LETTING GO OF SUFFERING
In the UCT medical museum there is a tumour, preserved in a bottle, and it is the size of a melon, as the accompanying newspaper article describes it. At least, it was there when I visited in 1970 as a young philosophy student, eager to discover more about the world.
The story tells of a young woman in her late 20’s who was visited by a social worker in connection with some other problem. She discovered that the young woman had a huge tumour on her bottom, and was unable to sit comfortably because of it. The social worker explained to her that she could have the tumour removed. But the young woman resisted. It was a part of her. She had adjusted her life to it. It had always been there and in fact, she had absorbed it into her self-concept. It took a lot of persuading and counselling for her to agree to let go of her affliction. Afterwards, she rejoiced in her new found freedom, able to wear normal clothes, a bathing costume, go at last to the beach. It was a true release.
When people say we choose and are attached to our suffering, it sounds ridiculous. Who would choose to suffer? But the way we choose our suffering, and the way we hold on to it, is much more subtle. It is a Buddhist precept that there is suffering. What is meant by this is much more than the mundane fact of earthquakes and famine that we can all see. It means that we are all in a state of suffering merely by virtue of the fact that we are on this earth. And we suffer because we are ignorant, as the young lady was, that we can be released from our suffering. We suffer because we have absorbed this level of suffering into our self-concept. It has always been there, and we cope with it as best we can. But we do not really know how to let go of it. Most of our attempts to escape our suffering just lead to greater enmeshment within the web that holds us.
We may claim that we are not suffering. It is just ‘life’, and the defenders of the position are just being ‘realistic’. All too often, ‘realists’ are just closet pessimists, no closer to reality than anyone else. If only they could be real instead of realistic!
What we can see is relative suffering. The body of the Meths drinker in the street reflects the deep level of his suffering on the ‘blue Train’. There is a numbness to his senses, beyond that induced by his imbibing. Without that numbness he could not survive. He would be screaming and writhing in pain. In fact, of course, some people who breach the limits of endurance do exactly that, and we call them ‘insane’. But for ourselves we feel relatively less pain, and we tend to take ourselves quite comfortably as the ‘norm’. But the same situation applies to us. As Aldous Huxley discovered in ‘The Doors of Perception’, if our senses were fully operative we would be overwhelmed with information. We can survive in this world because there is a filter on our senses which limits the extent to which we can perceive the world, and of course, to which we feel our pain. ‘Pink Floyd’ described it as, ‘comfortably numb’. People who suffer from hyperacussis hear sounds abnormally loudly, and loud noises actually cause them physical pain. What we regard as a ‘normal’ level of hearing ability, is way below what is possible for humans, let alone for other animals.
Some people are living in a constant state of suffering compared to which we are relatively well off. If their ability to endure this is made possible by a filter which limits the pain, we cannot claim with any certainty that we are not in exactly the same situation relative to some other state of being. Compared to that, we are the Meths drinkers. And so on up to some potential state of being which is completely free of suffering. Could be.
If a person can be reluctant to loose a source of physical discomfort, might we not also be clinging to a view of reality which is limiting? It could be quite threatening to us to let go of all we have deemed certain to face the hope and risk the disappointment of release. How clearly do we want to see reality?
We can see this process of release from longstanding suffering in psychotherapy. When a person experiences a cathartic release or attains a significant insight, they feel relieved and released from a discomfort they have endured all their lives. This release can be permanent, and it can be succeeded by other releases. On what grounds can we posit a limit to the extent that this process can continue? Until we actually confront the limiting factor, we cannot know its extent, nor what might lie beyond.
Let us look at how we can release our attachment to our suffering. There is no mystery in this, and no arcane belief required: just a step by step plodding towards reality. But as we approach reality, (whatever reality turns out to be for each of us as we uncover it), the intensity of the fear which holds us in thrall, increases. When we finally acknowledge the reality, the ‘charge’ in that aspect of our psyche is released. It is like bringing a rod charged with static electricity towards an Electroscope. As you approach the electroscope, the charge in the rod causes the gold leaves in the device to repel each other and move apart. But when you bring the rod so close that it actually touches the electrode, the charge is released, and the gold leaves collapse.
Our fear and the unpleasant feelings that hold the blockage, increase in intensity as we approach the confrontation with our reality. Once we acknowledge the underlying truth, we are released from one more illusion, one more predisposition to choose and hold on to our suffering, and we move a little closer to the discovery of our true nature.
Socrates said that the first state of knowledge is to know that we do not know. The difficulty is exactly that we have so absorbed our habitual state of being into our perception of ‘reality’ that we really believe it is real. We really believe we have to live with our tumours. To start to doubt that is to start to doubt the whole fabric of our reality. Once we wake up from the anaesthetic, it can be dangerous. The process of liberation is not to be undertaken lightly. Often it is useful to have a supportive structure, a group of trusted friends, or at least a routine to return to, to let you get your bearings again before venturing into more discovery. Once you have let go of the handrail of your regular limitations, it is difficult to judge with certainty which is a new reality, and which, a new illusion. This can be the role of ritual: like a fire drill, something that can guide us in coping with daily life when panic, or unusual experiences, have removed the familiar. When we judge a ritual ‘meaningless’, we have to be able to say by what measure we are sure of our own meaning.
Simply to argue that we cannot see any meaning in it, is dangerous and foolish. Sartre wrote of going to a café to meet Pierre. He could not find him there. But the mere fact that he could not see him did not allow him to claim that Pierre was not there, with the same certainty that he would have called him ‘present’ if he had seen him. He might have been in a corner of the room that was dimly lit. It is dangerous to draw conclusions on the basis of what we cannot see. Better to keep looking, and draw our conclusions from what we can see. And if we find that the longer we look, the more we see, better to keep looking, to keep letting go of old presumptions, to refresh the screen of our perception and keep living with the uncertainty of knowing that we do not know.
© John Mitchell 06 06 08
In the UCT medical museum there is a tumour, preserved in a bottle, and it is the size of a melon, as the accompanying newspaper article describes it. At least, it was there when I visited in 1970 as a young philosophy student, eager to discover more about the world.
The story tells of a young woman in her late 20’s who was visited by a social worker in connection with some other problem. She discovered that the young woman had a huge tumour on her bottom, and was unable to sit comfortably because of it. The social worker explained to her that she could have the tumour removed. But the young woman resisted. It was a part of her. She had adjusted her life to it. It had always been there and in fact, she had absorbed it into her self-concept. It took a lot of persuading and counselling for her to agree to let go of her affliction. Afterwards, she rejoiced in her new found freedom, able to wear normal clothes, a bathing costume, go at last to the beach. It was a true release.
When people say we choose and are attached to our suffering, it sounds ridiculous. Who would choose to suffer? But the way we choose our suffering, and the way we hold on to it, is much more subtle. It is a Buddhist precept that there is suffering. What is meant by this is much more than the mundane fact of earthquakes and famine that we can all see. It means that we are all in a state of suffering merely by virtue of the fact that we are on this earth. And we suffer because we are ignorant, as the young lady was, that we can be released from our suffering. We suffer because we have absorbed this level of suffering into our self-concept. It has always been there, and we cope with it as best we can. But we do not really know how to let go of it. Most of our attempts to escape our suffering just lead to greater enmeshment within the web that holds us.
We may claim that we are not suffering. It is just ‘life’, and the defenders of the position are just being ‘realistic’. All too often, ‘realists’ are just closet pessimists, no closer to reality than anyone else. If only they could be real instead of realistic!
What we can see is relative suffering. The body of the Meths drinker in the street reflects the deep level of his suffering on the ‘blue Train’. There is a numbness to his senses, beyond that induced by his imbibing. Without that numbness he could not survive. He would be screaming and writhing in pain. In fact, of course, some people who breach the limits of endurance do exactly that, and we call them ‘insane’. But for ourselves we feel relatively less pain, and we tend to take ourselves quite comfortably as the ‘norm’. But the same situation applies to us. As Aldous Huxley discovered in ‘The Doors of Perception’, if our senses were fully operative we would be overwhelmed with information. We can survive in this world because there is a filter on our senses which limits the extent to which we can perceive the world, and of course, to which we feel our pain. ‘Pink Floyd’ described it as, ‘comfortably numb’. People who suffer from hyperacussis hear sounds abnormally loudly, and loud noises actually cause them physical pain. What we regard as a ‘normal’ level of hearing ability, is way below what is possible for humans, let alone for other animals.
Some people are living in a constant state of suffering compared to which we are relatively well off. If their ability to endure this is made possible by a filter which limits the pain, we cannot claim with any certainty that we are not in exactly the same situation relative to some other state of being. Compared to that, we are the Meths drinkers. And so on up to some potential state of being which is completely free of suffering. Could be.
If a person can be reluctant to loose a source of physical discomfort, might we not also be clinging to a view of reality which is limiting? It could be quite threatening to us to let go of all we have deemed certain to face the hope and risk the disappointment of release. How clearly do we want to see reality?
We can see this process of release from longstanding suffering in psychotherapy. When a person experiences a cathartic release or attains a significant insight, they feel relieved and released from a discomfort they have endured all their lives. This release can be permanent, and it can be succeeded by other releases. On what grounds can we posit a limit to the extent that this process can continue? Until we actually confront the limiting factor, we cannot know its extent, nor what might lie beyond.
Let us look at how we can release our attachment to our suffering. There is no mystery in this, and no arcane belief required: just a step by step plodding towards reality. But as we approach reality, (whatever reality turns out to be for each of us as we uncover it), the intensity of the fear which holds us in thrall, increases. When we finally acknowledge the reality, the ‘charge’ in that aspect of our psyche is released. It is like bringing a rod charged with static electricity towards an Electroscope. As you approach the electroscope, the charge in the rod causes the gold leaves in the device to repel each other and move apart. But when you bring the rod so close that it actually touches the electrode, the charge is released, and the gold leaves collapse.
Our fear and the unpleasant feelings that hold the blockage, increase in intensity as we approach the confrontation with our reality. Once we acknowledge the underlying truth, we are released from one more illusion, one more predisposition to choose and hold on to our suffering, and we move a little closer to the discovery of our true nature.
Socrates said that the first state of knowledge is to know that we do not know. The difficulty is exactly that we have so absorbed our habitual state of being into our perception of ‘reality’ that we really believe it is real. We really believe we have to live with our tumours. To start to doubt that is to start to doubt the whole fabric of our reality. Once we wake up from the anaesthetic, it can be dangerous. The process of liberation is not to be undertaken lightly. Often it is useful to have a supportive structure, a group of trusted friends, or at least a routine to return to, to let you get your bearings again before venturing into more discovery. Once you have let go of the handrail of your regular limitations, it is difficult to judge with certainty which is a new reality, and which, a new illusion. This can be the role of ritual: like a fire drill, something that can guide us in coping with daily life when panic, or unusual experiences, have removed the familiar. When we judge a ritual ‘meaningless’, we have to be able to say by what measure we are sure of our own meaning.
Simply to argue that we cannot see any meaning in it, is dangerous and foolish. Sartre wrote of going to a café to meet Pierre. He could not find him there. But the mere fact that he could not see him did not allow him to claim that Pierre was not there, with the same certainty that he would have called him ‘present’ if he had seen him. He might have been in a corner of the room that was dimly lit. It is dangerous to draw conclusions on the basis of what we cannot see. Better to keep looking, and draw our conclusions from what we can see. And if we find that the longer we look, the more we see, better to keep looking, to keep letting go of old presumptions, to refresh the screen of our perception and keep living with the uncertainty of knowing that we do not know.
© John Mitchell 06 06 08
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