“We never cease to stand like curious children before the great mystery into which we were born.”
-Albert Einstein
Spring is in the air, soil, and water. Carrot, cabbage, and cauliflower seeds nourish themselves in the fertile soil, and swell with water, boldly preparing for transformation. Bright tulips beneath the magnolia tree coax her buds to bloom. “Just a little more rest,” she pleads, her buds still enjoying their long nap. She knows she must awaken once again, and wonders, “What will this season bring?”
Small, plastic pastel eggs hide discreetly in Nature’s vivid display of color. Jack runs wildly around the yard, Easter basket in hand, discovering joy in the journey. Everly’s eyes fill with wonder, staring at the shiny, red plastic egg beside the red tulip. The juxtaposition sparks fascination and bewilderment in her beginner’s mind. She meets Daddy’s eyes, sharing the tenderness of the moment. The children fill their baskets with possibility until they feel satisfied, then we sit and discover the surprises the tiny vessels hold.
I notice gratitude arising, a swelling of my heart and a smile on my lips. Recognizing emotions requires attention and practice, and I’m expanding my awareness of all that is present. I let this joyful moment fill me up.
My mother-in-law tends the garden, watering freshly planted seeds. I imagine the seeds sighing with relief and delight as they drink. The seedlings continue to take refuge indoors with her gentle nurturing, and I jokingly tell her she is a NICU nurse. I admire her gardener’s skill with plants, because I am not so skilled. When Alex and I first moved in together years ago, we discovered our desire for live house plants could not sustain them. Our futile efforts to keep any plant alive became a running joke. I was always first to pronounce a death, while he’d still be in adamant denial. I hated that he wouldn’t acknowledge those losses. Denial is how he has addressed many of our problems.
Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh names a layer of our minds as “store consciousness,” similar to the Western “subconscious.” Inside our store consciousness lies wholesome and unwholesome seeds. Mindful actions water the wholesome seeds, such as love, peace, patience, and understanding. Mindless actions can water the seeds of hatred, anger, impatience and delusion. Conscious choice or unconscious reaction yield gardens that are beautiful and bountiful or desolate and poisonous, respectively.
I contemplate the seeds I’ve been watering as a mother. Last night, I yelled at Jack after he demanded cookies for dinner and hit me, watering the seeds of anger and reactivity. His angry and sometimes physical outbursts have become more frequent since the pandemic began. Children have also suffered psychological distress from Covid.
I should have handled that better. I’m a bad mother.
I breathe deeply, and focus on physical sensations. I notice a heavy chest, a furrowed brow, and slumped shoulders.
Hello Shame, I see you there.
I focus on the physical sensations, and drop the bad mother narrative. I now use my breath as an anchor when I spiral into negativity or distraction. After a few minutes, I notice the physical sensations have disappeared. I feel more relaxed.
I now consider the wholesome seeds I’ve watered. Immediately after yelling at Jack, I realized my mistake and apologized. I explained that Mommy felt frustrated and worried about him, and that my emotions turned to anger because I didn’t take care of them. I apologized for scaring him, and told him that next time I felt frustration or worry, I would take a few deep breaths or take a minute to myself so I don’t end up yelling. In doing this, I’d watered the seeds of humility and compassion.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m not a bad mother.
Everyday, I water seeds in my children and myself. Like a gardener watering her future plants, our actions water our future happiness.
Let’s hope my skills in nurturing wholesome store consciousness seeds beat my gardening skills.
Chocolate wrappers lie scattered across the patio, the evidence of their undoing on the faces of my children.
“Who said you could eat all that chocolate?” I facetiously ask them.
Jack offers Everly a mischievous grin and cackles, and she smiles like she’s in on the joke. I love the way she looks at her brother. There is so much love in those eyes. I turn toward Alex, longing to share the moment with him, but he’s not really here anymore. His vacant stare reveals his abandonment of the present, and I know exactly where he’s gone. Anger immediately arises inside me, and before I’ve recognized what’s present, I snap at him.
“I’m sorry if being here isn’t interesting enough,” the sarcastic words taste bitter leaving my mouth, and I immediately wish I could suck them back out of the air, but they’ve already escaped.
He looks at me with a confused look on his face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine,” he deflects.
Here he goes again, denying the plant is dead.
“Whatever.”
I shake my head, mad at him for checking out, and mad at myself for letting my anger out. It takes time to recognize anger, and now it escaped into hurtful words I can’t reclaim. Finding and using the space between stimulus and response is difficult. Seeing my anger, I know Fear probably lurks behind, telling me I’m unworthy of love, unworthy of his attention. But in this moment, I still only feel anger.
“Do you all want to go for a walk?”, I ask, hoping that maybe a change of scenery will bring us together again.
Alex and I secure the children in the stroller, and we begin our walk around the neighborhood. I share with him how this became a ritual for us when he was gone, and ask if he’d be interested in listening to the Secular Buddhism podcast while we walk. To my delight, he agrees.
Three approaches to doubt and mistrust, the newest episode, plays as we meander around together, aimlessly. Noah begins the episode by quoting Korean Zen master Nine Mountain, “Small doubt, small enlightenment; big doubt, big enlightenment.” Alex looks at me and playfully asks if I’m a Buddha yet, since I doubt everything. I laugh.
We met in nursing school, so many early dates consisted of studying pathologies and diseases. We weren’t the best study partners, because Alex would get frustrated when I wouldn’t accept a claim as truth until I understood why.
“But why?” I’d ask him.
“Because the book and teacher say so,” he’d respond.
That answer was never good enough for me. I would playfully remind him how we were taught that Pluto was a planet as children, and apparently that was wrong. I would rhetorically challenge him, if the educators were wrong about Pluto, what else are they wrong about? I would satirically amuse him with the “Pluto lie” as my reason for doubting.
Noah emphasized the importance of doubting our own views, when on a path to liberating ourselves from our narrow views and seeing things as they truly are. We tend to scrutinize other peoples’ perceptions, and regard our claims as the only truth. He suggested we practice following news stories presented to our opposing political party. If we identify as a Democrat, we should listen to the news that Republicans are hearing, and notice what is arising in us. If what arises is doubt or mistrust, we should then aim that toward our own personal view.
“Do you want to try it together?” I ask Alex, who is understandably reluctant at first.
Some of his patients in the hospital have previously denied the existence of Covid and weren’t practicing social distancing, and lack trust in the healthcare system. He’s expressed frustration to me in caring for these patients. Their reckless behavior landed them in the hospital, and now he has to risk his own health to provide care to them while they tell him how to do his job. One of his most recent patients said they heard in the news that Vitamin C could cure the virus, so why weren’t the hospitals trying that?
We discuss how the pandemic has turned into a political issue, the division between the two parties more polarized than we’ve ever experienced. I admit I’ve made harsh judgments and assumptions of Republicans, as if they all have identical characteristics.
We watch Republican news coverage, at Noah’s suggestion, and realize Republican news and Democratic news have one major thing in common: Fear. The Democratic news stations warn us that an infection could kill us, that we should sanitize our groceries, stay home, and stay at least six feet from a person outside our household. The Republican news stations warn us that our freedom is threatened, that healthcare professionals lie about how deadly the virus is, and that the government keeps us from family, friends, and schools.
Having seen the effects of the virus with our own eyes in the hospital, we definitely mistrust Republican stories about the “exaggerated” virulence of Covid. When we think about their claims of lost rights, we both notice doubt and frustration arising. Being nurses, we understand why we wear masks, and we’ve never felt it was a loss of our rights.
We attempt to turn that doubt around back on the news we’re receiving. We can imagine what it might feel like to doubt it. Perhaps the push to sanitize our groceries and mail is a ploy to inspire fear. Maybe social distancing and mask wearing isn’t necessary around people who aren’t showing symptoms. Compassion arises inside me for this group I have “othered,” as I realize the common humanity we share. I feel slightly more open-minded, more flexible with my idea of the truth. I vow to continue to ask myself, “Am I sure?”
“Are you okay?” I ask Alex, noticing he’s gone quiet.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he pleads, this wound still too fresh. I gently squeeze his hand.
Curiosity bubbles up out of the stroller, the children wanting to stop and marvel at the neighbor’s vibrant orange and pink perennials, the fragrant lavender bushes and the golden yellow daffodils. Their noses quarrel over possession of the flowers with the bees. Witnessing my childrens’ interactions with the world around them never ceases to amaze me.
“Ducks!” Jack squeals, pointing in the middle of the street.
Nine little ducklings follow Momma duck across the street. We walk slowly beside them, admiring the new family in our neighborhood. New season, bringing new life. This season is calling us to be present, to slow down, and to be curious.
Back at home, we lay Everly down for her afternoon nap. Jack pleads for the camera again, photography being a new hobby. My phone’s gallery is flooded with pictures of his legos, his feet, his sister, and unflattering images of me and Alex. At the end of the day before I go to sleep, I scroll through my gallery to see the world through his eyes. It always brings a smile to my face.
I curl up on the couch, giving myself time with my thoughts. I still feel guilty for yelling at Jack last night, but recognize the growth I’ve made. I was able to quickly notice I’d been reactive, where before that realization took longer. I’m slowly getting closer to finding the space between stimulus and response. By helping myself discover that space, I can teach my son that as well.
When I grow, my children grow.
Jack groans in frustration, disappointed in the image he captured. He complains he can’t see the tires of his toy truck.
“You just need to zoom out, buddy,” Alex says as he kneels down beside him.
I admire Alex as he teaches Jack how to zoom in and zoom out with the camera. He explains that if he can’t see the whole picture, he just needs to zoom out.
You just need to zoom out.
I contemplate what I’m not seeing clearly, what I need to zoom out on. Ever since the birth of my first child, I have been plagued with fear of “failing” as a mother, of not measuring up to my idea of a good mother.
Maybe I need to zoom out a bit.
I’m quite skilled at focusing on my mistakes, on the unwholesome seeds I water in myself and my children. Zooming out a bit, I realize that I also water wholesome seeds, seeds of humility, compassion and kindness. Zooming out even further, I challenge my idea of what a “good mother” even is, if it is fixed and definable. I reflect on all the things that have made me, “me,” and if “I” really can “be” anything at all.
Though sometimes I’d like to, I can’t separate “myself” from all the things that have made me, me. I am my mother and father. They are, and so I am, their parents. I am the cities and cultures I have lived in. I am all the teachers who have taught me. I am my successes and failures. I am all of these, and none of these.
Who am I? Can a label define me? Am I certain of all the things I hold as truths?
I am a baby bird, being thrown out of its nest. I feel the groundlessness my questioning prompts, but I don’t feel afraid. I feel liberated. The lightness my doubts bring follow me through the rest of the day. There is an invigorating freshness to each, seemingly dull moment.
Alex and I are facing each other on the couch, exhausted after a busy day, trying to summon the energy for a meaningful connection. More often than not, at the end of the day, the first thing I think when I look at him is, “I haven’t seen you yet today.” Ever since having kids, I don’t see him anymore. I see an extra set of hands to grab the diaper bag and snacks, to put shoes on squirmy feet, and to help me put out the daily fires.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier when you checked out,” I confess.
“I’m sorry for checking out,” he says sincerely.
Here we both are, propelled by our habitual energies. He withdraws, I snap. But I feel a renewed sense of hope.
I just need to water the seeds of patience and compassion.
The Buddhist path suggests we should start with self-compassion, then we can more easily be compassionate toward others. It seems simple enough, but I struggle.
If it starts with self-compassion, I’ve got a long road ahead of me.
A year passes by. Covid vaccines were developed and released to the public. Healthcare professionals were among the first to receive the vaccine. The joy and relief we feel is short-lived, however, as other strains show up and people still get really sick.
I’ve continued my journey of waking up, observing myself and the world with nonjudgmental awareness. I can see my patterns of thought and behavior more clearly, yet I still struggle with self-compassion and my attachment to the idea of being a “good mom.” I’ve plunged head first into secular Buddhism, and joined a sangha (a community of people that practice Buddhist principles together) in the Secular Buddhism podcast community. I have more awareness and engagement. I’m learning that liberating myself from suffering will be a lifelong effort.
Alex has begun his own journey. He began EMDR, a psychotherapy that is designed to help with past trauma. I’m slowly starting to see him wake up, too, and be more present when we’re together. But he still carries a storm cloud with him, which threatens to bring him down and pull him away at any moment. He is still working in the ICU, caring for Covid patients. I see him suffering, and try to be patient as he works things out in therapy. And I know somewhere, deep down inside of him, he knows he should leave the ICU. He knows he needs a break.
The kids are in bed, and the two of us are alone together.
Maybe this is a good time to ask him again.
“How has the job hunt been going?” I ask, doing my best to sound nonchalant.
“I haven’t really checked the past few days,” he admits.
“Why not?”
I suspect he’s upset I’ve brought it up again, but worry if I don’t keep pushing, he’ll stay stuck in this position forever, torturing himself. And we’ll all be dragged along in his suffering.
“I don’t know, nothing looks that interesting. And..”, he holds back.
“And what?” I ask.
“And leaving the ICU would feel like failing, like a step backwards. I’ve worked so hard to get here,” he explains.
I pause and breathe to allow space for processing the frustration arising, so I can respond instead of react.
“Alex. What do you like about your job?”
“I’m good at it,” he says.
“What else?” I push.
“I’ve worked so hard to get here,” he says.
“Yeah, you said that before,” I point out, “And yes, you are good at it.”
He is good at his job. He has held many nursing leadership roles, and brings experience, expertise, and wisdom. But that’s not what I asked, and I see he avoided the question.
“Do you think you’re still an ICU nurse because you like being an ICU nurse, or do you think your judgment is clouded by the time and energy you’ve invested into the role?”
His internal anguish is manifesting as physical discomfort, as he gets up and begins pacing the room.
“I don’t know!” He says defensively.
I try to calm him down by lowering my voice.
“Honey, I think there are parts of you that enjoy being an ICU nurse. But to be honest, I feel like I’m witnessing my husband suffer in a job that causes him severe emotional distress,” I say.
“I mean, there are some things I like about being an ICU nurse,” he maintains, “I like knowing that I’m helping people when they’re at their sickest, their most vulnerable.”
I ask him to sit down, but he says he can’t. He’s too upset.
“Do you think a part of you is still an ICU nurse because you like being able to say, ‘I’m an ICU nurse?’”, I ask.
“Maybe,” he grumbles.
“Ask me what I like about my job,” I demand.
He complies.
“I love taking care of babies, and I love taking care of their parents. I enjoy teaching them how to safely care for their child. I love instilling confidence in them when it’s time for their baby to be discharged and they’re nervous about leaving,” I proclaim, honestly.
He pauses for a moment, his face displaying anguish.
“I don’t know anymore,” his voice raises, “Sometimes I like it, but other times I have no idea why I’m doing it anymore. I’m not oblivious to how it’s affecting me. I have nightmares all the time. I can’t even be present with my family because I continually replay the depressing shit I see. I’m not happy,” he admits.
“You aren’t stuck,” I remind him, “You can leave. You can still take care of people in a different way, without sacrificing your own happiness.”
“A part of me knows you’re right, and I’m so tired of being unhappy, but I can’t just walk away, I can’t!” He declares.
“Yes, you can. You matter. Your life matters. Your happiness matters. You’ve given over ten years of yourself to this role. It’s okay to take a break. It’s okay to choose your happiness,” I stress.
“Okay fine, I do want to stop, I do! I just don’t think I can walk away from it. Sometimes I wish I’d make a mistake and they’d have to let me go!”
His words linger in the air, piercing our hearts. My heart bleeds for him.
You just need to zoom out, dear one.
We often think to ourselves, “I’ve been here before, I know how this will go,” instead of approaching each situation with curiosity. We forget to look for the beauty and the uniqueness in each moment, and because of this we miss out on a lot. We make assumptions that lead to unskillful actions.
I love remembering my daughter at six months old, sitting in the grass in our backyard, in awe of everything around her. She took careful notice of each hand and each finger. She was intrigued by the feel of the blades of grass in her hands and took time to inspect a single blade. She marveled at every detail in her surroundings: the bugs, the plants, her body, the light. Everything was new, and everything was her teacher. She was a student, learning about the world.
We all enter the world this way, with a beginner’s mind. We are not born with a mental framework of how the world “works.” That framework is learned. We are born without knowledge, without biases, without shame. We acquire knowledge from our experiences, we absorb biases from our culture and upbringing, and we develop shame from fear of rejection and isolation. In our early years, however, we learn in such a unique way because we see things as they actually are. We do not yet have anything to compare these new experiences to; each experience is unique. We look at things without judgment, because we have no framework yet with which to compare things to. This flower is not more or less pretty than that flower, they are just two different flowers.
As we get older, we develop frameworks of everything we’ve experienced in our lives. These mental frameworks are built up of patterns we’ve noticed and help us to navigate our way through our lives. These patterns include concepts and symbols and our perception or interpretation of them. Some of our mental frameworks include confirmation bias, where we interpret information to confirm what we already believe, and fundamental attribution error, where we blame certain human behavior on individual character traits rather than the situation.
These mental frameworks make it easier and more convenient for us to navigate through our daily lives. Not much feels completely new to us, because every new experience we encounter we try to fit into one of our previously developed mental models. By doing this, we create assumptions and expectations of every situation we encounter. This allows us to move through our day more efficiently, but not necessarily more effectively or more mindfully.
We’ve all experienced moving through life this way, which is akin to a hamster running on a wheel. The hamster has the pattern memorized, how far to stretch its legs to reach the next wheel spoke and how fast to move its legs to keep up with the pace of the wheel. The pattern becomes an internal mental model for them that they no longer need to focus on in order to complete the task, they just keep on running. We are often very much like a hamster on a hamster wheel, moving on autopilot, going through the motions of our lives without taking notice of our surroundings or even realizing that we’re on a hamster wheel at all.
If you've ever been driving a vehicle and spaced out for a while, only to find yourself at the wrong destination, one that you’ve driven to often but didn’t intend to drive to that day, you’ve been under the influence of your mental framework. In this situation, your brain was working on autopilot, using old mental frameworks to navigate you to your destination, which allowed other parts of your brain to be distracted.
We often operate throughout a majority of our day in this checked out, autopilot mode, where we are less aware of our surroundings, our environment, the people around us, and ourselves. Just like the hamster, we have the option at any point of hopping off the hamster wheel and looking around us. The first step is recognizing that we are on a hamster wheel. Unfortunately, a lot of us don’t recognize when we’re living our lives half asleep, much less engaged, much less curious about the world around us. We’ve more or less told ourselves that we are the expert on all that we will encounter from now on, so there’s no more need for curiosity.
There are, of course, many important situations that require us relying on and trusting our expertise in a subject area. We do ourselves a great disservice, however, when we tell ourselves we’ve seen it all, and there’s nothing new to learn. We stunt our own individual growth by carrying an all knowing attitude. Assumptions about others and the way things work in the world on a small scale can lead to our own individual suffering, and on a large scale can lead to prejudice, social injustice and the destruction of our planet and all things living on it. When we hold tightly to and give merit to beliefs such as: these groups of people are this way, or all people who have this belief behave that way, we limit ourselves. We limit our ability to develop deep compassion, we limit our ability to understand the truth, and we limit our ability to let go of old, stale beliefs.
Human understanding of the world and the way everything works is always changing. There have been countless times throughout history that we believed we had discovered an ultimate truth, only to later discover that we were wrong. We’ve all had to adjust our own mental frameworks based on new information that has been presented to us. Many of us as children were taught in school that Pluto was a planet and accepted that as truth, only to have the International Astronomical Union (IAU) change its classification to a dwarf planet in 2006. It was also once widely accepted that Christopher Columbus discovered America and that he offered compassion and shelter to the Native Americans, however, we’ve come to learn that America was not first discovered by Columbus and that he committed genocide against Native Americans.
When we are presented with new information that conflicts with our current set of beliefs and mental frameworks, we experience cognitive dissonance. This psychological phenomenon is characterized by a sense of discomfort that we feel when we hold two ideas or beliefs that conflict with each other. If a woman who identifies as pro-life becomes pregnant and chooses to not keep the baby, she will likely experience cognitive dissonance. Someone who comes out as gay may experience cognitive dissonance if they were raised with oppressive views about sexual orientation. Once these mental frameworks we’ve spent so many years developing become challenged, we struggle to cope with the dissonance we experience.
About a year and a half ago I was spending a great deal of time thinking about compassion for others. I’d read a few stories about Buddhist monks who attempt to reduce suffering for all living creatures, including insects. Some of these stories included monks, who while cleaning the monastery, would avoid stepping on or washing away insects. These stories described compassion as a seed that could be cultivated, in that if you water it, it will grow.
Around the same time I was contemplating compassion for others, I began to question my eating habits, specifically with regards to eating animals. I’d heard the studies about animal agriculture’s negative impact on climate change, which I considered myself to be passionate about. I had already switched from disposable to reusable grocery bags, paper towels to reusable rags, began composting my food scraps, and generally made choices that were supporting my value of reducing my negative impact on climate change.
When it came to making changes to my food choices, however, that was something that took a long time to wrap my head around. What we eat is largely influenced by culture and tradition. We tend to gravitate toward foods we grew up with, and have attitudes toward food similar to what we grew up with. Whether we grow up eating vegetarian, omnivorous, halal, or whatever we eat, our ideas about food are influenced by culture. We have mental frameworks about what is good to eat, and what is not good to eat. Challenging our mental framework of a good diet can be incredibly confusing and distressing.
When I began to conceptualize and acknowledge the impact my diet had on the environment, I was thrown into an uncomfortable state of cognitive dissonance. I recognized that my actions (eating animal products) did not align with my values (importance of reducing our negative impact on the environment). The more I read about animal agriculture’s impact on the environment, the more conviction I felt for giving up animal products altogether. It also led me to feeling like the rug had been swept out from underneath my feet, like my understanding of the world had just changed; it was incredibly uncomfortable. Nothing in the world changed at this moment, just my perception and interpretation of it.
After thoughtful deliberation, I decided to switch to a plant-based diet. What largely started as a means to reduce my environmental impact, became an exercise of compassion. I began to look at all animals differently. When taking my children to the petting zoo and petting a cow, I would think about how less cows would suffer because of my choices. When reading books about farmed animals, I began to wonder about the personalities of each individual pig and chicken. By aligning my actions with my values, I was also watering seeds of compassion.
We can be very passionate about the beliefs we have about the world. Things we once thought we knew to be true can be challenged. The discomfort we feel when our ideas are challenged, however, is caused by us. Suffering doesn’t naturally exist where ideas change, that is something we as human beings add to the situation. Becoming more aware and educating ourselves in itself doesn’t cause suffering and discomfort. We experience suffering because we told ourselves that our beliefs were the absolute truth, but we told ourselves a lie.
Nothing is for certain. No idea or belief is immune to speculation or interrogation. Since nothing is for certain and our beliefs are subject to conjecture, the most skillful approach we can take is to loosen our grip on our beliefs. Instead of saying to ourselves, “I know this to be true,” we should instead say to ourselves, “I believe this to be true with the information I have processed at this time, but am flexible and open to new ideas.” Imagine if we had this type of relationship with our beliefs and what that would mean for our wellbeing when one of our current beliefs is shattered by new knowledge. We would integrate the new knowledge into our mental frameworks, and move on; we would not experience the suffering that comes from our own rigid thinking. Our relationship with our beliefs and our ideas of the truth is a fundamental practice to cultivating a mind that is curious, and open to learning new things.
We tend to put a lot of emphasis and praise on knowledge, and shy away from uncertainty and doubt. We dress ourselves up in our credentials, our labes, our accomplishments, and hide our confusion and ignorance. It can be scary to acknowledge what we don’t know for sure, or even if we can know anything for sure. Cultural influences and biological processes drive us toward striving for certainty. Our survival brain wants to be able to explain everything, to label everything, and to have an answer to everything. Our survival brain feels threatened when it is experiencing uncertainty. Ambiguity and skepticism can cast us out of equilibrium, where we feel comfortable and safe. We want to believe that we have a firm foundation, and that everything we hold tightly to is keeping us safe. We are drawn to the illusion that one day we will have all the answers, and that somehow answers to everything will solve our pain and suffering.
This false assurance we give ourselves causes us to suffer further. We deceive ourselves when we tell ourselves that answers and knowledge have the ability to cease all suffering. Nothing is immune to change or skepticism. The nature of impermanence and interdependence is such that everything is constantly evolving, and everything is interacting to and responding to everything else in the environment. This means that truths are impermanent too.
Most of us have heard the expression, “You can’t step in the same river twice.” This expression illuminates the nature of impermanence and interdependence. What we consider to be “the river,” is actually a moving, changing, different thing each moment. The water that flows through is never the same water as before; the flowing water moves small pebbles downstream; animals move through the river and take nutrients they need; plants grow, die, and return to the soil. When we say, “the river,” it is skillful to acknowledge it as something different today than it was yesterday.
The truth is, we are never done with our work of learning about ourselves, others, and the world around us. We are always changing, and the world is always changing. Everything is in a constant state of change, and if we close our eyes too long, we will wake up one day and not realize how we got here.
The key here is to stop striving to be the expert at everything, to admit to ourselves that maybe we don’t know. We can open the blinds to our mind and let the light in, and be curious about what we see, and about what we might still not be seeing.
Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, Soto Zen monk who helped popularize Zen Buddhism in the United States, said, “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, in the expert’s mind there are few.” This is known as Shoshin. Shoshin describes a mind that is curious, liberated from concepts and notions, open and free to explore different possibilities.
There are many ways in which we can cultivate Shoshin. They all begin with entering into a state of observation. We can do this through formal meditation or mindfulness practices. We can simply ask ourselves, “What is happening right now? What is happening inside my body? What is happening around me?” Awareness is the key to a beginner’s mind, to cultivating space for curiosity to grow.
When we’re strengthening our attention to the present moment, knowing why something is the way it is is much less important than just acknowledging that things are the way they are. For example, if we are observing sensations in our body and notice tension in our jaw or anywhere else in the body, we can simply notice it, then release the tension. When we bring awareness to our mind, we can recognize any thoughts or emotions without judgment, then notice when they float away. We can notice our role in our perception of our environment, as far as what we are adding to it. What beliefs and judgments, what stories, what preconceived notions do we have that are altering our perception of our surroundings? Oftentimes this distinction can be difficult to make because we tend to really believe that the stories we’ve created in our heads are objective truths, but they rarely, if ever, are. Again, the question here is what, not why.
There is an old Buddhist parable about six blind men and an elephant. The story goes that six blind men are each touching a different part of an elephant, attempting to describe what an elephant is from their individual point of view. The first man, touching the elephant’s side, described the animal as a wall. The second, touching the tusk, was adamant that the animal is like a spear. The third, touching the trunk, declared the animal to be like a snake. The fourth, touching the leg, exclaimed the animal was like a tree. The fifth, touching the ear, announced the animal was like a fan. Finally, the sixth man, feeling the tail, stated the elephant was like a rope. They quarreled over who was right when in truth, they were all partially right, and all a little wrong.
We are all blind men touching an elephant, with our life experiences, our judgments, and our beliefs altering our view of reality. Although we may never be able to truly and successfully rid ourselves of all of our preconceived notions and ideas, we can acknowledge that we have them. By acknowledging the existence of the filters in which we personally see the world through, we cultivate Shoshin.
In each moment of awareness and acute observation, the next thing we should ask ourselves is, “What is my practice in this situation?” If we notice that thoughts are rushing in, our practice is to gently notice them and watch them recede into the waves. If we observe emotions, we observe their effect on our bodies, and without clinging or pushing away, gently notice as they melt away. Each time we do this, we burst open a space of possibility.
What can we create when we don’t limit ourselves to our own individual version of the truth? What possibilities exist when we are boundless, unattached to our perceptions and labels? What world exists outside of our stories? Each moment as it arises is an opportunity; an opportunity to hop off the hamster wheel and take a look around us with curiosity.
There are times in our lives when we may feel “stuck.” Stuck in an unhappy relationship, stuck in an unfulfilling job, stuck with some undesirable habits we’re struggling to change. If we make space for observation and curiosity, we may discover alternative solutions, alternative ways of being that we hadn’t noticed before. Some questions we can ask ourselves when we feel stuck are: Do I really know everything there is to know about this? How else can I look at this problem?
When we begin to explore all the possibilities when cultivating Shoshin, it is normal to feel a bit overwhelmed at first. While it is exciting to realize that this hamster wheel is not the only option for us, fear and other uncomfortable emotions can also come up when we realize all the other truths, all the other paths. Are our actions in alignment with our values? Do our words, our actions match our highest selves? Realizing our actions are out of alignment with our core values is like having the rug swept out from under our feet. When we realize the ground we stand on isn’t the firm foundation we once believed it to be, it can be very unnerving. Wisdom teaches us, however, that there never was a firm foundation, the only difference now is that we are aware of it and acknowledging it. Our job here is to practice self-compassion, to hold ourselves with a non-judgmental, loving awareness.
Awareness Exercises:
Practice doubting one of your personal views to grow your beginner’s mind.
The purpose of this exercise is to inspire curiosity and compassion. By doubting things we consider to be the truth, we open ourselves up to other possibilities and compassion for people with opposing views. Begin by contemplating something you hold to be true, that others don’t always agree with. Next, bring doubt and uncertainty to your view. Consider asking someone with this conflicting view how they experience their truth, while trying to imagine what it might feel like to think the same way.
Guided meditation
The purpose of this elemental meditation is to embody our connection to the Earth and identify less with our labels. If possible, find a comfortable space outside to meditate for this guided meditation.
Secular Buddhism Podcast episode that inspired this chapter