Something That Happened (a story of agony and discovery)
On an otherwise beautiful Saturday morning in May 2020, I found myself leaning against the shower door, hyperventilating. The searing, relentless pain in my legs was threatening my ability to function and even my bearings in reality. It was as close as I had ever been to rock bottom.
Six weeks prior — only days before my two sons’ schools in Maryland closed and the Great Lockdown began — I had strained the little-known calf muscles known as peroneals by overdoing it on a stationary bike. What started as a minor annoyance evolved into agony like I had never known before. The intense pain, coupled with guilt from becoming a burden on my family when they needed me more than ever, left me shattered physically and mentally. My wife and kids were, in fact, incredibly supportive, but they could not really comprehend the depths of my suffering.
In desperation, I was open to any legal form of relief, so when a doctor recommended trying meditation, I could hardly turn it down. I downloaded the Insight Timer app, and found that, remarkably, even 5 or 10 minutes of calmly watching my breath took the edge off of breakthrough pain. I had dabbled in a form of mantra meditation in high school but had never before encountered breath-based meditation and, like most people, found it simple but definitely not easy.
I also enrolled in an Insight Timer audio course on pain relief through meditation and breathwork led by Vidyamala Burch, a British teacher and author who suffered a major back injury in her youth. Her insights, clearly hard-won over decades of severe pain, were a revelation, none more so than her observation that painful sensations are never static but instead always in subtle flux, more a fierce wind than a boulder. As a 44-year old cyclist with more passion than athletic ability, I was no stranger to orthopedic pain, but here was a truth hiding in plain sight that immediately lessened my suffering. I later came to recognize that it was this teaching on ceaseless change that set me on the path towards the dharma, where many similar truths patiently waited.
At the time, though, I rebuffed my wife’s good-natured questions of whether I was becoming a “JewBu,” or Jewish Buddhist, as I thought myself strictly practicing secular mindfulness meditation. I read several books by Jon Kabat-Zinn, the “godfather” of the modern mindfulness movement, and a pile of magazines in the same vein. These sources certainly helped me develop my practice, but as the weeks progressed, they left me wanting more. It became apparent that I was approaching meditation transactionally, expecting my efforts to produce a specific outcome in the form of pain relief, just as others might seek increased focus or relaxation. My fledgling desire for a sustainable meditation practice needed a deeper and more solid foundation. I felt an urge to meditate daily, but why exactly was I doing it? I looked for answers in the more mystical offerings on Insight Timer, but my rational mind would not take refuge in so many non-empirical beliefs. At the same time, I worried that those preaching the clinical benefits of meditation risked turning it into a coldly analytic practice unmoored from ethics. What are we to make of snipers practicing mindfulness — or more accurately, “attention training,” as some critics note?
At last, I decided to follow the Buddhist breadcrumbs dropped by numerous mindfulness teachers and found that indeed they led to a vast feast. I started steadily consuming books, articles, and recorded talks by a range of modern dharma teachers, almost to the exclusion of any other material — a choice made easier by the toxic news spirals of 2020. Gravitating mostly to the Western vipassana (insight meditation) tradition, I listened to recordings by Jack Kornfield and Bhikkhu Bodhi but also Thich Nhat Hanh and Pema Chodron, discovered the vast audio library Dharma Seed and the abundant Tricycle magazine archives, joined some fractious but occasionally-insightful Facebook groups, and even waded gingerly into the early canonical texts themselves. The amount of online content and offerings, especially in the COVID era, was exhilarating but almost intimidating, and I took early heed of Tara Brach’s warning to avoid the “trance of unworthiness,” where true happiness and wisdom forever beckon from the far side of just one more book, one more retreat.
On an intellectual level, I was captivated by the Buddha’s refined and thorough diagnosis of the human condition, and by all the interrelated lists and concepts. The centrality of compassion to the Western vipassana teachings spoke to my heart, while the lack — or at least deemphasizing — of supernatural elements satisfied my agnostic bent. Karma and rebirth seemed a bit anomalous in this regard, but I figured that wrestling with these questions could be put off for the time being. And most importantly, all this academic study was balanced by — even subservient to — the practice of sitting still and getting to know my own mind firsthand. The Buddha compared his teachings to a raft that can carry you to the shores of awakening; you cannot just admire the fine construction of the raft, you have to get on it and paddle.
The 2500-year-old teachings on change and egolessness, clinging and liberation, felt excitingly fresh and yet also in sync with many strands of my life thus far. I had, after all, been a Religious Studies major in college, having long been drawn to understanding the multifaceted approaches to probing the mysteries of life. But I also thought about the time I pulled myself out of a deep funk in college by resolving not to keep reliving past mistakes. I recalled being profoundly consoled and inspired by the Dalai Lama’s The Art of Happiness while living in a New York City reeling from 9/11. More superficially, I noticed the Buddha’s visage in a piece of art hanging on our wall and the candle holder in his likeness on my desk. I felt like I was going on an adventure and coming home at the same time.
I also felt the urge to go beyond solo practice and connect with a like-minded community. As the DC region abounds with passionate subcultures, I quickly found a wonderful sangha (spiritual community) through the Insight Meditation Community of Washington and its offshoot Center for Mindful Living. While a few people had similar life circumstances to me, I learned just as much from those who were on the path under very different circumstances. Although virtual sits were convenient in many ways, they did not allow for informal hallway connections, so I set up calls with several members to hear how actual human beings incorporated the dharma into their lives, and to get suggestions for further progress. One teacher astutely reassured me that I was not at risk of “overdoing it,” like I had on my stationary bike.
For me and so many others, 2020 has been nothing if not a crash course in impermanence. On top of juggling telework, virtual school and long weeks with two energetic boys, my wife and I were doing our best to provide support to our close friend Ashley and her family in her heroic two-year battle with cancer. We made the most of our social-distanced gatherings and I delivered them many of my wife’s home-cooked dinners, but as her pain levels soared over the summer and the doctors decided to stop further treatment, we started bracing for the worst. Of course, the predictable can still be a terrible shock when it finally comes to pass, as it did in late September. Her funeral — which we could not attend due to COVID — was set on the same date I had picked weeks prior for my first attempt at a self-guided meditation retreat, and I decided to go through with it. When the thoughts of Ashley arose, I invited them to stay as long as they wanted and let the silent tears stream. It felt as fitting a tribute as I could make under the circumstances.
A few mornings later, I read the seminal Satipatthana Sutta (Discourse on the Four Foundations of Mindfulness) for the first time after hearing many talks on its core teachings. I thus already felt familiar with its passages on mindfulness of body, feelings, mind, and dharma principles. I was unprepared, however, for the extended passage on contemplation of the decomposing human body, and was initially puzzled and disturbed. But then, as I started my shower, the pieces began to fall into place. This leg covered with soap will finally stop hurting one day, will grow old and weak, and will eventually turn to nothing more than dust. But that same dust will mix into the earth, water, fire and air, and its particles will enter a future meditator’s lungs, then blood, then cells (where perhaps one might say they are reborn?). Yes, everything is impermanent — but also eternal and interconnected. I once again found myself leaning on the shower door for support, but this time against the brute force of seeing reality more clearly than ever before. Afterwards, I went downstairs and hugged my boys for a little longer than usual.
Several months into the injury, my condition has improved, if slowly and inconsistently. I’m not sure yet if I will call myself a Buddhist — perhaps, but I’m not sure how much it really matters. It is beyond doubt, however, that my perspective has changed in profound ways. If you had asked me after that shower in May, I would have cursed my injury as the worst thing to ever happen to me. If you had asked again mid-summer, I might have wondered if it was turning out to be the best thing to ever happen to me. But now, as I traverse the path towards greater insight, compassion and equanimity, I am beginning to see that it was simply something that happened.