On Not Finding The Problem

Like many who find themselves on the spiritual search, I spent many years trying to end my supposed suffering in all manner of ways. I attempted to numb the pain with cigarettes, dope smoking, sex, and relationship dramas. I embarked on quests for understanding, believing that counselling, psychotherapy, homeopathy, transpersonal psychology, or dream interpretation might hold the elusive key. I investigated an eclectic mix of healing modalities, from acupuncture and craniosacral therapy to hypnotherapy and nutrition. I ran the whole self-help gamut; I positively affirmed, meditated, journalled, and paid some attention to my chakras. And there’s no doubt all that was a blast – insights came, experiences were had, minor transformations happened.

Then I came upon the teachings of non-duality, and thought I’d hit the jackpot. Tales of sudden awakenings and the end of suffering brought hope at a time of deep despair and anguish. The idea of no self particularly appealed to me. It seemed obvious that my self was the problem, and if I got rid of it, I’d be fine. I read books, watched videos, went to meetings, and longed for the moment of grace, the event that would finally deliver me from the prison of me.

One day, whilst walking my dog, I saw clearly that I’m not the problem. More than that, I realised that there’s never been a problem. Such relief; nothing to change, nowhere to go, no improvements to make. For a few days, I lived from that space. All the movements of life continued; thoughts came and went, emotions happened, bodily sensations arose. The only difference was that I was absolutely clear that none of it was a problem. Gradually, however, my belief in a deficient, suffering self returned, and I struggled to find my way back to that spacious clarity.

Many of us initially relate to Scott Kiloby’s notion of the core deficiency story because we believe ourselves to be deficient. I certainly did. When we’re in that place, it’s nigh on impossible to see past our thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations. We come up with all the evidence necessary that we are, indeed, what we believe ourselves to be; unloved, uncared for, victimised, not good enough, stupid. It wasn’t until I began to look more closely at my basic assumption – of course there’s a problem, or I wouldn’t feel like this – that I began to see how flimsy the house of deficiency cards actually is.

Recently, I was facilitated by one of my fellow Living Inquiries facilitators to look for The Problem. Unsurprisingly, what emerged was a deep belief that I’m the problem. I sobbed. The wetness of the tears wasn’t the problem. The energy of emotion in my body wasn’t the problem. The words (it’s me) weren’t the problem. The sense of me wasn’t the problem. After an hour, it became obvious; there is no problem anywhere to be found. From that perspective, it was crystal clear that even suffering, pain, and distress are not the problem that we presume them to be. There is nothing wrong with any of it; even the belief that there’s a problem isn’t a problem.

I’ve facilitated many inquiries now, and been facilitated many times too. Whatever we’ve looked for, we’ve never found anything other than thoughts, images, emotions, and sensations. Even though the problem always seems real at the start of the session (I need to lose weight. She’s better than me. I’m unsupported. I’m going to die), its ultimately insubstantial nature is always apparent by the time we finish. Our assumptions are gently revealed by the process, and all the pain that we’ve been avoiding or trying to assuage is brought to light. We cry. We laugh. We experience insights and realisations. At the end of the process, we unerringly come back to the space in which everything arises, everything is known, nothing is judged, and nothing could ever, ever be a problem.  

On Naming

Last night, at dinner, we talked about our children. One friend described how her toddler, currently in the question phase, incessantly asks, What’s that name? Any sound he hears, anything he sees, evokes the same question. She does her best to give him an answer: It’s a man down the road, doing Bob the Builder, mending his house. He’s language-gathering, discovering the world of concepts. Usually, he’s satisfied with her explanations. Sometimes, he persists: No, mummy – what’s that name? Occasionally, exhausted, she abandons her attempts to describe, and makes something up: That’s Steve.

Our ability to name things gives us a sense of control. Whether it’s external objects - birds, trees, planets, makes of car, other people - or internal objects like feelings, we feel a greater dominion over things that we are able to name. I’ve given it a name, so now I understand it. Like Adam in the Garden of Eden, we believe that things are what we call them. What we don’t fully appreciate – until we really look – is that the activity of naming often keeps us one step removed, reinforcing our sense of separateness.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the emotional realm. It seems that talking about our feelings, however articulately, can be another way to resist actually feeling them. In fact, it is a way to solidify and even sanctify what we’re feeling. In our rush to name the feeling – fear, shame, love, guilt, happiness, sadness, anger – we objectify it, and then feel obliged to relate to it as if it’s somehow separate from us. As if it is ours to hold on to, get rid of, or deal with. Subject and object.

To fully immerse ourselves in the raw experience of emotion demands that we give up our conceptualising. All of it. Scott Kiloby’s Living Inquiries are an exceptionally effective way to deconstruct an emotion; by breaking it down into its constituent parts (words, images and sensations in the body), and looking closely at each part, we come to see that it’s not what we’ve assumed it to be. Over and over, we find that our assumptions do not stand up to scrutiny. It turns out that what we’ve believed to be guilt (for example) is a word, plus a couple of arising images, plus a sensation of contraction in the solar plexus. Without the word and the images, the sensation is just that...a physical sensation. It has no inherent meaning. It’s not saying anything. Allowed to just be, without explanation or interpretation or even description, it is fully felt, inevitably dissipating.

This activity of un-naming leaves us in the quiet spaciousness of not-knowing. When we are able to see words without the heavy weight of association, we lighten up. A few months ago, I looked for Fiona using the Unfindable Inquiry, with one of the other facilitators. I was astounded by the feelings of responsibility that came up; I’d believed that I had to make the Fiona project a success. When the things we’ve named prove to be unfindable, over and over again, we find ourselves in the stillness more often, it seems. Nothing to hold onto. No place to land.

A paradoxical delight then emerges. We see that things don’t exist outside of thought, image, sensation, and emotion, and yet we’re even more fully engaged with life. We enjoy talking, describing, and discussing, in the knowledge that our ideas and opinions are not us. We continue to entertain each other with our stories; it’s just that our plot twists and characters and narrative arcs are taken a bit less seriously. We continue to name things. Like the barking of dogs and the meowing of cats, it’s just what we do.  

What’s in a name?

That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet. 

On Fully Feeling What We're Not

We believe that we are who we think we are. The co-existence of thoughts, images, emotions, and sensations creates a compelling and seemingly incontrovertible experience of me. And if that experience is painful or difficult – which is often the case – we spend a great deal of time and energy attempting to move away from it, in all kinds of subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

We each wear many labels, and each label has its own tone, its own unique content. Some labels we wear proudly, making sure they’re on public display as often as possible. Others, we shamefully keep hidden, fearing exposure. A few are so repellent, so unbearable, that we relegate them to the shadows, ensuring that even we can’t see them. Our identities are a carefully choreographed dance; protecting and defending, evading and avoiding. Whether we see ourselves as deeply flawed works in progress, or as the perfectly satisfactory finished article, there’s a sense of needing to hold up or maintain the structure. When someone contradicts or challenges or confirms our labels, we react. We’re hurt, angry, offended, pleased, defensive. Conflict arises, and we struggle. And it all feels very real; what we think, imagine, feel, and sense seems to provide all the evidence we need that things are the way they seem to be.

Rarely, then, do we ever take a peek behind the curtain to examine the assumptions that we live by. Instead, we do our best to mitigate the discomfort or suffering we feel, however slight or intense. As if our existence depended on it (which, on one level, it does) we find myriad ways to keep ourselves from fully feeling what lies at the core of each label. We’re all familiar with the more negative forms of self-medication – alcohol, drugs, loveless sex, endless television – but supposedly more positive activities, such as meditation, therapy, sport or spiritual practice can also be used in the same way. Underneath it all, we are terrified that the edifice of me will one day come crashing down, and we do everything in our power to stop that from happening, much as we simultaneously long for it.

However, it is the refusal to be with what seem to be our deepest truths that perpetuates them. As Sandra Maitri says, Paradoxically, at least to the mind, the more we immerse ourselves in our experience, the more we become disidentified with it. When we finally cease analysing, strategising, controlling, avoiding, and defending – even for a short while – we get to discover what the label has been covering up.

Over the last few months, I’ve spent many hours each week facilitating people (and being facilitated) in Scott Kiloby’s Living Inquiries. I’ve seen how, when we start to look into each identity, its true contents are revealed. We’ve opened boxes labelled I’m bad, I’m clever, I’m not good enough, I’m broken, I can’t, I’m a failure, I’m alone, I don't want to be me, and so many more besides, and found that each box contains words (thoughts), pictures (memories and images), sensations in the body, and emotions. We’ve looked carefully at each item, and allowed the sensations and emotions to be there, exactly as they are. Often, we feel emotions that have never been truly felt before; the raw, searing pain of grief, the raging energy of anger, the bittersweet despair of longing. No running, no hiding, no justifying, no mitigating, no making sense of it.

In that open space of looking, it gradually dawns that those collections do not, in fact, make up a solid identity. A few words here, a sequence of images there, some tingling, a little contraction, a flood of tears...and that’s all. There is no-one who is unlovable, or bad, or clever, or alone, or anything else. Ultimately, we can’t find the one that we’ve taken ourselves to be. But it is only by having the courage to open the boxes (even the ones that are surrounded with barbed wire fences, armed guards, and ‘keep out’ signs) that we’re able to discover the deeper truth of who we are. By fully feeling what we’re not, our hearts break open to the freedom beyond. Are you willing to look?

On Finding The One (Twenty Seven Times Over)

Like most of us, I long held the belief that if I found The One, I would live happily ever after. Although I had an early lesson in love disappointment when my parents’ marriage ended bitterly, I remained convinced that if I could somehow avoid making the same mistake, the promise of salvation lay in the arms of a beloved. The trouble was, I couldn’t seem to locate said beloved. A few years into adulthood, after three or four breakups, it began to feel like there was something wrong with me. Why was love eluding me? Why couldn’t I find The One?

In my early thirties, I had my first conscious experience of what Tim Freke calls Big Love. Standing in a Welsh field at a small festival, I met a sweet man. The spark between us was palpable; despite exchanging few words, there was an inexorable pull towards each other. A few weeks later, I described what happened between us:

We knew we needed to spend some time together, that there was some kind of attraction drawing us closer, but we didn’t know what. A day or so later, we did get the chance to spend a few hours together, during which time that not-knowing space was created; looking into each other’s eyes, I felt totally still, knowing that all the pain of the journey has been worth it, to be able to come to a place like that. It was so powerful, so healing, to connect on a soul level to someone whose personality I don’t know. I have no idea how things might be in the future between us; all I do know is that I experienced an incredibly precious few hours in which two people opened their hearts to each other in a way that I haven’t experienced before. Such love, such connection to the Universal, the transpersonal realm.

His recollection was similar. I was completely overwhelmed when I read the card that he sent after two months or so:

Thank you for being you and for sharing with me. You helped so much to make me well again. Now I am renewed. That which passed between us has given me such relief and power that I can now freely give my love to the world.

As it happened, we only met again once, very briefly. Whilst I sporadically yearned for him, I began to understand that it wasn’t actually about him, or me. Somehow, our connection had been a portal to a far deeper love, a love that completely transcends any idea of two separate people loving each other for a reason.

Life continued, and I had a few other, very occasional, glimpses. I entered into relationships, each time aware that I was not experiencing that deep love, but nevertheless drawn to even pale imitations. Eventually, I could no longer tolerate such numbing compromise. I became single once again.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve been stumbling across Big Love in unexpected places; it suddenly shows up for no apparent reason, and without an object. Times of intense struggle, pain, and doubt have been interspersed with uncaused joy, wonder, and love. One morning earlier this year, I was sitting on the bus on my way to work, when it became obvious that everything is miraculous. Effortlessly miraculous. I looked down at the thin hairs straggling across the head of the old man sitting on the seat in front and welled up with love for everything and everybody. The idea that love is given and received, and can therefore be taken away, now seems ridiculous. It is no longer about finding The One; it is about the dawning realisation that I am The One.

So I guess when I entered Tim’s Mystery Experience this weekend I was ripe fruit, as it were. Nevertheless, as we began the process, I fleetingly feared that I’d be the one who didn’t get it. As our time together unfolded, and that space of limitless connection was created, it became clear that there is no it to get – because it’s what we all are. Over and over, we sank into the eyes and the arms of the beloved. A beloved with twenty seven different faces, all of them unutterably, breathtakingly, beautifully perfect. Twenty seven facets of being, all gloriously unique, and all of them glittering beyond description. Each connection was love, and each connection was subtly itself. Some playful, expansive, delicious. Some fragile, tender, heartbreaking. Some intense, still, steady. Some a sudden explosion, the instant knowing of all that we have ever been or ever will be.

A few words appeared, remaining unsaid, their meaning silently conveyed. You are the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. All of you, every last thing about you. This is it. This is home. This is all we’ve ever wanted. Bathed in love, we also saw ourselves as we were being seen, we loved ourselves as we were being loved. Our hearts broke open, again and again, and we returned to Big Love. We became what we are. We know that we will never be the same again. Love. It really is the be all and end all.

On Thinking That We've Arrived (Or Not)

When I was a teenager, I yearned for the independence that being even a year or two older seemed to promise. I wanted to make my own decisions, unimpeded by adult intervention. I vividly remember the desperate desire to leave home, to put away childish things. The lyrics from Gerry Rafferty’s 1978 hit Baker Street seemed to sum it up: Another year and then you’ll be happy. Just one more year and then you’ll be happy. I wanted to be there, not stuck here.

The feeling that there is a destination to be reached, somewhere to get to, permeates our lives. Our societies are deeply aspirational; we’re encouraged to want more, bigger, better. We carry around within us an impossible-to-achieve image of the ideal self, and then we set about trying to create that self. No matter whether our route to this idealised perfection is via slimming products, make-up and haute couture, or affirmations, meditation or yoga, the movement is the same: we’re here, and we want to be there.

In my thirties, I embarked on an intense search for healing. Talk of being on the journey abounded, and I loved that idea. I saw myself as a traveller, making my way courageously through difficult terrain, guided by intuition and the maps that my fellow travellers – those many miles further on - had created. It was very clear; there was a path, and I was on it. At the end of the journey, I’d find the Holy Grail; peace, clarity, wellness, the end of suffering. I’d arrive home, my final destination. Occasionally, I’d have the sense that I’d made it. For a while, I’d feel calm, well, happy. Inevitably, before too long, I’d be off again, searching intently, longing to get there, to not be here with this – whatever this was.  

I felt that I shouldn’t be here in more mundane ways, too, particularly in relationships and social situations. Sometimes, it was possible to get up and leave, but on other occasions I was paralysed, unable to move for fear or doubt. One boyfriend memorably said to me, If you don’t fucking like it, fuck off. Eventually, I did.

Over the years, I began to encounter spiritual concepts. Words like oneness, awakening, and enlightenment entered my vocabulary. Like nearly all spiritual seekers, I frequently fantasised about enlightenment. I imagined states of eternal bliss and transcendence, a complete absence of any kind of pain. Most of all, I imagined awakening as being completely other than this-here-now. It felt like there was distance – sometimes a yawning void – between here and there. There was the place that others talked about in books and videos. There was the Shangri-La I wanted to get to, the end of suffering, the place inhabited by the Lucky Few. But how, exactly, was I supposed to get myself from here to there? I looked for instructions, prescriptions, suggestions, to no avail.

I would constantly monitor my experience for signs that I may be nearing the destination. Ooh, I’m feeling incredibly calm and peaceful. Maybe this is it? Oh my god, I must be so far off if I’m like this, irritated and upset. Like children on a car journey, the seekers’ refrain seems to be, Are we there yet?

One day, whilst walking my dog, I suddenly saw that there is only here. There does not exist. It is only ever a fleeing image, an idea which is happening here, just as everything else does. By conceptualising enlightenment (or happiness, or peace) as a state or place to be reached – by objectifying it – we create a separation that doesn’t actually exist. We place it outside ourselves, creating imaginary distance. We believe we have to find a way to bridge the gap, to get from here to there.

Recently, I looked for the self that shouldn’t be here. Taken through Scott Kiloby’s Unfindable Inquiry by one of my fellow facilitators, I touched on the pain that has been bound up in that life-long story, and sobbed. Sweet release. I saw - yet again - how the story of separation is created by belief. It is not that we’re in the wrong place. It is simply that there is nowhere else to go. We’re here. That’s it. We’ve arrived, whether we know it or not.

On Believing Ourselves Deficient

For many years, it seemed self-evident that there was something wrong with me. That basic sense – that I was too much or too little, off-centre or not quite right in both definable and indefinable ways – permeated most of my experience. What else could explain the conflict, pain, and discomfort that inevitably arose in my relationships?

After yet another scene – tears, shouting, bewilderment – with my then-boyfriend, I described the pattern:

“When the anger comes at me from someone, from somewhere else, at first I’m there, holding, defending, blocking. Then I crumble, and it starts: I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. It’s all my fault. It would’ve all been alright if I hadn’t done, or said, or been. Very soon, I’m not in myself at all. I’m somewhere else, a small, small girl, trying so, so hard to be good and not be a problem. I apologise for myself and deny myself and lie about myself and betray myself. If you’re right (which you always are, or at least you say you are) then I can be nothing but wrong. And so, some small-ish human mistake, a frailty, some misconceived, insensitive, unthinking act of no particular consequence becomes an enormous wrongdoing, a hideous, heinous crime; suddenly, the whole situation has taken on entirely delusionary proportions because I’m apologising for my existence whilst simultaneously knowing that what’s happened between us is, actually, just a part of being alive.”

Despite the sense that there was something illusionary playing out, such occasions seemed to provide all the evidence required that there was, indeed, something wrong with me. Like many of us, I tried hard to make myself better – therapy, remedies, meditation. New ideas and approaches brought new dawns, followed by the inevitable disappointment that, despite my efforts, I seemed to remain stubbornly...me.

Our stories of deficiency appear to be absolutely real. Thoughts, emotions, and sensations create compelling experiences, the validity of which seems certain. We believe that there is something wrong with us, because our thoughts and emotions tell us so. And we are always able to back up our claims of inadequacy: Of course I’m a failure. That’s why I didn’t get the job. If I was really okay, I’d be in a long-term relationship by now. We view the situations and people we encounter through the lens of our own story of deficiency, comparing, contrasting, coming up short.

Of course, there may also be times when we believe that we’re better than others. The inner story of deficiency may be so painful that we develop a compensatory persona, projecting the unwanted qualities outwards. I’m the strong one – it’s him that’s weak. If only other people lived like we do, the world would be a better place. It takes effort to keep up the pretence, and we find ourselves easily defensive, shoring up our identities against attack.

Eventually, exhausted, we may find ourselves incapable of continuing to hold the line. We begin to investigate the truth of what we’ve believed for so long, and start to question the basic assumptions that have underpinned our stories of deficiency. That there is a solid, separate me. That there is something wrong with me. That steps need to be taken to improve me. That there is a destination I need to reach, in order for me to be okay.

Through the process of inquiring into what we’ve believed ourselves to be, we discover that we are not who we thought we were. True inquiry allows us to see through the identities and beliefs that we’ve clung to for so long. We realise that what previously seemed solid and fixed is, in fact, a mere chimera. And as we see that the story of deficiency is just that – a story – our hearts inevitably begin to break open.

Out beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing, there’s a field

I will meet you there.

Rumi.

On Looking

It seems to me that there are two kinds of looking. We can look for, and we can look at, into or through.

Looking for something – especially a thing that we perceive to be outside ourselves - can be an exhausting business. Towards the end of 2010, I expressed my deep frustration with the seemingly never-ending search for something better or different, something other than this-here-now:

I want to stop looking!

I want to stop looking!

I want to stop looking for the right remedy or the right supplement.

I want to stop looking for the right doctor or the right therapist.

I want to stop looking for the right medication or the right herb or the right acupuncturist or the right healer.

I want to stop looking for clarity or peace or wellness or good health or enlightenment or awareness or my true nature or my natural state.

I want to stop looking for the right man or the right relationship or the right body weight or the right look or the right job or the right activity or the right achievement.

I want to stop looking for change in my mum or my sisters or my friends or anyone else, even Jack.

I want to stop looking for change in my symptoms or lower blood pressure or more energy or different emotions or no headaches or any other changes in me.

I want to stop looking for being better or being well or being different to how I am now.

I want to stop looking for God or The Underlying Cause To All This or anything else.

I want to stop looking and I want to just be me, Whatever, However, Whenever and Wherever with no apologies or caveats or wishes or hopes or longings or missings, just me, as I am, here and now.

Amen.

Of course, the idea that anything needs to be changed is just that – an idea. However, when we take our thoughts at face value, they seem to present us with compelling evidence that things do indeed need to change, that we are deficient in some way, that we are incomplete. So off we go, looking for whatever it is that we believe we lack. I need a partner. She should be more helpful. I should lose weight. I’m not awakened and I want to be. I should be a much better version of myself. There are an infinite number of things that we can go looking for; there is no end to the merry-go-round of seeking, unless we look in a different way.

When we begin to inquire into the validity of our beliefs, into the truth – or lack of it – behind our assertions, it is astonishing to realise that what we’ve taken to be factual, objective, hard truth is actually nothing of the sort. Today, I’ve had yet another experience of the freedom that can be found when we put our minds to looking into rather than looking for. Together with four others, I’ve spent the day doing The Work of Byron Katie. One by one, we dismantled our stories. We witnessed each other’s insights and realisations. In examining my story, compassion (as well as laughter) spontaneously arose, and I saw through that particular dream of separation.

The act of inquiring sheds light into previously dark corners, and exposes both the lies that we’ve been believing, and our pay-offs for believing them. If I continue to believe that you’ve caused my pain, I get to keep my identity intact, and I avoid feeling the pain that resides deep within. If I continue to look for what I think I want – as if it were separate from me – I can keep my focus away from the disturbing truth that my story is not true. However terrible our stories seem to be, we also have to admit that they are comforting in their familiarity, and we ferociously defend them when provoked.

As we draw closer to the most painful stories, the ones that form the innermost part of our identities, we frequently experience extreme discomfort, and it is tempting to run. But...there really is nowhere to run to. We may as well stay, and face what Scott Kiloby calls the core wound. For therein lies both our pain and our salvation. When we look deeply, we discover that we are not at all what we’ve taken ourselves to be. We are not deficient in any way. We are not imperfect, and there is nothing that we need to change. Recently, I used Scott’s Unfindable Inquiry to see if I could find the self that wants – the part of me that wants it all to be another way. I discovered that what is most wanted is the end of wanting. And beyond that, I couldn’t find a self that wanted. Peace.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time. 

T. S Eliot