At loose ends, I wandered along the street looking for shops that might be interesting to pop into. I came to a ‘New Age’ store, the scent of patchouli wafting from the open doorway. It was a reek I associate with a failure to participate in critical thinking. Usually I would pass such a place by but I recalled a book—or more accurately, an author—my psychologist recommended I read. I couldn’t remember the author’s name, it was weird to me, began with a ‘P’ and had umlauts, but I knew I’d recognise any of her books if I saw them. They were, after all, on display at every therapy session I went to.
I stepped into the store and found the name I was looking for on a bookshelf, next to a display of Tarot cards: Pema Chödrön. Only… she’d written so many books and I couldn’t remember the specific one my psychologist had suggested. I scanned the various titles, considering which one felt like the best fit.
A few months prior I’d had a mental breakdown and been hospitalised. I was taking medication to help me sleep, trying to transition to a different medication to help treat severe anxiety. I was doing better but still wasn’t particularly happy with where I was, so I picked Start Where You Are— judging not by the cover so much as by the title. I didn’t want to wait, to get to some other place, to start being okay. I wanted to start then, there, at that moment.
Several months later, Start Where You Are sits on my own bookshelf alongside The Places That Scare You and When Things Fall Apart. I’m on the search for more Pema, craving her words like I crave fresh fruit in the middle of winter. While reading her books I am okay and everything is manageable and makes perfect sense. When I finish a book I feel lost, flailing, drowning in a sea of insecurities and neurosis. Her books are like a flotation device, Pema’s words holding my head above water, telling me: You’re human, you’re okay. You can do this.
There is an urgency to my search, and to my new-found practice. I am trying to get somewhere, to some level of normalcy. I want the robust mental health I remember from my childhood but can’t seem to manifest as an adult.
Once again, I choose the book because of the title. No Time to Lose makes perfect sense; life is short and I need to be okay now. I buy a copy and begin reading it immediately.
I am not, at this point, well versed in Buddhist teachings or scripture. I have a slight grasp of the Four Noble Truths, but I still think of Karma as a system of punishment and reward, of rebirth as foolish mysticism, as Dharma as a philosophical doctrine. I have no formal practice community, or Sangha. I do not grasp the meaning of terms like ‘samsara’ or ‘klesha’ or ‘shenpa’. I haven’t a clue what a bodhisattva is, nor an understanding of the history and importance of a text like the Bodhicaryavatara.
I read it from cover to cover, despite my confusion. The text is dense and can feel impossibly opaque, yet once I’ve finished I immediately begin to read it again. It feels important, and I want to understand. While reading, I have these flashes of something I can’t quite explain, where everything opens up and is so much bigger than my tiny little world and personal suffering. I long to connect with that more frequently, with greater ease, for extended periods of time.
A year later I am living in London, a bustling city where 100-year-old buildings are considered young and almost everywhere you go is iconic. It is full of people. So many people. People from every country, every ancestry, every culture.
On the Underground, during my daily commute to work, I find it challenging not to absorb the emotions around me. I pick up on the passive aggression, the discomfort, the general dis-ease of my fellow passengers. I am struggling, regularly feeling anxious and overwhelmed.
I don’t just read Pema now, I listen to her daily, downloading any talk I can get my hands on. I cycle through them on my iPod, one after another and then back again. I memorise the jokes, the questions, the pithy statements. I absorb the teachings, even if I often don’t understand them.
So I’m sitting on the underground, letting Pema guide me in Tonglen. I’m taking in all the aggression around me, breathing it in through all my pores. I’m taking in my own fear, my own apprehension, for every single person who feels the same way. I’m taking in anxiety, all the anxiety in the world, so no one else has to. And then I breathe out, offering a cool refreshing breeze, a view with a horizon, spacious fields meeting impressive mountains, a vast blue sky on which clouds dance and the sun plays. I breathe out love, companionship and kindness. I breathe out calm. I do this every day. I do this for weeks, all the time thinking it’s going into people, changing them, contributing to something outside myself.
I don’t realise for some time that it’s not changing anything external. It’s changing my own state of mind. It’s changing my approach to the people with whom I share the train, the city, the entire planet.
One day, something shifts. I get this ache in my biceps, a gentle tug, the feeling that I want to give someone a hug. I look around, look at all the faces on the Underground, all these people, and realise I want to hug them all. This sensation stays with me as the train comes to my stop, as I climb the escalator and emerge above ground. I want to hug the TFL staff, the homeless man sitting on the corner, the woman hurrying along to get to work. I want to hug all the people in every car swooping through Vauxhall. I want to hug all the individuals that make up the crowd of people commuting to work on foot. I get to my office and want to hug the people on the lift, the people who work on my floor, my coworkers — even the CEO, who I can complain about to no end.
I feel entirely open, capable of showing compassion to every single human being because I see: we all just want to be happy.
After several hours the sensation fades, but the memory stays, strong, resilient, a reminder of the power of compassion, of our ability to relate, to anyone — not just who we love, not even just who we like — but to every single other person on the planet.
Three years later and I’m on a plane, flying to New York from London. In a few days I’ll be at a retreat lead by Ani Pema, receiving teachings in person. I’ve been waiting over a year for this, and the timing couldn’t be better. I am on fire with pain — heartbreak wracks my body. I am plagued by hope. I am desperately seeking relief but trying, always trying, to sit with the pain. I’m learning how to show up for myself even when things hurt this bad. I think of Pema often, of her descriptions of heartbreak being the doorway to her own path, being the way to enlightenment, being an essential ingredient to waking up.
I get to my retreat cabin, unsure of what to expect for the next three days of talks and meditation. I set the intention to listen, to observe, to be as present as I possibly can. The first talk is after dinner. I show up ten minutes before it begins and end up seated quite far back. Ani Pema walks on the stage, her familiar smile radiating out. Despite the fact that there are 500 of us, it feels intimate, personal.
As she speaks, I find myself smiling, often. It’s like listening to Pema’s greatest hits. She covers so many of the things I’ve heard her speak about in previous talks, tweaked slightly, with different angles, but still familiar. A repetition that helps so much, constant reminders of our ability to wake up, our ability to work with our minds, our ability to see that we are big enough for our lives.
Before we leave the hall, we’re asked to keep in silence for the duration of the next day, until just after the following evening’s talk. I return to my cabin, sit in meditation. My mind is a whirlwind, the heartbreak is there, and my resistance to it strong. I know, as I have known for so long, that I should be sitting with it, instead of always trying to get rid of it. But I also know that ‘shoulding’ myself gets me nowhere. I resolve, from that day forward, without hesitation or making excuses, out of a sense of longing and self-care, rather than a sense of obligation or guilt: I am going to meditate every single day.
The next day I wake, meditate, eat breakfast and queue up a full hour before the first talk is scheduled to begin. My strategy pays off. When the doors are opened, I get a spot up front, where there are cushions laid across the floor. I’ve brought my meditation bench with me, which I sit on, taking in the space, the people around me, my back straight, my eyes wide open. We are guided in mediation by another teacher, a woman I’m unfamiliar with, Elizabeth Mattis-Namgyel. She has the same all-embracing smile and presence as Ani Pema, as all long-time practitioners.
When Elizabeth finishes, Ani Pema comes on stage again. We bow, we create an atmosphere of mutual respect and learning, we listen intently. I take notes, which is unusual for me, as I find it usually distracts me from what is being said next. I figure it’s fine, I’ve already ordered the recording of this weekend to be sent to me as soon as it’s available. I intend to memorise it, to listen to it so often that I’m as familiar with it as I am with my own neurosis.
We are still in silence during lunch, will be until after the last talk. I find silence interesting to relate to. During a week-long retreat a few years prior I first noticed how I use words to create distractions, to avoid looking at emotions I find uncomfortable, to try and make myself feel better. Unlike that previous retreat, however, now I want to face the discomfort. I’ve learned that avoidance never helps, never changes anything. I want to get better at looking, at understanding.
In the silence, I discover a burning question. Following Ani Pema’s last talk that day, I join the queue at the microphone. When my turn comes, my speech is befuddled as I struggle through the intense nerves. I want to convey the impact Pema’s teachings have in my life, how I aspire to be just as open to humanity — my own and anyone else’s. She is a grandmother, a mother, a former lover, school teacher, wife. She is entirely relatable because she could be anyone, and here she is: open, listening, holding space for me, for five-hundred retreatants, for herself, for the whole catastrophe that is life.
Ani Pema tells me to practice resting in un-fixated mind, something I’ve heard her say to so many others, in one way or another. Let go of expectations, let go of needing to be right, let go of anger, let go of fear. Let go of the need to be okay. Let go of trying to ‘fix’ yourself.
I’m flooded with adrenaline, shaking as I return to my seat, as the last questions are answered, as Ani Pema tells us that we are no longer required to keep the silence.
After she’s left the stage, I am approached by so many people. They tell me that they had the same question, that they have the same suffering, that they struggle to understand the same thing. I realise I am not alone. I never was. None of us ever are or were. We are united by our humanity, by our fear, by our sadness, by our joy, by our ability to love, by our ability to hate, by our longing to be happy. The sensation is like a million piece puzzle I’ve been struggling to assemble suddenly falling into place, the image I’ve been trying to see suddenly completely clear and distinct.
A month later, I’m back in London, and the recording of the retreat arrives. I listen to it with great devotion. I discover the teaching led by Elizabeth. I feel lightning bolts going off in my brain. More puzzle pieces fall into place.
I wake up one grey November morning, and I am outside my ego. My thoughts are just thoughts, as they always have been. The world is absolutely astoundingly beautiful and vibrant, as it always has been. I look at everything as if I’m seeing it for the first time because it is the first time I’m seeing it like this, in this particular way, and this moment will never happen again.
I am gratitude.
I am appreciation.
I am love.
And it is the most ordinary thing in the world.
Originally published on Medium
More of my work can be seen over on www.kaitlynschatch.com