Pausing on the Ridge

Quote to follow. I need time to search for it.

Day 201. Welcome, two new followers! That makes 18! I am stunned and delighted. When I began the blog, my hunch was that not very many people would be interested in a pedaling, sitting, shrinking, mildly-feminist, nearly half-a-century old, vegetarian Buddhist. Wow, when I view those characteristics in writing, one would predict a small readership, indeed! I am not sure how many original followers Buddha had, but now I have six more than Jesus' first twelve. Not that I'm counting. Not that I'm attached. Not that I have any ego invested in my writing actually being read.

It is an honor and a privilege to make my living as a therapist. As I've mentioned before, when I meet someone new and they learn that I am a psychologist, their inevitable first comment is, "How do you sit there all day and listen to people's problems?" This is a reflexive misconception about my profession. I don't sit all day listening to people's problems. I participate in an engaging process in which courageous individuals search for answers. We laugh and cry and explore and discover, and - best of all - we sometimes waltz into some eye popping powerful metaphors. Like the one I shared with a client on Friday.

I have worked with this amazing woman on-and-off for over seven years (I know; the insurance companies expect me to cure my patients in six sessions. I prefer therapeutic work at the infrastructure level). For five of those years, her husband was in a deep depression after being laid off from a job he loved. The couple have two children, including a newborn. For five years, my client did what was necessary to hold her family together. She parented, cared for the house and yard, managed rental property as a source of income, compassionately tended to her ailing mother and stepfather, and - most impressive of all - left her beloved baby and young son every single day to go to a public school teaching job she loathed. This client remained steadfast in her marriage at a time her husband contributed almost nothing to the household. Not surprisingly, she developed a deep depression of her own. Not surprisingly, she couldn't indulge in the luxury of ceasing to function, which was her husband's response. Surprisingly, and amazingly, she kept her family together for five long years.

About a year ago, her husband found employment, which catalyzed a vast improvement in his depression. Unfortunately, the marriage could not be salvaged; there was too much carnage. Following a divorce, my client entered a relationship with a man who loved her and her children deeply and treated them well. Her husband began to contribute - both financially and in caring for his children. The stress and anguish that enveloped my client for over half a decade appeared to be drawing to a close.

During our session on Friday, she sat down and told me that she had arrived at her school for the first of several teachers' meetings before the students returned. Two hours into the meeting, she was consumed with a panicked terror, the likes of which she had never endured before. Her entire being reverberated with a visceral opposition to another year of teaching. "I left," she told me. "At the first break, I walked out of that school building and knew I could never go back."

It is quite common to observe the cumulative toll exacted by prolonged stress and hardship in my clients. For those of us able to exhibit hearty resiliency during trying times, it feels bewildering to come undone precisely when things seem to be getting better. Shouldn't that be when we relax and celebrate and thrive? I suspect it is human nature to experience a delayed reaction to extremely difficult circumstances. It makes sense that we are equipped with an automatic defense mechanism that helps us dissociate - sort of step out of our skin and experience pain with a couple of degrees of separation - so that we can continue to do what is being required of us.

Fulling experiencing thoughts and feelings while in the midst of despair carries the risk of failing to function at exactly the time we need to keep it together. Like my client, who ran on autopilot every day of the workweek so that she could survive being away from her young children and performing at a job she hated. Like me during all those weeks in hospital ICU's. You do what you must - often right up to the point when the crisis abates and - BAM! - all those feelings you kept at bay leap from the wings and pin you to the ground.

Metaphors come to me more frequently and in exquisite detail since I began sitting zazen regularly. As we processed my client's life-changing decision to leave her teaching job, a picture formed in my mind and I shared it with her. I envisioned her climbing up a long and treacherous path. There were many impediments along the way: sliding rocks, huge boulders, incredibly steep pitches, stormy weather, slippery mud, hidden holes and trenches, prickly brambles and bushes blocking the trail, which twisted wickedly and climbed eternally up. She moved up the trail propelled by blind faith, for there was no endpoint in sight.

At the top of this precarious mountain, I saw my client step from the path into brilliant sunshine. She was standing along a towering ridge, with a spectacular view of a lush valley spread before her. The valley was green and golden and rippled with blue streams weaving their way across the fertile land. Shady country lanes connected dappper farm homes surrounded by thriving fields and crops. After a grueling and precarious journey, she had reached the promised land.

My client resonated with the metaphor, filling in literal content associated with the steep and dangerous climb up the mountain. She similarly named resources symbolized by the valley, including financial help from her significant other, a bit of savings from the rental properties, and her mother's willingness to supplement her income while she looked for meaningful employment. At this juncture, the essence of the metaphor emerged in my brain.

"Take your time to stand on the ridge," I told my client. "I know you have the urge to immediately hurtle down into the sun-dappled valley, putting the treacherous trail as far behind you as possible. It feels like a good idea to pause at the top. Recall the arduous trek up the trail, the danger you encountered, the courage you summoned, the ordeals you survived. Own it. Learn from it. Then take you time gazing down upon the valley. Observe the lay of the land. Pay attention to where the streams and lanes meander. Watch for who comes and goes from the farmhouses. You can inhabit the valley more fully if you get to know it from up there on the ridge. Take your time. You've earned it."

Like all good metaphors, intricate layers of meaning pulsated in my office like palpable truths. My client gently smiled, letting the images permeate her consciousness. She got it. "I understand," she quietly told me. "It feels really good to pause at the top of the ridge. I want to take my time. There is a lot to get to know about that valley."

The metaphor has remained with me this weekend. This world is moving so fast, it is easy to forget to pause at the top of the mountains we climb. We hurtle through our lives at breakneck speed, neglecting to own our stamina and courage and failing to recognize and make good use of the glorious bounty that is sometimes spread at our feet.

I am immeasurably grateful for my sitting practice. It's as though my cushion is the ridge, and every single night I pause to experience my bounty.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc