The Illusion of Independence
I have always been an independent person. I am content in my own company, and like to pursue my own creativity. I love to love, and I enjoy the company of people, but I find I don’t need it. I don’t need anyone. At least, that is what I have always thought.
At some point in a life well-lived, we are brought to confront everything we believe about ourselves, to see if it is part of us, or merely something we have learned. We see what parts of ourselves are organic, and what parts tacked on. This is the first step in healing, it is the first step in growing up. We make this step, take some time to recover our balance, then step again, over and over, and thus carry on.
I have come to see that some of what I considered independence was just a defence. Part of my independence is easy and natural; part of it is anxious and rushed. Buried beneath the ice of my independence, in some areas, are little air pockets of dread. I carry in my bones the conviction that if I need someone, and really give myself up to them, then that person will hurt me: they will turn me away. Somehow, this conviction has been frozen beneath my faux-independence, but it is certainly there. It emits vapours that pervade my personality; it has a weight that I carry, wordless, in my gut. It is the emotional tone of my life, the instinctive bass-note, the puppeteer seated behind my awareness that controls everything I do, and every decision I make. It is frozen beneath my surface, but I am sure it is the reason I froze over in the first place. I shall have to melt, in order to let it free.
I have been noticing lately that some of the most emotionally controlled people I know are utterly childish underneath. It is as though they are ashamed of their own naïveté, and they have learned to act grown-up. But it is only an act (though often an extremely good one), and from time to time one catches glimpses through it, to an inner world full of doll-house sentimentality. Marie-Louise von Franz, my guru of the month, said that when we feel an upwelling of childish emotion, it is best simply to act it out. If we hold it down, we never know it; if we let it out in a tantrum or a sulk or a fit of neediness, then we can see the pattern, work with it, and hopefully let it out. At the very least, we come to know ourselves better. We can treat ourselves with more gentleness, humour, and humility.
Another pattern I’m becoming aware of is a need I have that things be smooth. I want my inner sea unruffled. And when something comes to ruffle it - an interpersonal conflict, a broken pipe, a malfunctioning washing machine - I feel myself tense up, as though I am trying to squeeze the disturbance out. But that tensing denies me the chance to submerge the problem in my inner sea, and absorb it into my own calmness. I skip away from the emotional problem, and never let it dissolve. So I end up surrounded by a mist of unresolved tension.
I feel this is one pitfall of many meditation practices. If the object of your meditation practice is subtle, like a mantra, or the ringing in the ears, then it requires concentration to focus on it, and life tends to be a distraction. The world obscures your meditation, and you develop a tendency to want to escape. On the other hand, nothing obscures the heart. The heart is like a fire in the chest, and the world is fuel. Whatever happens, whatever arises, need not obscure the heart; if handled wisely, everything feeds the flame of the heart, and becomes love, light, and clarity. So I find myself returning more and more to my heart - not because it is a discipline, but because the heart purifies life.
Life is an adventure. It is an end-of-year camp, when you sleep rough and get tired and dirty; in return, you taste the fresh air, see the sunrise, hear the birds singing inside you. The joy of life happens where things are a little uncomfortable. For some reason, though, we all seem to want to turn life into a school term, where everything is neat, orderly, clean, and predictable. But that is not life, that is death. That is a sterile miseducation. True life is always out beyond the limits of my control; I choose to venture into life, lighting the way with my heart.
Bedroom in Arles
Vincent van Gogh