Not Your Typical Hallmark Valentine
I was raised to obey my elders. As a kid, I worked hard. I learned lots of discipline and how to take care of myself in the world.
And the resentment I felt was unbearable.
I’ve slowly since learned to respect my elders, in some ways the opposite of blind obedience, and instead to only obey my body.
While this transition was difficult for my family at first (read: many years), we are steadily rebuilding, in much healthier ways.
The hook of following family orders held into my early twenties. I was scheduled for stomach surgery with two weeks of bed recovery after. My mom insisted on flying in to “take care” of me. I resisted. She persisted. I caved.
A few days after I got out of the hospital, I was ready to get some fresh air for the first time. I wanted to be alone with my girlfriend. My mom felt jealous; the drama commenced. The whole of my body began to shake, subtly, eventually violently, a high-frequency vibration emanating from the belly. I was scared. What was happening? Blood started to seep from the fresh sutures. The physical pain was agonizing. The spasms intensified. I was having a panic attack for the first time in my life. Fear turned to anger turned to fear.
After some time, I eventually got that breath of fresh air. I was alone. Under the cool shade of a young oak, it felt clear, “something needs to change.”
Aware of the serious violation that it is to say “no” in my family, I went into the conversation with my mom strong. Anger doesn’t come close to doing justice to the emotion I felt, as decades of suppressed contempt erupted.
Fast-forward eleven years. I’m traveling through the rolling hills of Maryland to Tara Brach’s retreat center. The evening before, while having Boxing Day dinner with my extended family, I’d gotten a notification that the final signature for the sale of my company had come through. After the congratulations from my aunt and uncle and cousins subsided, my mom looked up from the table, her eyes glossed over, her expression confused. She’d been scrolling on her phone. ”Wait, what…what happened?”
I excused myself, my plate half-finished. I went up to the room where I’d been sleeping, closed the door, and lay on the bed staring at the white ceiling. The only thing on my mind, “I’m done with this.”
For the first half of the loving-kindness meditation retreat, I felt mostly rage. I spent hour after hour after hour, day after day, oscillating between “may I allow this…” and “when is that damn bell going to ring already??”
December 30 was a cool, clear day. Tara was addressing the group of us yogis after the last sit of the morning. “You belong,” she began, “you are enough…you belong…you are enough.” She just kept repeating it. Over. And over. I wanted her to stop. And over again. I burst into tears. Underneath all the fury, a cold, dark pit. Right in the middle of my chest, extending up into the back of my throat.
As fortune would have it, I sat in small group with Tara after lunch that day. When it was my turn, I could barely speak. I bowed my head. She cautiously inquired, “what’s going on sweetie?” I gestured towards my chest, my fingers came to a rest wrapped around my throat. My eyes filled with tears. Her head was tilted, her gaze relaxed, “Andy, is there one person you can think of who loves you, no matter what?”
“She knows my name?” I thought…
My head dropped in shame again as she offered suggestions for who this person who really loves me might be…
“Maybe a pet,” she finally said…
I looked up.
“Who is it?” she continued
“My dog, Barkley”
“Okay good,” she encouraged…”now I want you to imagine him in that spot in your chest, can you do that?”
I nodded. The tears were now uncontrollable.
“I’m right here with you sweetie,” Tara continued
Hearing her soothing voice this time reminded me of my fifth grade English teacher, Mrs. Chalk. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen a gentle smile adorn her rosy cheeks, her soft eyes catching mine, “I love you so much Andy.”
And then I remembered Granpa
And Sam
And one by one, my people began to form a small circle, all holding hands, and paws, in the void where my heart was supposed to be
(I started to silently choke up as I just wrote this. Barkley was on the other side of the room. He quietly got up, came over, rested his head on my left foot.)
Tara, and a few of her colleagues who were also in the circle — all older, female, Buddhist, psychotherapists — spent some more time with me after the hour for the group was up. As I gathered myself Tara said in a still kind, but much more firm voice…
“Now Andy…”
I raised my head.
“I want you to practice nothing other than loving-kindness meditation for yourself for the foreseeable future, okay?”
My eyes widened with relief, “okay?” I agreed, as I looked around the small room and saw the other women nodding in approval.
Traditionally in loving-kindness meditation (“metta” in Pali, language of Buddha), phrases of wellbeing are offered first to one’s self, then to a benefactor, next to a neutral person, and finally to a difficult person. Common phrases are, “may you be happy”, “may you be healthy”, “may you be safe”, “may you live with ease”.
The rage I’d been feeling on retreat had been intensifying as I offered loving-kindness to my mom.
“Holding the intention to forgive is enough,” the fairy godmother of Western meditation went on. “Don’t do anything more. And one more thing,” her voice grew even more firm with compassion, “do not, under any circumstances, do not offer metta to your mother.”
She did not flinch.
My eyes opened even bigger, “okay,” I was now speaking clearly, “for how long?”
“A long time,” Tara said, “you’ll know…probably years.”
She gave me a hug and told me I’d be okay. We put up our chairs, I resumed silence, and I made my way back to my cushion in the meditation hall.
“May I be happy,” I began. A single tear trickled down my right cheek…
Eight months later, I gave up my apartment lease in Austin and headed out west with Barkley. I hadn’t spoken with my mom in six weeks.
Barkley and I lived out of my truck for about a year — mostly alone in the woods. I resigned from the company that’d acquired mine. I practiced self-metta for an hour or two each day. I cooked meals on the campfire, we hiked, we played, practiced yoga, read, and slept, slept a lot. Under the stars. Under the Ponderosa Pines in the afternoon.
And little by little, the snowglobe settled…until one day, I realized the peace I was feeling…I previously knew I’d never experience that in my life. I didn’t honestly believe anybody ever felt that much peace; I’d decided they were all faking it. But now, now I knew — I was wrong all along. This. This is real.
Tara Brach famously says “attention is the most basic form of love.”
And so while I learned lots from my family, and while I believe they love(d) me — my dad coached my soccer team and was active in scouts, my mom encouraged me to do extracurriculars — there are enough memories where I hadn’t felt enough love that there’s this general flatness, emptiness, longing sewn into my recollection of the past.
It really hurt then. It’s still tender now. And it’s opened this path for me to begin to find what I really need, within.
As I’ve found enough inner peace, and more recently, love, I’ve begun rebuilding the relationships in my life that had shaky foundations. And letting go of others that no longer serve.
Eventually it felt appropriate to offer metta to my mother. And over time, more and more pleasant childhood memories have emerged — sitting in Mom’s lap on the farmhouse rocker, watching the thunderstorms roll in…heading to the dump on Saturday morning with Dad, belting rock and roll in the back of the truck.
Things are by no means unicorns and rainbows, but they’re trending in the right direction. In a phone call with my mom a couple years ago, I reconnected with that old anger. Sharp, hot, moving up, fast. I stopped talking. I closed my eyes. Slowly, I turned towards it. I felt it. Gradually, it let go. “I know you’re here to try to protect me,” I whispered silently. “Thank you. And. I don’t need you here anymore; we’re safe, we’re free…you can rest now.” I told my mom I needed some space and would call her back in the next few hours.
I walked down to the river with Barkley. The sadness began to sink in, that familiar pit in the chest. And beneath the darkness, I started to make out some faces — Mrs. Chalk, Granpa, Sam…they now had their arms around each others’ shoulders, swaying around a campfire in the middle of the circle.
I put my feet in the cool water below the Cypress trees. I called my mom back. “I love you,” I said calmly. “I respect you. And. I felt angry when you said that. Now I feel sad. Don’t talk to me like that again.”
There was a long pause.
My heartbeat quickened.
“I understand; I’m sorry,” she said.