends and guides in our own healing.
An old Tibetan yogi once explained to me that like a bull raging in a wide-open meadow, the complex (or emotional activation) by its very nature will spin and twirl and emanate its chaotic energy, but it does so in a field of vast space. If that same bull releases its essence within a small, enclosed container (an inflexible heart and mind), it is likely to wreak havoc. It’s similar to when a star explodes and nothing is nearby; the eruption occurs in pure silence. As with alchemists’ quest to find the proper vessel in which to engage the work of transmutation, a spacious, flexible vas can provide the foundation required for the heated material to unravel, unwind, and reveal its golden nature. Within this more spacious context, although the trauma from the complex might be intense and even painful, we are not thrown off-center, or even if we are, we return. Over time and with practice, we can discover newfound flexibility in the ways we respond to emotional triggers and can make use of their provocative energy to deepen our inquiry, learn more about ourselves, and discover empathy and compassion for others caught in a similar situation.
Into the Alchemical Middle
There is a creative and pregnant moment we can discover in-between our emotion erupting and our taking action in response. Training ourselves to recognize and explore this middle territory is an act of self-compassion that provides an incredible amount of information. In times when we are hooked in a torrent of limiting beliefs and overwhelming feelings, a doorway opens, and we see a fork in the road. In one direction, we follow the impulse to turn from the hot, sticky, claustrophobic material—by way of the previously discussed pathways of denial or acting out—or stay with the underlying energy and surround it with new levels of awareness, curiosity, and warmth. Within this charged middle territory, we can choose something different, establish a new pathway, encode new circuitry, and establish original behaviors oriented not in habitual reaction but in wise, empathic attunement. Familiarizing ourselves with this middle place—its qualities and felt sense—allows us to recognize the transformative nature of these moments, which catalyze the unfolding of neuroplasticity, establishing new networks of skillful response that over time reduce suffering and struggle for ourselves as well as others.
What we most need in these moments is to provide an inner sanctuary, or heart container, for the charged thoughts and feelings to be held, explored, and metabolized. When caught in habitual consciousness, we have no choice but to engage in familiar pathways of reactivity, as noted earlier, designed to remove us as quickly as possible from what appears as unworkable states of overwhelm and anxiety. It feels as if we must do whatever it takes to get back to center; otherwise, the consequences could be devastating as we tumble outside our window of tolerance into autonomic arousal, mobilizing fight-flight reactivity or immobilizing by way of dissociation and freeze, each of these ancient strategies, which emerged to protect us from full-scale psychic devastation.3
Although these approaches have served an important (even lifesaving) function, the shadow side is that their effectiveness requires us to disown or disconnect from valid inner experience, splitting off from thoughts, emotions, and parts of ourselves seeking care and attention, with the goal of eradicating the unwanted material as quickly as possible. It just feels so urgent in the moment, as if some action must be taken immediately to avoid breaking apart or falling into some dangerous, unworkable state.
This concern—which spans neurobiological, psychological, emotional, somatic (i.e., body-based), and even spiritual levels—was reasonable and accurate in earlier times when we did not have the developmental capacities to stay with and metabolize intense feeling states. Our little brains and nervous systems simply could not do it, despite our genuine intention to care for ourselves in the best ways possible. These strategies are not neurotic or “unspiritual” or evidence that there is something wrong with us or that we’re caught in a “low vibration”; they’re just old ways of self-care that might be ripe for an update. The questions for each of us to explore are to what degree do we still require this type of protection, and how might these compensatory patterns be interfering with the type of life we are now wanting to live.
The reality for most of us is that we have capacities as adults that we did not have when our brains and nervous systems were developing, and we have access to more skillful, wise, and robust ways to care for ourselves that do not necessitate us keeping this old circuitry alive. It is a radical realization that we do not need to abandon ourselves to stay safe; in fact, the most unsafe thing we can do is to turn from ourselves when we need our own kindness and presence more than ever. It does take practice to train ourselves to tolerate and contain various levels of intensity and anxiety as we turn back toward that from which we’ve been conditioned to disconnect. But it is possible to discover—slowly and over time—new, creative, compassion-infused strategies to meet difficult experience when it comes.
To discover and implement a new way, we must first recognize when we are hooked and spinning into the old habitual modes of perception. We cannot overwrite the conditioned pathways until there is awareness in the moment that we have become stuck. We can slow down and say to ourselves, “I can feel myself turning away, dro
pping into conditioned reactivity and familiar ways of turning from what is here now to be touched, held, and integrated. I am aware in this moment that without presence and self-compassion I will abandon myself in a moment of need. This time, just in this moment, I’m going to slow down, breathe deeply, ground into the earth, and choose a new way.”
Often, especially in the beginning, when we “catch” ourselves falling down a hole, our immediate reaction will be one of subtle (or not-so-subtle) shame, blame, or self-aggression: “There I go again. Doing it wrong. Falling short, failing, getting hooked in that same pattern. What’s wrong with me?” When we begin this work—or even if we are well practiced in it—at times it can appear we are becoming more neurotic and more of a mess and experiencing more triggered thoughts and feelings than ever. But this is usually not the case. Rather, we are finally slowing down and shining a spotlight—of curiosity, consciousness, and warmth—onto our experience, thereby illuminating that which has always been there.
These are important moments, when we catch ourselves before we fall down the rabbit hole and become flooded by our historical strategies to bail out of our immediate experience. Rather than beating ourselves up over this, we can see it is nothing short of a miracle that we have catalyzed enough awareness in the moment to see what is happening and to pause. This is a profound moment, and although the mind might tell us it’s not really that big of a deal, in the heart and in the nervous system it is minor (or major) revolution. With many small moments of this sort of reorganization, we begin to replace that habitual shaming and blaming with curiosity. “Wow, everything was going just fine, and then all of a sudden I became completely caught in an avalanche of thought and feeling, spinning out and raging and shaming, attacking myself and blaming others. I’m going to slow down now and really listen, feel, sense, hold. I’m not going to abandon myself. Not in this moment, anyway.” Over time, we learn to catch ourselves earlier and earlier in the process, before we have totally been swallowed up by the habitual reactivity of shame, blame, and self-aggression. As we see and feel and sense this happening in the moment, with kindness we slowly turn back toward ourselves in just this one moment and choose something different.
In response to this invitation, many of us naturally say, “There is no way I can do this” as we sense into the future and wonder how we will ever change the patterns of a lifetime. But if we can begin in just this moment, and realize it is only in this moment we are asked to stay with, befriend, and bring compassion to, we leave the disembodied, unworkable future and discover the utter workability of this moment as it is. It doesn’t mean we like it or are even “good” at it; neither of those are required, just the intention to care for yourself in a new way.
Slowly, over time, in small doses, we can begin to replace the old with the new, train ourselves to tolerate more and more, and truly start to befriend ourselves and our experience in ways previously not possible. Even though we might feel on the brink of overwhelm, nevertheless we are still here, still breathing, feet on the ground, hands on our heart, and senses online. Even though it might not feel safe, it is safe in the present moment to tend to yourself with love, compassion, kindness, and care. The feeling of unsafeness arises in the abandonment of ourselves; in turning from ourselves in moments when we need ourselves more than ever; in old strategies of freezing, dissociation, and disembodiment, once intelligent responses to the threat of total psychic overwhelm. Rather than engage the well-worn circuits to provide cover and relief, with practice and over time we return into that unknown middle place, where true healing is to be found.
Untangling the Unworthy One
One of the most important purposes of inner work is to illuminate the unconscious beliefs that shape the way we see ourselves, others, and the world. We carry these beliefs in a narrative (as well as in our cell tissue) that originated as our brain and nervous system were developing, in our attempt to make meaning of early relational experiences and how they affected our emerging sense of self.
If our early environment did not provide adequate holding as well as sufficient space for us to rest in unstructured states of being—if our unique subjectivity, emotional experience, and basic goodness were not effectively mirrored back to us—we found ourselves in a precarious place. As noted earlier, because it is just too unsafe to see this failed mirroring as resulting from a lack of capacity in those around us, we place the blame inside ourselves. We come to believe, in our attempt to make sense of our experience, that we’re just not worthy of that sort of attention, affection, love, and attunement. As painful as this realization is, it provided a temporary refuge from overwhelming anxiety.
The chronic sense of shame so many of us experience in large part has its origins in backgrounds lacking in empathic attunement, where there was no adequate holding environment in which our little nervous systems could unfold, rest, and explore in a way that would foster true self-love. The narrative of the unworthy one is deeply embedded and spans multiple levels: cognitive, emotional, neurobiological, somatic, and behavioral. In addition to these conventional levels of experience, there are also vast implications at the spiritual, or transpersonal, level because these early organizations of experience seem to provide a temporary filter over the discovery of what many contemplative traditions refer to as our true nature, the part of us that is always already whole and was never unhealed. We must send breath, awareness, and love into each of these areas to transform the compensatory identity structure and to untangle the wounds of the body and the heart.
Although it might seem impossible because it is so deeply embedded, this narrative can be reauthored. It can be rewritten. It can be updated. A more cohesive, real-time, accurate, integrated story can be told. A new dream can be dreamed. New cloth can be woven. It is possible. I have been honored to witness this reorganization in the lives of many courageous women and men over the years. It is not easy work and asks everything of us. It is so important to remind each other of this revolutionary possibility, especially during times of profound suffering, and that there is hope. Although the narrative of shame and unworthiness can feel so entrenched—and the corresponding feelings so overwhelming—it is possible to replace the pathways of abandonment and aggression with empathy and kindness. Over time the traumatic narrative can be recrafted, new meaning can be discovered, and new life can be found. New breath can be breathed. Even in the core of the most profound hopelessness, a small light of hope is buried there, and the flame is still alive.
This is not some Pollyannaish or overly romantic, positivistic fantasy. Of course, none of us know, certainly including myself, if everyone can heal, transform, and find a way out of profound trauma and pain. Although some people claim that all suffering serves an intelligent purpose and exists for our ultimate spiritual benefit, I think it’s important to explore these ideas with as much nuance and depth as we can. For some, yes, suffering can provide a powerful vehicle through which healing and transformation can occur. But others are not so fortunate, and their pain creates devastation in the personality from which they do not always recover. Understanding the mysteries of one’s karma, destiny, and purpose is most certainly beyond my pay grade. At some point, all we can really do is share our own experience, which, for me, is of the outrageous intelligence and bravery of the broken human heart and its ability to return home, to discover the light that can so easily become buried within the dark.
The Territory of Grief
The process of grieving is highly individual and can never be pinned down in some clinical or philosophical formula. To provide sanctuary and safe passage for the wound, we must discover our own way to navigate and tend to difficulty, loss, and pain. But how this looks and especially the time frame in which it unfolds is a matter of one’s own unique path. Although some kindred travelers have provided maps and signposts into the unlit places and darkened corridors of the psyche, they are not always nuanced or specific enough for our individual journeys. Let us take in the wisdom of the mapmakers
with an open mind and grateful heart, while at the same time remembering that the maps are not the territory, especially in the realms of soul. We need not conform our journey to another’s, and, in fact, by trying to do so, we dishonor the radical uniqueness of the path for us, which is ours alone to walk and might not always look like that of another.
The appearance of grief—including its cognitive, emotional, somatic, and behavioral manifestations—might erupt at a moment of loss, or we could cycle back to it over and over again throughout our lives, for example, each time we hear a certain piece of music, see a particular color in a sunset, or sense a certain feeling or fragrance. We reenter into that movement of the heart known as grief. At times, we are quite aware of “what” we are grieving, whereas at other times the grief is more general and free-floating, and we find ourselves breaking open for reasons we cannot quite pin down. Although it is tempting to attribute feelings of anguish to a specific situation in our lives, it is not always possible to do this because at times we are asked to hold a different sort of grief, perhaps for another person, for an animal friend, for the earth, or for the soul of the world.
In my experience, grief is not something we “get over” by following prescribed stages but something we might be asked to tend to throughout our lives. It is individual and takes a unique expression for each person. The psychiatric community, insurance companies, and well-intentioned teachers and healers cannot predict the timeline for this voyage; it is written in the stars. To pathologize the experience of grief is to work against nature.