Inquiring Deeply Newsletters

Inquiring Deeply About The Mind’s Eye

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes,

but in having new eyes.”

…..Marcel Proust

Introduction, Background, and Context

One of the enduring mysteries of my subjective life has been the absence of visual imagery in my mind.   Although I dream normally, in an ordinary waking state my mind does not make visual pictures of things.   It was not until relatively recently that I learned that there is a name for this.  It is called “aphantasia” or “mind-blindness”,  defined as a deficit of mental imagery.   (The interested reader is referred to www.aphantasia.com ).

First described by the English scientist Francis Galton in the late 19^th century, aphantasia is now known to occur in 3.9% of us.  It exists on a continuum, with the most extreme form manifesting as an absence of imaginative imagery across all sensory spheres (vision, hearing, touch, etc.)   Imagery deficit is often correlated with other cognitive traits which depend upon visual memory, such as poor autobiographical recall.   Rather than being considered a mental “disorder”,  aphantasia is now considered a variant of normal; a form of neurodiversity.  Its neurological basis has been quite clearly demonstrated by fMRI and other measures of brain activity,  in which areas of the brain known to subserve imagery show up as totally dormant or relatively inactive[i].

It is difficult for some people to wrap their minds around what the subjective experience of aphantasia could possibly be like.  Friends have asked me with puzzlement what is in my mind where images would normally be?  The answer is, simply knowing what something looks like without being able to see it; concept devoid of visual image.   Rather than thinking in pictures, my mind thinks in words and metaphor.  I believe we should define  the “mind’s eye” as the mental faculty of conceiving imaginary or recollected scenes, with or without visual imagery.

I first became aware that my mind functioned differently from others during the early years of my psychology education.  The theory in vogue at that time was that some people were “visualizers” while others were “verbalizers”.  No question which category I was in:  I have a highly verbal mind and an aptitude for abstract thinking.

As a child, I can recall that pictures formed in my mind as I was read bedtime stories, so I am not congenitally aphantasic (as apparently some people are).  My own personal theory is that, as a consequence of learning to read at a very early age, my cerebral “real estate” was reallocated from pictorial images to concepts.  In other words, I posit that my left hemispheric/verbal dominance overshadowed the development of my visuo-spatial capacities.  I don’t know if that’s true, but it seems quite plausible.

It is not my purpose here to elaborate on what is known about aphantasia or its neurological substrates.  Rather, I want to focus on what I now recognize as my life-long fascination with the the “mind’s eye”.  More specifically, I want to describe what has become for me a deep inquiry about the nature of visualization and its importance.   This inquiry has involved research, contemplative reflection, and a series of subjective meditative experiments.  Subsequent sections of this essay will describe different facets of my inquiry and what I have learned in engaging with this process .

Why?

The seminal question that came to me as I embarked upon this inquiry was Why?   

Why was the subject of aphantasia so compelling for me?

Why should my lack of imagery be more significant to me than my lack of directional sense or any other cognitive capacity?  What was at stake?

As I reflected on this, I recognized that I hold several beliefs about imagery which confer it with special importance.   First,  imagery is the language of reverie, poetry, fantasy, and archetype.  It taps into deep layers of the psyche,  both expressing feelings and opening a channel into the wisdom and creativity that flows within each of us.  Imagery has a privileged connection with the realm of the unconscious.  As such, the language of imagery is one I long to speak and understand.

As I sat with these reflections, I also recognized that studying aphantasia, even under the umbrella of engaging in a deep inquiry,  was a pale substitute for what I really wanted:  to regain the imaginative capacity and visual imagery I enjoyed as a young child.

Second,  it became clear that I connect the ability to visualize with spiritual capacities referred to Indian philosophy as the “opening of the third eye”: the gateway that connects the inner realms and spaces of higher consciousness.

In this regard, it may be relevant to note that aphantasia became a “problem” for me only after I first began to meditate in my 20’s.    In one Tibetan Buddhist gathering I attended early on, for example, meditators were asked to visualize the Buddha, golden and radiant on a throne, gazing out with boundless love and compassion.   This instruction was a non-starter for me.   I came up against a similar barrier in other consciousness-oriented workshops where guided imagery methods were taught.  All I found in my mind was a black blankness; extremely frustrating to say the least.

Fortunately, this particular “problem” was solved when I discovered that there were many pathways into deep meditative space which did not require visualization.   However, the sense that imagery was an important mental capacity remained.  Indeed, I felt the absence of access to imagery as something important missing in me; a deep flaw.

What?

As I continued to explore the capacity to visualize,  the next focus that emerged in my inquiry had to do with the question of what?    Beyond “visualization” as a generic concept, what specific perceptual capacities did I lack?  Attempting to answer this question experientially has been, for me, a deep dive.

“Aphantasia” is often described as the inability to “think in pictures”, but I find this concept too general and superficial to be very helpful.  In its place, certain basic distinctions emerged for me.

First, the primary capacity connoted by the concept of “visualize”  is the ability to voluntarily create a picture of something in one’s mind —  for example,  when one is asked to picture a familiar object such as apple, or the face of a loved one.   (This primary capacity seems to be closely connected to visual memory).

Calling an image to mind in this way seems quite distinct from the unbidden imagery that emerges in dreams as well as at the transition between sleep and waking (“hypnagogic imagery”), deep relaxation, hypnosis, or meditation.  This type of imagery may consist of seemingly isolated mental pictures or may occur in more storied forms, such as “mental movies”,  daydreams, reverie, or fantasy.   My working understanding is that this type imagery is likely to emerge whenever we let go of our engagement with goal-directed activities[ii].  In other words, it is state-dependent.

I surmise from reading many accounts given by people with aphantasia that there are a lot of individual differences; perhaps different profiles of visual imagery experiences.    To cite some of the complexity of my own experience,  voluntary imagery is entirely absent for me, but I dream in images and have hypnagogic imagery occasionally.   I do not think I have ever had a “daydream”.  Also, in striking contrast to my aphantasia , I enjoy very easy access to “pareidolic imagery” – an eyes-open type of imagery in which the mind perceives pictures projected onto random patterns such as the clouds in the sky or the texture in a carpet.

On a very few occasions, I have experienced a doorway opening in my mind and found myself in a state of mind  in which hypnagogic imagery suddenly becomes very salient.   I have no clue what is different for me at those times.   Regardless of why this occurs when it does, clearly my capacity to generate imagery is intact!

Can The Capacity To Image Be Cultivated?

Proceeding on the assumption that the capacity for imagery may be a kind of mental muscle which can strengthened with exercise, I have been in the process of exploring various methods which I hope will enhance my mind’s ability to image. One such method is meditating on the after-images which appear in the mind’s eye following a period of focusing on a candle flame. With very little practice, these images have already become noticeably more stable and longer lasting.  I have also been practicing recalling colors and simple shapes to mind.

The basic method I have been using in order to cultivate imagery is sitting meditation with a focus of attention on my visual field. The first thing that struck me when I began to meditate in this way was the somewhat shocking realization that, despite a lifetime of sitting meditation practice, I have seldom devoted much time to looking!    In any event, when I began to persistently inspect my visual experience more closely, with relaxed and receptive attention, it did not take long before the general impression of black blankness began to reveal underlayers of fine grained geometric lines and patterns which had variations in both brightness and color.  The field was dynamic rather than static.

I realized that if I wanted to “invite” my mind to make images, I would need to focus my attention on what I actually do see when I look into inner space,  rather than on what is absent.

Reflections and Conclusions

Cultivating the capacity to image remains a work in progress and my intention is to persevere with it.  However, I am also aware of a subtle contradiction inherent in these experiential “experiments”:  on the one hand, it seems skillful to practice whatever one seeks to improve; on the other hand, I am also aware that on some level I am still invested in trying to “fix” something, and that effort is not skillful.

As I have reflected on this contradiction – or confusion? – several additional insights emerged which I have found helpful:

 

• It has felt liberating to realize that imagery is only one form in which the mind expresses meanings. Although for whatever reasons my brain/mind does not readily make images, I do however have a highly developed visual capacity which readily hones in on external images I encounter which express what I feel.

 

• Whereas previously I had unconsciously assumed that aphantasia was a limitation, it became apparent to me in this inquiry (as in many prior inquiries) that the assumption of being limited was the real limitation.

 

• The feeling that there is something basically wrong, missing, or insufficient in us is a common, perhaps universal, human experience which has to do how our minds organize the experience of self. It was quite apparent to me that aphantasia had become the focus of these feelings, and it also became quite clear that learning to image would not address this issue.

 

• It is in my nature to focus on concepts, and while my mind does not readily make images, what it does do well is apprehend the big picture – a capacity to see things clearly and with discernment.

 

• Spending more time with pictures and less time with words would likely be helpful in inclining my mind’s eye towards visualization.

 

• And, last but not least, I have recognized that aphantasia notwithstanding, visual beauty – and especially my experience of light – has been and continues to be the most important “dharma door” for me: a gateway which awakens transcendent experience and amplifies my experience of being alive and present.  In this way, at least, my mind is far from blind.        ____________________________________________________________________________________________

Footnotes

[i] Fulford, J. et.al. (2017) The neural correlates of visual imagery vividness – An fMRI study and literature review.

https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cortex.2017.09.014

[ii] Those readers who are familiar with the science of meditative states may recognize that the imagery-conducive conditions I am describing are similar,  or perhaps identical, to changes in the function of the “default mode network” of the brain which accompany the practice of meditation, but that discussion is beyond the intended scope of this Newsletter.

Reflections on Alienation

“I’m not here to change the world.

I’m here to question what I believe about the world,

And in that, my world shifts.”

…Byron Katie

 

I know that I am not alone in feeling exhausted by the relentless torrent of bad news.  Climate change and catastrophic weather events,  epidemic gun violence,  proliferating homelessness,  war, the ascendancy of fascist views,  disinformation and the Orwellian assault on truth, are among the most conspicuously upsetting.  All of this, to be sure, is a lot to feel distressed about.  The problems facing us in today’s world are enormous and the complexity of forces driving them is mind-boggling.   It is not hyperbolic to say that our world is in existential crisis.

Probably many readers will feel, as I do, that current events are ominous. I remember one conversation that took place in a dharma group I was leading at the time of the 2016 election.  Many people were worried about by the changes happening in the body politic, and a question was raised about similarities to 1930’s Germany.   Could that happen here?  Hitler, we were reminded, did not simply seize power.  He was elected.

I do not have expertise in either history or political psychology and so cannot make specific comparisons between then and now, but the overall point for me is that, since the election of Donald Trump is 2016,  the social polarization and unrest in our population have grown steadily worse.  Aided and abetted by the weaponization of social media, we have become a nation divided around many issues: red states vs. blue,  vaxxers vs. non-vaxxers,  gun rights advocates vs. those in favor of gun safety legislation, etc.   I suspect that fanatic tribalism provides some important social benefit for those who participate.

In any event, it is alarming to see what some (or many) people can be persuaded to believe,  and by what they are willing to do in support of their beliefs.   Alarming, too, to see increasingly bizarre conspiracy theories thrive in what is now known as “post-objective reality”.    To me, the extremes in behavior are clear evidence of a serious decline in mental health.  The collective psyche is, I fear, unravelling; descending into a state of fragmented chaos.

The dire circumstances have recently led me into to inquire deeply within about how I view “the world” and my place within it.  My intention in this essay is to see if I can shed some light on how each of us participates in the shaping of our collective reality. Also,  I hope that this set of reflections may be helpful to those who, like myself, want to bring inquiring mind into their understanding of the events of the day.

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One of the dimensions of experience that has stood out for me in my inquiry is something I term “reactive alienation”.   Reactive alienation refers to how we as individuals may feel in relation to sociopolitical realities we find disturbing.  We may be upset; angry, frightened, anxious or depressed.   We may find ourselves compulsively hooked into the 24 hour news cycle or ruminating about doomsday scenarios.  Such reactive alienation can be a transient event or an entrenched position, but it is worth unpacking.

I will use my own experience to illustrate what I have heard from many other people.   The dictionary defines “alienation”  as the experience of being isolated from a group or an activity to which one should belong, or with which one should be  involved.  This definition hits the nail on the head for me.  Although I know intellectually that I am not other than “the world”,  I also don’t feel very much part of this world in which I find myself situated.  I am disheartened by the widespread civil disorder and by how dysfunctional our system seems to be at every level.  There is no social group I comfortably identify with, no tribe I want to join.  I find myself repelled by the political far right but also frequently annoyed by the political correctness of the woke left.

Against the backdrop of these thoughts, I decided that it might be useful to clarify more precisely what I feel alienated from and how this experience lives in me.  Watching the evening news with this question in mind,  it became quite apparent to me that what reactively alienates me is not only views –especially those which fly in the face of my core values— but, even more so,  the way I perceive the people who speak them.  I react with anger against what I see as self-righteous pontification; an arrogant, bullying attitude; lies or evasions of truth.  I disdain the narrow-minded stupidity of certain opinions.  And, I react with strong negative judgment towards what I perceive to be execrable character traits, such as narcissistic grandiosity or psychopathic disregard for others.

In short, the experiential core of what I call “reactive alienation” is a pattern of aversive feelings and attitudes triggered by sociopolitical events.  Although for me these reactions are (fortunately) short-lived,  some of the people I see in psychotherapy have experienced much more intense and/or lingering reactions.   I expect that these emotional reactions will likely become more frequent and more intense as we approach the 2022 elections.

In broader view, I have been trying to understand how the dynamic of reactive alienation that I have seen in individuals may bear upon the divisiveness and polarization that we see in our nation.   One obvious parallel that strikes me is that alienation is based in a view that something we abhor is “out there”, not part of “me” —  very reminiscent of the polarizing idea of “us” vs. “them”.  The judgments involved make it difficult to empathize with or feel compassion for people who have the traits we eschew.  Aversion serves to reinforce alienation; it keeps us separate from people we dislike as well as from social forces that we find threatening.  Not an enlightened premise of interconnection, to be sure.

But while reactive alienation clearly has something to do with boundaries that get delineated in relation to views and social belonging,  “reactive alienation”  as I have understood it cannot be equated in any way with the kind of profound and painful alienation that gives rise to perverse or deranged antisocial acts.  Most everyone feels painfully separate at one time or another,  but this does not usually lead to a feeling of alienation.  What I would say from a clinical perspective is that destructive alienation is rooted in psychopathology and hatred.  It takes root only in minds which have become unable to protect themselves from overwhelming and toxic circumstances and which therefore engage extreme measures to try to cope.

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Having unpacked the idea of alienation as deeply as I am able, I am left with desire to address some of important questions which many people have been asking:   What can we (or should we) do?   What might be a more constructive attitude? How can we respond rather than react?   I have no definitive answers to these questions, and in any case each of us will have our own answers.  For me, personally, finding a way forward usually begins with looking within.   That is the spirit in which this Newsletter has been written.

My principal observations and insights include the following:

• The 24 hour news cycle is a toxic diet of information which fuels negativity and ‘reactive alienation’.    It is important to pay attention to the impacts of the informational environment we live in with respect to the way it shapes our views as well as to its emotional cost and effects on mental health.
• However grim certain realities may be, that is only part of the story.  What we call “the world” is not a fixed something “out there” but rather an experiential reality which changes moment by moment.  In one moment, watching the news, I see a world poised at the brink of destruction.  In the next, images from the Webb telescope remind me  that human beings are capable of astounding ingenuity, and I dare to hope that some new technology will emerge that will enable us and our beautiful planet to live on.  Maybe both views are true.  (Or maybe neither).
• Human transformation is what makes social transformation possible.  For better or for ill, each of us is playing a part in making the world what it is,  and so it is good when we can make our choices wisely; with conscious awareness and with kindness towards others.
• It does little good to simply take a stand in opposition to sad realities.  Helplessness and alienation are obstacles to engaged action, not to mention a breeding ground for despair.  However, we are also wise to remember the Buddhist admonition against becoming too attached to outcome.  Things will unfold as they do.
• In most instances, it seems to me, doing something is probably better than doing nothing.  I don’t think there is any prescription for what that something should be;  each of us has our own path both of inner engagement and engagement in the world.  Regardless of what path we choose, taking action counteracts pessimism and despair.
• Wise action begins from where we are.  This was the spirit in which I undertook the writing of this Newsletter.  For me,  this has meant examining reactive alienation and investigating the psychological forces at work in the collective psyche.   The inquiry is one which is ongoing.

Investigating my experience and writing about it is one of the ways my mind seeks clarity in its effort to “solve” something that I find troublesome or problematic.  Inquiring deeply about feelings of alienation has illuminated what in my own experience needs wiser attention. My hope is that these reflections will inspire you, the reader, to examine your own experience in a similar way.

 

Looking Back

 

Looking Back

Recently and out of the blue,  I received a phone call from someone I was superficially acquainted with during my early years in graduate school.  Beyond some news about people I used to know and a few juicy pieces of gossip, what was most interesting to me in the conversation was that it gave me a window of view into myself that doesn’t come along all that often.  How do we sum up a life?!?  It was interesting to me to listen to what I chose to say about myself and how I “summed up” my life from the perspective of so many years.

That encounter was the inception point for some reflections about the importance of the process of looking back over things (‘retrospective view’) and how it can facilitate the deepening of our self-understanding.

I was first introduced to the value of retrospective view from the work of the depth psychologist Ira Progoff, who devised a method of journaling to explore the significant paths of our lives by examining the “stepping stones” that led us from one point to another[i].  It is often only when we look back in this way that we are able to see the path of our movement towards goals which may or may not have been conscious at the time.  By systematically looking back over the events and relationships of our lives, we can often see more clearly what they were for, what their purpose was in our lives, and the unfolding future that is encoded within them.

Similar principles come into play when we retrospectively investigate experience that comes up during meditation practice.  In “Recollective Awareness”, a meditation method taught by dharma teacher and author Jason Siff, journaling is used to examine what is recalled from a period of meditation practice after the fact[ii].  By looking back at meditation experience and recording it in personal, experience-near language, we begin to see things about our meditation experience that may otherwise remain opaque.   Over time, this process of recollection helps to expand the scope of what we are aware of and deepen the process of meditation.

In both of these methods of applied retrospection (Progoff’s and Siff’s), the process of looking back reveals aspects of experience that may not have been evident in the moment that they occurred.  Indeed, many (perhaps most) meanings take shape only after the fact, when we look back and tell the story of what happened to ourselves or to others.

The incident related in the opening paragraph illustrates the process I am describing. In telling the story of my life in broad overview, I was able to see some implicit coherence in the pattern of life decisions I made before I knew what direction I was headed in or who I wanted to become.  I could see how each step along the way had led me slowly but surely away from my early fascination with the brain and towards what felt more alive, vital and compelling to me:  the study of subjective experience.  Eventually I landed in what now feels like my lifework, but the path along the way was a winding rather than a straightforward one.  More important than the particulars, in hindsight I could clearly see the arc of my growth inward, away from what was expected of me and towards the promptings of my intuition.

These observations have inspired me to explore and articulate how the process of looking back over our lives in broad view— life review— can be incorporated into awareness practice.

Looking back is an interesting process in its own right.  If you explore how it works in your own mind, you will see that many aspects of experience escape notice when they first occur.  To give the simplest of examples, when we meditate it often happens that we become lost in thought.  But the event called “lost in thought” is known to us only after the fact, when it is retrospectively recognized.

While the present moment is the one that meditators are usually looking for, a lot happens in the moments that follow which become incorporated into our account of ‘what happened’.   Experience is a complex construction composed not only of current conditions but also similar past experiences which the mind remembers. This is what the biologist Gerald Edelman refers to by the evocative term he coined: “the remembered present” [iii].    There is a great deal of cognitive processing that goes into shaping a present moment.

Experience is retrospectively organized in the mind into chapter-like narratives of past moments : episodic memories.  These are the memories we engage when we look back and tell the story of what happened.   That said, meanings emerge in particular narrative and relational contexts.   The story I tell you about what happened may or may not be identical to what I relate to someone else.  The story I tell myself may change as a function of something new that has occurred or as a result of my being in a different state of mind.   And because memory is fluid and always morphing as a result of the context in which  associations are accessed, there is a lot of insight possible in the process of looking back and reviewing how experience has gone down.

As the writer William Faulkner famously said, the past isn’t dead – it isn’t even past.

The process of looking back over life is both the modus operandi and the raison d’etre of psychotherapy, where it occurs within a dialogue which is intended to deepen someone’s awareness of what happened in the past and to expand the frame of understanding they give to their ongoing experience.  But contemplative self-reflection can be undertaken for the same reasons.   (Journaling is a useful adjunct).

There are many topics for this kind of contemplative inquiry frequently suggested by dharma teachers, generally focused on themes of acceptance and forgiveness,  both of our own behavior and that of others.  Along similar lines, the ‘moral inventory’ in the 12 step programs reviews wrongs which have been perpetrated against others and the process of making amends.  In my own work, I have found it useful to inquire deeply about things which live for us as problems.    With this in mind, for example, we can ‘sit with’ and investigate ways that we have been hurt or have caused hurt to others; or, instances in which we have lost sight of the better angels of our nature.   Every problem has a life story, and there is a lot that can be learned by reflecting on them.  It is important to become aware of what stories we live in and where we tend to get hooked.  Looking back is a useful way to take stock of what is unresolved within us.

But problems aside, there are an endless number of interesting questions which can be asked with self-reflective life review in mind.  For example, we can look back on important turning points; on our relationship choices; or on the progressive development of our identities.  One interesting prompt is the question ‘If you wrote an autobiography, what would be its title and its chapter headings?’  

Regardless of whether we deliberately invite a process of life review or whether it emerges organically, it is useful to notice the tone and texture of our memories of things.  There are big differences, for example, between simple recall, nostalgic reminiscence, and painful rumination.  We need to see not only the stories we tell about what happened but also the energies we attach to past events.

Through the process of looking back, we can cultivate compassionate understanding of what we have suffered and at the same time create space for the freedom that is often available in the wake of suffering.  On the one hand,  as dharma teacher Jack Kornfield has said, we need to give up all hope of ever having a better past.  But on the other hand, it is also true that by changing the way we relate to the past, we can open new paths into the future.  In the light of seeing clearly what has been, we can slowly but surely grope our way towards what we wish to become.

“Life is no passing memory of what has been,

nor the remaining pages in a great book waiting to be read.

It is the opening of eyes long closed.

It is the vision of far off things seen for the silence they hold.

It is the heart after years of secret conversing speaking out loud in the clear air.”

….excerpt from poem by David Whyte, “The Opening of Eyes”, in the book River Flow.   Many

Rivers Press.

 

 

 

[i] Progoff, I. (1975) At A Journal Workshop.  Dialogue House Library,  N.Y.

 

[ii] Siff, J.  (2010) Unlearning Meditation.  Shambhala Press, Boston.

 

[iii]Edelman, G. (1990)  The Remembered Present: A Biological Theory of  Consciousness.   Basic Books, NY.

The Hunger For Deep Conversation

 

“Hunger for connection is also hunger for deep conversation

To be received, listened deeply to, understood

This is how new meanings come into being”

 

I have recently been reflecting on the process I go through in the course of “inquiring deeply” about something.   In the beginning,  a topic generally feels less like something I choose than like something which chooses me.  I have likened the process to getting pregnant:  the implanting of an idea which begins to grow within me.  Early on,  most often I will have a felt sense of urgency about it, that there is something which is important to me to understand,  although I don’t at first know what the need is about.  So my inquiries generally begin with my recognizing a familiar experience of urgency or agitation, followed by my effort to discover where the emotional charge is coming from in me.

To further my process,  I may often initiate conversation with others about it,   until at some point it feels as though my thoughts “ask” to be written down.   At this point,  the inquiry transitions into written form.  It then matures over the course of successive written drafts until finally I feel satisfied by the meaning which has taken shape and a new issue of this Newsletter is born.

The inquiry which is currently compelling my attention is the nature of the hunger for deep conversation –an aspect of the urgency referenced above.  I can sense that there is something within me which wants/needs to be understood, something which feels important.  At the heart of the inquiry is a basic question of ‘what wants or needs to be spoken, and why?’

My inquiry in the current moment is somewhat different.  I find myself in the midst of some personal struggle with how to get my conversational needs met.  I heard myself express my “predicament” to a friend in the following way:

• I know that I am in search of something and my intuition tells me that there is a conversation(s) I am looking for that will meet this need.   I feel a bit like Cinderella waiting for the right conversational slipper, one which will bring clarity to something inchoate in me that wants to be expressed. It’s like something wanting to be born; something incipient. But I’m at a loss about what exactly I need to say or who I could say it to.

As I heard what I said,  the first thing that stood out was the theme of pregnancy and birth.  The psychoanalyst in me then heard in the statement that there was something I was trying to work out in myself;  to my way of thinking, feelings which I am trying to make sense of and organize.  I also heard the articulation of very young emotional needs; the longing to be deeply seen and heard by another.   In the parlance of psychoanalysis, these are “selfobject needs”.  There are many different selfobject needs, intertwined with every aspect of psychological development.  Part of what I was expressing here seems to be the need to have my views affirmed or validated.

At one level, then, hunger for deep conversation is about a need for connection.  Connection serves many relational needs.  The psychological/relational need to be received, listened deeply to, and understood is very basic.  We need to be deeply known by another in order to grow.   In this, each of us is like a thirsty a plant which needs to be watered by the deep seeing of another.

There is a great deal that goes into this kind of deep seeing.  Communication is a generative act which depends on a complex interpersonal chemistry of speaking, listening, and listening to the other’s listening.  There is something vital in the shared resonance we have when we ‘mix minds’ with certain particular others.  But in addition,  the deepening of discourse around a particular topic often depends on the shared language we develop with others whom we come to know well.  In this instance, what I wanted to talk about was inquiry, so I was looking for a conversation that would deepen my understanding of Buddhadharma.

In this regard, what stands out to me in my hunger for deep conversation is my experience of incipient meaning.  New meanings often emerge in conversation with others, co-created in dialogue.  Indeed, my thoughts are often unknown to me until I hear what comes out of my mouth.   My longing was to find a relational home[iii] in which my understanding could deepen and be accurately articulated.  This search for meaning is closely aligned with my deep need to know.

But what I think is the most fundamental psychological level in what I was seeking has to do with what I regard as an indwelling drive for self-actualization.   We strive to feel Real and to become real as ourselves; to come into being.  In the words of the mystical philosopher Gurdieff,  “the world is only real when I am”.  At this level, the hunger for deep conversation reflects a drive for authenticity and aliveness;  the need to dwell comfortably within our own skin.

As my thoughts unfolded over a period of days, and as I sat with this inquiry in meditation, I saw that what I had been thinking of as “hunger for deep conversation” had many more layers than I had previously realized.    Perhaps the primary dimension was my longing to get beyond the felt sense of the struggle I was experiencing.  When I feel caught in this kind of experience (in Buddhist language, “dukkha”), my experience has been that freedom is often available in shared resonance and connection with another.  This is of course the basic premise of psychotherapy, but it is prevalent in many conversational relationships.    (As the psychoanalyst Donnel Stern has written, such “relational freedom” is a basic property of the interpersonal field[iv] ).

Writing these words, a new understanding dawned on me:  at the core of the hunger for deep conversation I was experiencing was what in Buddhism is called bhava-taṇhā,  the basic hunger for existence.   With the recognition of this deeper meaning, the experience of urgency that had impelled the writing of this Newsletter dissolved; for now, at least, the inquiry felt complete and resolved.

[i] https://www.drmarjorieschuman.com/on-the-importance-of-understanding-and-being-understood/

[ii] https://www.wisebrain.org/bulletin/volume-12-5/somatic-intelligence/

[iii] Term borrowed from the work of Robert Stolorow.

[iv] Donnel Stern (2015)   Relational Freedom:  Emergent Properties of the Interpersonal Field.   Routledge Press,    London & New York.

Inquiring Deeply About Core Negative Beliefs

 

 

 

Making Sense of Spiritual Beliefs, Part I

“Nothing is so firmly believed as that which we least know.”
― Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Essays

In the last issue of this newsletter I wrote about the concept of Belief and discussed some of the reasons why we believe what we do.   One of the major take-aways was the idea that our belief systems define for us what sort of a universe we live in; what makes sense, and what doesn’t; where meaning is to be found.

Spiritual belief systems uniquely illustrate how beliefs work in our lives because they are explicit statements of our personal philosophy;  our views about the nature of the universe and of our place within it.  Taking that conclusion as a starting point, my ongoing inquiry has been focused in recent days on the nature of spiritual beliefs.

In this Newsletter, Part I of two,  I try to define clearly what “spiritual” means.  Then, in Part II, I will unpack the essential elements of a spiritual world view.

Spirituality can be defined as the quest for ultimate or sacred meaning or purpose in life.   In my view, spirituality arises as a result of our hard-wired search for meaning[i]. The use of a verb, to quest or to seek, denotes that there is action—dynamic process— involved.  We call that action spiritual practice.  There are a myriad of different forms of spiritual practice, including meditation, contemplation, and prayer.  Regardless of the form of practice, the important point is that spirituality is a quest for meaning; the desire to find what is true.

A somewhat separate but related point is that spirituality is not fundamentally about what we believe, but is, rather, a dimension of subjective experience.   Although we can (and do) clothe our spiritual experiences in beliefs of one sort or another, the more important thing is the naked quality of subjectivity that lies beneath.

Similar points are discussed at length by Buddhist scholar Stephen Batchelor in his book Buddhism Without Beliefs[ii], which the interested reader may find useful.   As Batchelor puts it, the Buddha didn’t give us something to believe in, but rather something to do.  Underscoring the idea that Belief is beside the point in spiritual practice, Batchelor reminds us that the Buddha was not a mystic.   The central guidance in Buddhism is to look not towards belief but towards the wisdom that can be found within.

In this frame of reference, spiritual beliefs can be viewed as simply one important variety of story that human beings like to tell.  Human beings have the proclivity to make stories about the world.  Our spiritual beliefs are narratives that explain to us what otherwise we do not know how to explain.  They describe unseen forces at play in determining the world of lived experience.

Spiritual practice takes us into the depths of the inner world.  The idea of the holy grail captures the essence of the quest:  entering the forest at its darkest point and groping one’s way forward to the truth.  We undertake this journey alone, and we leave everything, including our personal views, behind.

What happens in the process then becomes part of our story about the true nature of the universe. Story-telling infuses every aspect of human existence.  In no way do I mean to imply that spiritual beliefs are merely stories; nor that what we believe is in any way insignificant.  As I have discussed in the previous Newsletter and elsewhere, belief systems are part of the basic matrix for what comes into being.

Beliefs are like the cage we place around a young, growing plant that shapes how it will grow.

As the consciousness pioneer John Lilly said back in the day (1975), “what we believe either is true or becomes true,  within certain limits to be determined experimentally and experientially.  In the province of the mind, there are no limits” [iii] .

Although spiritual world view can be described in these abstract and transpersonal terms,  every spiritual experience arises in the context of someone’s very particular world.  People vary greatly in their spiritual practice, in the spiritual experiences they have, and in the beliefs that they hold.   How we make sense of spiritual experience — of any experience we have— reflects complex forces at play in the human mind and brain.

Because our human minds are relationally organized, spiritual experiences are often construed in relational terms.   For instance, some people live in a subjective world populated by disembodied entities, some of which are experienced as helpful (personified as angels or spirit guides, the archetypal benevolent or parental other),  and others of which may be felt to be malevolent (ghosts or demons, imago of punitive or abandoning other).  One common example is the idea of the “pain body”, posited by spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle as an explanation for afflictive emotions.  A commonly held belief which represents the relational imprint in more abstract terms is that  “the universe” arranges for what happens to us as a lesson that “it” is trying to teach us.  The variations are endless.   How we make sense of our spiritual experience is influenced by our psychodynamics.

My hope is that the reader might be inspired by these reflections to inquire deeply about their own spiritual beliefs. As I have said previously, a belief is not ‘the truth’.  What we believe is what we take to be true.   However,  beliefs relate as much to our subjective views as to what’s really there.

That said, it is not always easy to recognize belief as belief.  Without recognizing it, we can elevate our beliefs to the level of truths.  We need to ask the question, is this idea I have truth or belief?  

One of the goals in engaging an inquiry about your beliefs is to sort out the difference.  Sometimes we can cut through confusion by asking the question how do I know this is true?

Even granting the possibility that something we “know” is not an absolute certainty creates a new perspective, a new openness.  This openness of mind, this not-knowing, is what spiritual practice is ultimately about.

******************

[i] Victor Frankl  (1959; 2006)   Man’s Search for Meaning.  Beacon Press, Boston.

[ii] Batchelor  (1997) Buddhism Without Beliefs.  Riverhead Books, NY

[iii]John Lilly   (1975)  Simulations of God: The Science of Belief.  Bantam Books, NY

Making Sense of Spiritual Beliefs, Part II

In Part I of this Newsletter, I defined spirituality as the quest for ultimate or sacred meaning or purpose in life.  Although spirituality may mean different things to different people, from my point of view it is best considered as a certain kind of subjective experience.

In this Newsletter, Part II, I have set myself the task of articulating the quintessential ideas in a spiritual world view.   Although fundamentally spirituality is holistic– all of its parts intimately interconnected to the whole– I have found it helpful to break the concept down into its constituent elements:

< The essence of spirituality has to do with our experience of awareness of Being.

< In the spiritual or “sacred frame”, all being is one. This “unity of being”  is conceived as an    infinite field of potentiality, an “everything/nothing” from which all manifestation arises.

< Often, the sacred field is also described as the “background field”, or the “ground of being”.

< Within a theistic frame, the ground of being is “divine”;  it is Source.  It is God.

< From a secular point of view,  the sacred frame is an intelligence which manifests as wisdom and compassion.

< Mind and universe are mutually manifesting; Man’s mind mirrors a universe that mirrors man’s mind.

< The ground of being is already awake and aware. Spiritual practices are designed to access this awake awareness within one’s own experience.

< The ordinary consciousness of waking life is seen to be a kind of trance from which it is possible to “wake up”. “Waking up”  means to experience the unity of being directly, in one’s own experience.  (“Realization”).

< Waking up— spiritual awakening— is liberation from the bonds of identification with the egoic mind.

< Sacred space is apprehended not through a conceptual process, but rather directly; i.e., through felt sense. Experience of sacred space evokes awe,  “awakened heart”, or love.  It is often experienced as illumined; sometimes as “holy”.

< Experience of the sacred field reveals the truth that everything is connected to everything. In the language of Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, we “inter-are” with everything.  Unity of being has no boundaries.

< Spiritual experience involves opening to the unknown; to the sacred mysteries of life. It is fundamentally ineffable.

My hope is that, with this list in mind,  readers will find it interesting to examine their own spiritual beliefs.   Ultimately, as I have discussed in this series of Newsletters, beliefs are not “the truth”, but rather,  what we accept as true and what we can discover in the exploration of our own experience.  In this regard, we are well-served by the Buddhist doctrine of “ehipassiko”: the Dhamma invites all beings to put it to the test and come see for themselves.

Practicing With Problems

 

What Is “Practicing With Problems?”

The idea of  “practicing with problems” is adapted from  “dharma practice”, which means the ongoing application of Buddhadharma in one’s everyday life experience.    To “practice with” in a more generic sense means simply to systematically engage in self-reflection about our subjective experience.   “Practicing with problems” is a strategy for relating to our troublesome problems and circumstances by bringing deliberate, focused, and mindful attention to understanding what is going on with us.

Inquiry

One particular method which is useful in practicing with problems is that of “Inquiry.”  Simply stated, “Inquiry” means to formulate a personal question and then listen ongoingly for whatever answers may emerge.    To inquire is to “live in” the question of something,  simply staying as receptively alert as possible to whatever answers may emerge in the mind, body, and/or in events of life.   Inquiry is NOT an intellectual process, nor a process of trying to figure something out or make something happen.  It is a process of ALLOWING wisdom to unfold.

I have found it interesting to reflect on the idea that  “?”  is part of the basic grammar of the mind.   “?” launches a process of looking for answers.

If you’ve ever had the experience of not being able to remember a word you’re looking for (on the tip of your tongue, as it were),  you know that it often happens that the forgotten word shows up in your mind minutes, hours, or even days later.   This common experience demonstrates the nature of the unconscious circuitry of the mind.   Simply by asking a question, we invite the unfolding of the answers.

Finding Relevant Questions

Frequently when I describe the process and purpose of Inquiry,  people want to know “what should I ask?”   That is a great first question!   The common wisdom is:  Start where you are.

It’s important to understand that the CONTENT of what you ask (the Question) is only part of what’s important about Inquiry.   Equally important, or arguably more important, is the mindset we bring to Inquiry; receptivity to PROCESS.

In practicing with problems, inquiry questions morph, evolve, and deepen over time.   The following example will convey the basic idea:   I woke up in an “off mood” and wasn’t immediately able to connect it with a dream or any other recent event.  Curious about what was bothering me,  I decided to make this question the object of focus in my morning meditation.  I first turned my attention to what I was feeling and simply inquired  “What is this about”?   I soon recognized that this train of thought was connected to my apprehension regarding an upcoming social event.  Although social anxiety is not uncommon for me, I pressed myself to into the question “What am I scared of”?  As I unpacked the various levels of answer to this question, I honed in on the feeling of shame.  I was averse to feeling shame.  This led to the additional question: “How I Am I Afraid I Will Be Seen”?  Over ensuing days this changed yet again into the question  “Who Am I Afraid I Am”? and, eventually, the softer form ”Who Do I Aspire To Be?”?

Inquiry As The Unfolding of Wisdom

Fundamentally, I believe, what we actually seek when we engage Inquiry is to connect more deeply with our organic or intuitive intelligence.   The template I rely upon is one I discovered in the process of recovering from physical injuries.  While doing rehab at the gym, I learned that it was often more beneficial to mindfully feel my way through a workout than it was to execute a prescribed sequence of exercises.   I discovered that the best workouts were those in which I was able (at least on some occasions) to surrender agency to the wisdom of my body, allowing my body to choose what movement or exercise needed to be done next.   With careful embodied attention, my body seemed able to hone in on what was needed for its healing.   By bringing awareness to the body in this way, somatic intelligence was able to reveal itself.  The frame in such “somatic inquiry”  is that whatever arises (including pain)  is an expression of the organic intelligence of the body.

So, too, with the psychological process of Inquiry.    An inquiry question serves as a container for our experience of problems and difficulties,  framing an underlying intention to grow with and from awareness of our emotional life.   When we Inquire, we repeatedly look deeply into problems in a way that breathes space into them and allows their hidden meanings to emerge.   Inquiry is an intuitive process in which we feel our way forward through our challenges and difficulties, surrendering as best we are able to whatever arises in our experience.

Allowing Your Practice To Find You

People often ask what Inquiry I recommend for them, or what tools or techniques they need to practice in order to solve their problems.   In my response, what I generally try to illuminate is the underlying set of assumptions hidden within that question.  What does the person feel so urgent about getting, doing, or having?  (And, what is at stake?)  Are they being driven by aversion to current experience?

More important than what we do is how we are relating to ourselves.   When we prioritize the urgency of relief over the slowness of being present with what is, it is very easy to overlook the intuitive wisdom that is seeking to emerge.

Through the intention to “practice with” our difficult and painful experiences, we can begin to embrace the radical possibility that our symptoms and problems are actually appropriate responses to some underlying sense of loss of meaning, purpose, and connection in our world of lived experience.   Things begin to shift when we start to recognize that painful emotional states have their own intelligence, often to help us recognize what it is that we do not want to feel.  The work given us to do is then to re-own, re-embody, and work through our disowned experience.

The art of Inquiry, of life-as-practice, is a practice unto itself.

 

Footnote:  Suzuki, Shunryu

Listened Into Being

 

I have long been a proponent of what the poet David Whyte calls the “conversational nature of reality.”   What we articulate and communicate to one another has power;in the conversational mirror of the other, we gain access to the freedom to think new thoughts and to see ourselves in new ways.  This gives conversation an enormous potential to deepen our experience and even transform our identity.

However, not just any conversation will do.  As I observe this process in my own experience, it seems to me that in addition to a pre-requisite interpersonal resonance,  I need to feel that my listener has the capacity to understand what I am trying to say in a deep way.   It is only when I feel “well met” by another that a truly generative conversation is likely to happen.

There are as many different kinds of conversation as there are people or topics to talk about, but I highlight the following dimensions that seem to invite generative or transformative dialogue:

• First, the quality of connection is key.   In much the same way that particular characteristics of children are brought forth by what their parents see and respond to in them, we continue to transform throughout life in response to the interactions and conversations we have with others.  (In one such relationship, my friend told me that she felt like I was a thirsty plant that, for whatever reason, she had a talent for watering ).
• Second, dialogue can be enhanced as a function of the intention(s) that each of us brings to the conversation. I prize most highly those conversations in which I engage with someone(s) in deep inquiry around some particular question of interest.  Psychotherapy is one example of such a specialized conversation. Its intersubjective magic, I believe, happens when we have the intention to provide a healing relational environment for the other and when we are able to see both who the other is and what is standing in his or her way.
• Third, the power of the dialogue we share with others is a function of the depth of Presence brought to the process of listening. Contemplative dialogue can be structured around topics decided in advance but it need not be.   We can simply engage one another in a process of discovery about something of interest, where we listen for what wants to be said and known at the tip of the current moment.

In what follows, I describe a deep inquiry that I have been engaged with in dialogue with a dharma colleague.   I had a specific goal for this inquiry:  to overcome the inhibitions that stand in the way of my freedom of self-expression as a writer.  I articulated my purpose or aspiration as finding the authentic voice of my own wisdom.   As described in the bullet points above,  my belief was that simply by engaging in this inquiry and encountering the inhibitions that arose, the entire matter of authenticity would get clarified for me;  and it was.

Here are some of the main ideas that informed the inquiry that unfolded:

• Since one of the central premises in my practice of inquiry is that answers unfold in response to the questions that we ask, I began to reflect deeply about what my important questions were. I knew that the general area was self-doubt.   But what were the specific things I felt inhibited to speak about?  And why?
• I could best find the answers I needed by entering into conversation and seeing what views and opinions I felt reluctant to express. Ironically, I already knew that inquiry itself would be the hardest thing to talk about, because that is my leading edge at this time and is what I am challenging myself to articulate in writing.
• I felt that it would be valuable to think out loud with others – especially with others I respect as discerning and astute— in order to see where the holes in my thinking might lie and in order to gain greater clarity and confidence.   (This was one of the conscious intentions I had when I began to meet with this particular colleague.)
• I have in the past opined that thinking, like language, is essentially a relational act, but in our shared dialogue, this became increasingly and abundantly clear: Often I don’t even know what I think in advance of hearing what I have to say!  
•  The emergence of “answers” and insights in the process of our inquiry/dialogue were often heralded by my feeling anxious or upset following a conversation. When those feelings came up, my effort was simply to feel my way into whatever was most sharp and uncomfortable.  Often, this process found its way into my meditation sittings, where clarity would emerge.
• I gained considerable conceptual clarity in these conversations. But beyond ideas, what  emerged for me was also a feeling of being able to rest in the process of dialogue and in the truth that thinking actually is a relational act.  Though I had described this process before,  I now felt that I could “put my money where my mouth was” and trust that this conversation was one which could hold me.    I could rest in the relationality of thinking!

 What stands out for me in hindsight is how much braver I have become over time about expressing my ideas.  As I reflect on why this is so, what strikes me is that it has to do with the risks I have taken in allowing myself to be vulnerable; my willingness to reveal my ignorance and to disclose parts of myself that I tend to guard.   In short,  this conversational arena gave me lots of chances to show up as myself, and in so doing has allowed me to grow more comfortable in my own skin.

In short, by repeatedly making the choice to be vulnerable and to communicate authentically,

I planted seeds which were able to blossom into flowers of mutual understanding and greater self-acceptance.  This to me is the essence of how we listen one another into being.
 

 “Each friend represents a world in us,

 a world possibly not born until they arrive,

and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.”

       – Anais Nin

 

 

 

In Pursuit of Inner Freedom

A friend recently asked me what I was planning to write about next.  I said that I didn’t know, except that my intention was to not plan it; instead, I wanted to give my writing a chance to unfold;  to emerge from within.  Fundamentally, the essence of this creative process is identical to the orientation towards inner knowing which is cultivated in the practice of meditation.   It has three interrelated aspects:  1) the intention to receive experience in lieu of any effort to manage or control it; 2) the commitment to allocate time, space, and energy to writing; and 3) an attitude of trust towards whatever would emerge as a consequence of #1 and #2. I knew that my ability to write clearly, like my ability to discern clearly, often depends upon how well I am able to clear the clutter or confusion in my mind at any given moment.   If I could appropriately settle myself to write,  much as I try to do when engaging a process of self-inquiry,  I trusted that what I was looking for would appear. Ironically, having articulated and written that one thought, I recognized that a new piece of writing had, in fact, just begun.   Beginning with the question of “What do I want to write next? ”,  my first discovery was that the answer to this question was best revealed to me through the process of engaging in the act of writing.    In this way, the activity of writing became an embodied act of inquiry unto itself.  Second, as I have written elsewhere , posing an inquiry question is a powerful act.  The question serves as a kind of intentional matrix of meaning which serves to support growth and facilitate the emergence of new experience.  Because I have struggled with a feeling of inner tyranny, this inquiry was an appropriate ‘practice’ for me. As I immersed myself in the process of writing, a set of contemplative reflections started to crystallize in my mind as fractals of a lifetime of interrelated thoughts about the nature of inner freedom.   I saw quite clearly that my quest for inner freedom has been one of the central repeating themes of my life.  I also saw clearly the pattern of psychological obstacles I have encountered in my lifelong pursuit of this freedom.  The metaphor of “fractals” seemed perfect, implying as it does that the questions we face and the choices we make are self-similar in the different levels of our lives, our behavior, and our psyches. Freedom from has mostly been something I have struggled with in relation to the constant demands of my professional striving and what I have termed the “tyranny of the to do list.”  Freedom to has mostly lived for me as a quest for the highly valued experience of spacious awareness familiar to me from meditation practice.  In either case, the pursuit of freedom needs to begin by exploring the ways that we don’t feel free.   In the words of the familiar Zen saying,  “the obstacle is the path.”   Obstacles are not what stands in our way; they are the way itself. A basic layer of the core of the issue for me has to do with how I typically manage the Doing of life,  including functions such as defining goals, planning and prioritizing tasks, and similar.   “Planning Mind” is a useful shorthand for these various executive functions.  I am highly organized by nature, most at home within a framework of schedules and To Do lists.   I am oriented toward working hard at everything I do.   This allows me to be productive but, alas, this personal m.o. is not conducive to receptively allowing anything! In writing an essay, for example, the good student in me readily goes to work generating outlines and bullet points.  While this kind of structure is not optimal in regard to freedom of self-expression,  I can also recognize that my analytical mind often comes up with a lot of creative ideas, so I try to avoid throwing out the baby with the bathwater.  Where does this leave me?   With the challenge to find a balance between being proactive and directed, on the one hand,  and receptive and allowing on the other. There are several interrelated layers of psychological issues..   The way we relate to Time is central. To be too much in a hurry, beset with deadlines, too pressured or impatient for results, is a hindrance to contemplative writing.   The Buddha used the simile of the lute to illustrate the concept of right effort:  strings which are tuned either too tight or too loose interfere with the quality of the music that the instrument can make.   In regard to time, the most useful self-guidance is to Slow Down.  This takes a lot of practice, but is a very worthy contemplative aspiration. In order to deepen my inquiry about the tyranny of time in my life,   I recently devoted four days to a meditation “staycation” (self-retreat) in order to explore how scheduling lives in my experience.   In order to deepen my experience of the non-doing which is meditation,  I deliberately decided in advance not to predetermine my schedule of practice:  not to choose in advance of the actual moment what practice I would do in that period of practice (sitting meditation, walking meditation, yoga, etc.)  I thought of this as an extension of the idea of open-focus awareness practice:   Instead of a pre-determined schedule of practice, I would simply investigate how “free choice” actually unfolded from moment to moment and over the days of the retreat.  Many of the ideas about subjective experience of freedom explored in this essay became clearer to me during those days of retreat practice. Gradually The Pursuit of Freedom became my contemplative focus in this essay. It was apparent to me that the crux of the issue is the structure of our inner tyrannies:  that which makes us hold on so tightly to what we are doing/feel that we need to do.  We all have basic needs for safety, love, and belonging;  the need to be in control, to solve problems, and to stay safe.  Other things being equal, we become organized around the pursuit of whatever we think will make us happy:  pleasure, success, power, money, status, relationships, and so on.  The tyranny of striving rests on deeply embedded aspects of character which make us vulnerable to states of inner angst.   For example, we may feel anxious about whether we will be able to get what we need;  or, we may feel driven to try to get more of whatever it is, driven by the fear that we won’t be able to get enough. There are endless variations.  As a starting point,  it is helpful for people to see clearly what it is that they are trying to be, do, or have.  In some form or another, most of us are caught up in trying to be in control of something we are not in control of.  Often, we are consciously or unconsciously trying to “fix it”  (or fix ourselves). When this predicament reveals itself, a common next reaction is: “So how do I stop doing that?” as if it were something that we needed to do.  Just as we cannot “fall ourselves to sleep at night”,  what is wanted and needed in regard to many of our problems is, instead, the absence of our customary doing.  When possible, we can make a different choice.   But, in general, what we need to “do” is simply to see more clearly what we are holding tightly to or trying to control, and, as best we are able, relax into the predicament. Easy to say but hard to do.  (Actually, not something which can be done at all!) Regardless of what our particular pursuit may be,  the essence of inner tyranny is that we get stuck in defining the meaning of our lives in terms of completions which live in the future.   This is a true predicament, in that you simply can’t get there from here.   Seeking stands in the way of finding. You can Be happy, but you can’t get happy. Conclusions Those who have followed my work or who know me personally will recognize that what I have written here is fundamentally what I have learned as I have inquired deeply into  “workaholism” [i].  Writing this issue of INQUIRING DEEPLY NEWSLETTER has been a marvelous vehicle for the process of that self-exploration/ inquiry.   What is conceptualized on these pages has articulated and validated some insights which have been in the process of unfolding in me for some time. The overarching ongoing theme is, I think, my quest for internal freedom through a shift from Doing to Being.  There is a beautiful challenge in holding this intention without making it into a pursuit of some future attainment.  In the most rewarding of such moments, the experience of freedom lives in me both as an appreciation of the perfection of What Is as well as an opening into an unlimited sense of possibility. [i] For example, see Schuman (2006)    Driven To Distraction: Observations on Obsessionality.   in Cooper, P. (ed) Into the Mountain Stream: Psychoanalysis and Buddhist Experience.  Rowman & Littlefield, Maryland [i]Schuman (2020).   Inquiring deeply about equanimity.   Unpublished manuscript. [ii] “Reflections on Pace of Life.    Inquiring Deeply Newsletter, December 2021 [iii] For example, see Schuman (2006)   Driven to Distraction:  Observations on Obsessionality.  in Cooper, P. (ed)  Into The Mountain Stream:  Psychoanalysis and Buddhist Experience.  Rowman & Littlefield, Maryland.