What Matters MostBy Ezra Bayda and Elizabeth Hamilton
When
Elizabeth Hamilton is diagnosed with breast cancer, she and her husband
Ezra Bayda learn the real value of life, love, and holding our
attachments lightly. Here, both Zen teachers recount their experiences
of Hamilton’s illness and recovery.
Elizabeth
In April 2008 I
spoke at Zen Center of San Diego about how fortunate we are if we begin
Zen practice before an
unwanted diagnosis is staring us in the face. A month later I was called
about a mammogram that showed dubious calcifications in one breast. A
biopsy confirmed early stage breast cancer.
The diagnosis
wasn’t on my wish list and—being literally attached to that breast—my
first reaction was aversion and fear. But a cancer diagnosis isn’t
awful, unfair, or tragic. Thinking that it is, is an emotional
reaction—an addition that we bring to the situation, based on our
personality and predilections. Unexamined, reactions sap aspiration and
vitality, and sour our disposition. Thich Nhat Hanh’s comment, “I arrive
in each moment, in order to laugh and to cry, to fear and to hope,”
reminds us that Zen training isn’t about floating unaffected above life.
That’s usually premature transcendence. Considering the
location of the cancer cells, the best option in my case seemed to be a
mastectomy rather than a lumpectomy. It was difficult to face the idea
of losing a breast, given that many cultures, including ours, have a
veritable fetish for breasts. Concerns about desirability and appearance
regularly overshadow concerns about natural functioning. Over one-third
of women report dissatisfaction with their breast shape and size, and
breast-augmentation becomes more popular every year. One ironic symptom
of our preoccupation with breasts is that while magazines featuring
semi-naked women are available in many supermarkets, women may feel
unwelcome to breast feed, even at family functions. Two diseases are at
work here: the breast fetish, and the epidemic of chronic
dissatisfaction. Unlike many men, Ezra—my practice
and life partner—isn’t preoccupied with breast size, or even the absence
of a breast. His attitude has eased the process of adjusting to a
mastectomy, as have two particular practices: loving-kindness
meditation, and the ability to distinguish between skillful and
unskillful thinking. Skillful or clear thinking is the kind that sees
situations objectively and determines appropriate courses of action.
Unskillful thinking includes the emotion-laden, egocentric if only’s, poor me’s, and why-why-why’s.
A particularly pernicious form of
unskillful thinking is the belief that if we have an illness or physical
condition, we are somehow to blame. This misconception is a second
disease, because it makes us feel worse by setting forth a welcome mat
for guilt or shame. Did we “create” our illness? If so, shouldn’t we be
able to “un-create” it? Obviously, thoughts and emotions co-arise with
physical conditions; however, when we turn this fact into a distorted
version of causation, we’re assuming that our tiny ego rules the
universe. Sadly, such notions reflect self-centeredness and a corrosive
lack of compassion. Another unskillful mind-set is the
belief that our state of mind is primarily determined by our life
circumstances. This is clearly not so. Don’t we all know people who are
healthy yet chronically unhappy? Through hospice volunteering, I’m
fortunate to meet people in dire straits who remain capable of gratitude
and equanimity. Prior to my surgery, I started
practicing an interesting meditation that involved greeting the cancer
cells and inviting their input. They didn’t seem to have much to say,
and eventually I let them know that, even though they were going to do
what they were going to do, their continued proliferation would
eventually send all of my body’s cells, cancerous ones included, down
the tubes together. I mentioned that an eviction party was scheduled, on
the day of the surgery, and that my hope was that they’d vacate. This
meditation made something strikingly obvious to me: the cancer cells
were my children, since they undeniably took birth in this body of mine.
How could the cancer cells and breast that were removed not be part of
my very self, no matter where they were now? The eviction
party has passed, yet there’s no guarantee against future cancer. If a
body produces cancer once, it can do it again, and that’s a fact, not a
catastrophe. The markers following surgery indicate that the margins and
lymph nodes are cancer-free, good news that can readily precipitate yet
another deluded disease: the disease of turning being currently
cancer-free into one more branch to grasp at, even though we’re all up
to our necks in the quicksand of impermanence. My current
cancer and surgery pilgrimage is one small example of why Zen practice
has to take us where we don’t necessarily want to go. If it’s not clear
what’s required in order to be present during difficulties, practice
might just fall flat when we need it most. Once again I’m
grateful to Stephen Levine, the first teacher who helped me see the
value of greeting life’s inevitable jolts with charitable awareness. In
one of his retreats, he spoke of a cancer patient who said, “Cancer is
the gift for someone who has everything.” At the time I couldn’t imagine
ever understanding such a thing, but guess what? I have everything! Zen
assures us that we are one with everyone and everything. In that case,
how could cancer be excluded? Losing a breast is a tangible
reminder of what matters most. This means that, as a central component
of spiritual practice, we must continually investigate our ego. We must
learn to understand the reactions we add to the present moment and
nurture loving-kindness. As practice goes deeper and we become less
preoccupied with our me-stuff, the balance shifts, and more of reality
gets in. Hopefully we realize that we’re the lucky ones. We, after all,
have the opportunity to walk the path of awakening—detours, precipices,
and all. I know of no more direct route for accepting Thich Nhat Hanh’s
invitation: “May the door of our hearts be left open—the door of
compassion.”
Ezra
My wife,
Elizabeth, and I were on a wonderful retreat-vacation in the beautiful
and peaceful area of Lake Como, in northern Italy. We spent hours
walking through the idyllic towns of Bellagio and Varenna, eating pasta
at almost every meal, meditating in a different church each day, and
appreciating how lucky we were to have the health and resources to share
our life together. Then, shortly after our return to San Diego,
Elizabeth was diagnosed with breast cancer. It felt like
the ground had been pulled out from under me. My fear was palpable. In
spite of my ten years as a hospice volunteer and my many years of
practice, I couldn’t deny that I was still somewhat caught up in the
illusion that we had endless time. This illusion, which we all hold to
some degree, leaves us convinced that our life will continue
indefinitely into the vague future. We are rarely aware of the extent to
which this belief keeps us skating on thin ice, oblivious to the very
real fact that our lives can end or be drastically altered at any time,
without any warning. Yet as we baby boomers get
inexorably older, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain this
illusion of endless time. We hear of more and more people we know being
diagnosed with cancer or some other serious condition, and it is no
longer unusual for someone close to us to die. My former wife and very
close friend for over thirty-five years died of breast cancer last year.
And many students whom I work with are dealing with the very difficult
circumstances surrounding aging and dying parents. We can continue to
try to ignore the evidence, but the cracks in the thin ice seem to be
getting bigger as each friend passes. We may think
it’s not fair, but that’s just the point of view of the small mind of
ego—the sense of entitlement that life should go the way we want it to
go. In historical perspective, our times are relatively safe and
comfortable, and perhaps that fortifies the illusion of control. Yet, it
can seem daunting when this illusion gets shattered, as it did with
Elizabeth’s diagnosis. As we become aware that our loved
ones have limited time, we are bound to feel alone and disconnected,
which can manifest as fear of abandonment and loss. On some basic yet
very deep level all of us feel fundamentally alone, and until we face
this directly, we will fear it. Most of us will do almost anything to
avoid this fear. Many, when faced with the fear of aloneness, get extra
busy, or try to find some other escape. Ultimately, however, the
willingness to truly feel the fear of aloneness and loss is the only way
to transcend it. It’s also the only way to develop intimacy with
others, because genuine intimacy can’t be based on neediness or on the
fear of being alone. When we need people we can’t truly love them,
because we see them and relate to them through the small mind’s filter
of neediness. It’s a given that we fear
disconnection when faced with possible loss. I certainly felt it when I
was told Elizabeth had cancer. But we can’t forget that true connection
comes when we’re willing to acknowledge the uncomfortable feelings that
are part of our human condition. True connection comes when we breathe
the aching fear of loss into the center of our chests and simply let it
be there, no matter how uncomfortable we might feel. Once we truly learn
to reside in our fear of aloneness, we will no longer expect those
close to us to assume responsibility for taking away our fear or making
us feel good. Instead we will know reality; we will know love. Facing our
aloneness and fears exposes our deepest attachments, leaving us without
the false props of our illusions. Although this can be painful, the good
news is that mindfulness practice can help make it less so. The
melodrama doesn’t have to take over, and instead we can begin to see
through what we are most attached to. Am I attached
to Elizabeth? Absolutely! In fact, one of the things that has become
clear to me since I heard she had breast cancer is how I’ve held the
belief that I can’t be happy without her. So her diagnosis helped me to
realize the degree of my attachment—to her, to her good health, to our
life together. This situation has given me an opportunity to look more
deeply. Aren’t our difficulties always our best teacher, taking us to
the places we will rarely go on our own? As I’ve watched
my mind, it’s become clear that thoughts such as “I need Elizabeth to
be happy” are thoughts based on self-centeredness and fear. And it’s
become clear that every one of these thoughts prevents me from really
being with Elizabeth, because they’re not about her, but about me. Practice helps
us accept our feelings of groundlessness and disconnection and leads us
to become more willing to feel and reside in our fears—our fear of the
loss of control, our fear of the loss of the familiar. Residing in our
fears without doing what we usually do to get rid of them is what erodes
our attachments and helps us see through our illusions—the illusions
that we have endless time or that we can make life go the way we want. How can we
face these fears directly? First we must be willing to drop the story
line—the thoughts that the spinning mind keeps churning out. Once we
decline to indulge thoughts like “This is awful,” “I can’t handle this,”
or “Poor me,” the melodrama loses its steam, and we’re left with
something that is much more workable—the actual energy of fear and loss.
We can then say yes to them, which means we are willing to feel them
rather than run away from them. It may seem counterintuitive, yet
when fear of loss arises, if we breathe the sensations of anxiety right
into the center of our chests, we may find that our usual dread is
replaced with a genuine curiosity. As the familiar thoughts that
normally fuel our fear begin to fall away, we can experience the healing
power of the heart. This is a non-conceptual experience—it does not
come from words or explanations, but rather from the spaciousness of a
wider container of awareness. As the fear of living as a separate being
dissolves, we naturally tap into the connectedness and loving-kindness
that are always available to us, and that are the real fruit of the
practice life. The result of all this for me is
that I’m even more appreciative of Elizabeth, and more able to be
present with her. It’s not that I wasn’t appreciative of her before, but
being caught in my attachments prevented me from being fully present
with her. This is not to say that I’m now totally free of attachment to
her, but my attachment is much more lightly held. Practice can transform
our need for a particular thing into a less emotion-based preference
for that thing. Having preferences isn’t a problem, nor is enjoying
them. The problem is when we’re so enslaved by our attachments that they
run our lives. As the demand loses its hold, we can simply enjoy it as a
preference. Of course, no one wants to reside
in the sinking groundlessness that is triggered when we fall through one
of the cracks in the thin ice. Nonetheless, it’s only when we’re able
to reside in the physical experience of no ground—no longer clinging to
our fantasies of how life is supposed to be—that the power of our
attachments begins to diminish. This is the path of practice. When we
see through our attachments, that is, when we fully experience them, the
result is freedom. When we see without the filters of our judgments and
desires, the result is appreciation and the quiet joy of being. When we
see through our fears, the result is love.
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