
In Tonglen, we don’t simply imagine ourselves in someone else’s shoes and imagine how they might feel—but we actually try to feel their suffering. We invite it in. On the inhale, we allow ourselves to be filled with it, surrounded by it. On the exhale we send our strength, and compassion and kindness out to them. With the breath, we imagine an exchange of selves; sort of like a meditative Freaky Friday situation.
By Kim Stevens-Redstone
There is no shortage of pain in this world. In fact, it seems there is too much to bear.
There are people all over the world in horrific situations. Even the planet itself is suffering.
When we see suffering elsewhere, our first inclination may be to investigate. Much like rubbernecking at an accident on the side of the road as we pass by; we look, we ask around, scroll through posts, surf the channels for news reports. We try to figure out how it happened, why it happened, and—these days—if it really even happened at all.
And then we take a breath, drive on down the road, swipe up, tune out, get on with our lives.
Our protective instinct is to move on, and to put up a sort of intellectual wall around the complex feelings that we would feel, if we allowed ourselves to fully process the situation. We physically tighten up to stop the sensations in our body. We push down the rising physical manifestations of sadness, fear, concern, guilt, etc.. We avert our eyes and ears, close off our minds and hearts.
If we don’t watch the news we don’t have to process and absorb the information. If we don’t look the homeless man in the eyes we don’t have to face his humanity. It’s so much easier to cross the street, to bury ourselves in some other mind numbing distraction from the realities that others are facing. To turn away.
There is a Buddhist practice called Tonglen, which is the exact opposite of turning away.
It is a turning toward. The practice is very complex and nuanced, but a simple explanation is: sitting and breathing in someone else’s suffering, then breathing out compassion and healing for them.
For the past few days, I have chosen to meditate on our brothers and sisters affected by the fires in California, both human and animal. This sounds a bit like “sending thoughts and prayers,” and it just might be. But it is deep thought, deep prayer, and deep feeling. It’s more akin to meditating as those humans and animals, than it is meditating for them.
In Tonglen, we don’t simply imagine ourselves in someone else’s shoes and imagine how they might feel—but we actually try to feel their suffering. We invite it in. On the inhale, we allow ourselves to be filled with it, surrounded by it. On the exhale we send our strength, and compassion and kindness out to them. With the breath, we imagine an exchange of selves; sort of like a meditative Freaky Friday situation.
When I practice, I invite myself to feel the suffering, as if it is happening to me. This is about feeling in the body, not intellectualizing. If I meditate for someone who has lost their father it hits me directly in the heart, having lost mine. If I practice for someone who has breast cancer it hits me a certain way deep down in my core, having experienced that myself.
When I meditate for those whose houses have burned down, who have lost every sentimental possession, lost all of the equity in their property that they were counting on for retirement, lost their pets, their community members, I cannot fully empathize because I have never been in that situation. But, if I allow myself to sit with it and really breathe it in, I will identify within me those human feelings of loss, emptiness, devastation, hopelessness, which I know from other experiences.
I can identify them, and sit with them.
As I meditate on the devastation in California, I will feel heat building at the back of my throat, a tightness in my chest, a weight at the base of my spine. My breath will become shallow, tears may well up in my eyes, I may sob, or even ugly cry.
With every inhale I will hold space for those feelings. I will not tense up, or try to stop them. I will allow them to move through me, behind my forehead, in my nose, throat, shoulders, chest and stomach.
With every exhale I will try to soften around those feelings, embrace them, and infuse them with strength and love and compassion. With hope and healing.
I know that this practice won’t fix a single thing for any of the humans and animals that I am of thinking of in California. But it will soften something in me. It we reinforce in me the idea that there are no separate selves. We are all part of one common humanity. It will physiologically alter me, so that every interaction I have in my life might be kinder, more open, more compassionate, more empathetic.
As I move through the world, a deeper understanding of, and compassion for, that suffering is now a part of me because I didn’t push the feelings away. I have lovingly held them and processed them, and prepared to face them again, for others.
Even though I am moving through my own life on the opposite coast right now, safe in my warm home, with electricity and clean drinking water, there are Californians out there battling blazes. There are people in other countries fighting wars. There are those who are being held hostage, dealing with terminal illnesses, living in abusive situations, out in the cold, digging through ash and rubble, suffering from trauma…
There is no shortage of pain in this world.
In fact there seems too much to bear. But the space inside of our hearts and minds is expansive. The more we allow ourselves to make room for the suffering, the more we practice moving through it, the more we come to understand it as a simple fact of everyday living on this planet.
The more we practice, the more we can travel through this world with love and kindness. As we move on with an open heart, we will be vulnerable. We will be sad. We will be hurt. But we will be more compassionate and more grateful, more connected and more prepared.
And we will come to a deeper understanding that there but for the grace of luck/god/mother nature/universal forces go each and every one of us.
Every single person we meet is fighting a fire of their very own. Perhaps an open heart, calm demeanor, kind word, or sincere smile, might just be the drop of water that they need today. And perhaps, that drop will create a ripple. And that ripple, a deluge.
That is my hope. On every exhale.
Kim Stevens-Redstone is a writer, meditator and yoga therapist.
Photo: Pixabay
Editor: Dana Gornall
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