When things fall apart: One of today's great Buddhist teachers on how to move through difficult times, Emily Dickinson on making sense of loss & more

When things fall apart: Advice on how to move through difficult times from one of today's great Buddhist teachers, Emily Dickinson on making sense of loss, and more. NOTE: This message might be cut short by your email program. [View it in full](. If a friend forwarded it to you and you'd like your very own newsletter, [subscribe here]( – it's free. donating = loving I pour tremendous time, thought, love, and resources into Brain Pickings, which remains free. If you find any joy and stimulation here, please consider supporting my labor of love with a recurring monthly [donation]( of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a good dinner: [Subscribe]( You can also become a one-time patron with a single donation in any amount: [Donate]( And if you've already donated, from the bottom of my heart: THANK YOU. If you wish to cancel your recurring donation, you can do so [here](. 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[When Things Fall Apart: Tibetan Buddhist Nun and Teacher Pema Chödrön on Transformation Through Difficult Times]( In every life, there comes a time when we are razed to the bone of our resilience by losses beyond our control — lacerations of the heart that feel barely bearable, that leave us bereft of solid ground. What then? “In art,” Kafka [assured]( his teenage walking companion, “one must throw one’s life away in order to gain it.” As in art, so in life — so suggests the American Tibetan Buddhist nun and teacher Pema Chödrön. In [When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times]( ([public library]( she draws on her own confrontation with personal crisis and on the ancient teachings of Tibetan Buddhism to offer gentle and incisive guidance to the enormity we stand to gain during those times when all seems to be lost. Half a century after Albert Camus asserted that [“there is no love of life without despair of life,”]( Chödrön reframes those moments of acute despair as opportunities for befriending life by befriending ourselves in the deepest sense. Photograph by Maria Popova Writing in that Buddhist way of wrapping in simple language the difficult and beautiful truths of existence, Chödrön examines the most elemental human response to the uncharted territory that comes with loss or any other species of unforeseen change: Fear is a universal experience. Even the smallest insect feels it. We wade in the tidal pools and put our finger near the soft, open bodies of sea anemones and they close up. Everything spontaneously does that. It’s not a terrible thing that we feel fear when faced with the unknown. It is part of being alive, something we all share. We react against the possibility of loneliness, of death, of not having anything to hold on to. Fear is a natural reaction to moving closer to the truth. If we commit ourselves to staying right where we are, then our experience becomes very vivid. Things become very clear when there is nowhere to escape. This clarity, Chödrön argues, is a matter of becoming intimate with fear and rather than treating it as a problem to be solved, using it as a tool with which to dismantle all of our familiar structures of being, “a complete undoing of old ways of seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and thinking.” Noting that bravery is not the absence of fear but the intimacy with fear, she writes: When we really begin to do this, we’re going to be continually humbled. There’s not going to be much room for the arrogance that holding on to ideals can bring. The arrogance that inevitably does arise is going to be continually shot down by our own courage to step forward a little further. The kinds of discoveries that are made through practice have nothing to do with believing in anything. They have much more to do with having the courage to die, the courage to die continually. In essence, this is the hard work of befriending ourselves, which is our only mechanism for befriending life in its completeness. Out of that, Chödrön argues, arises our deepest strength: Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us. […] Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. Photograph by Maria Popova Decades after Rollo May made his case for [the constructiveness of despair]( Chödrön considers the fundamental choice we have in facing our unsettlement — whether with aggressive aversion or with generative openness to possibility: Life is a good teacher and a good friend. Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it. Nothing ever sums itself up in the way that we like to dream about. The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don’t get caught and we can open our hearts and minds beyond limit. It’s a very tender, nonaggressive, open-ended state of affairs. To stay with that shakiness — to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge — that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic — this is the spiritual path. Getting the knack of catching ourselves, of gently and compassionately catching ourselves, is the path of the warrior. We catch ourselves one zillion times as once again, whether we like it or not, we harden into resentment, bitterness, righteous indignation — harden in any way, even into a sense of relief, a sense of inspiration. Half a century after Alan Watts began introducing Eastern teachings into the West with his [clarion call for presence as the antidote to anxiety]( Chödrön points to the present moment — however uncertain, however difficult — as the sole seedbed of wakefulness to all of life: This very moment is the perfect teacher, and it’s always with us. […] We can be with what’s happening and not dissociate. Awakeness is found in our pleasure and our pain, our confusion and our wisdom, available in each moment of our weird, unfathomable, ordinary everyday lives. Illustration by Lisbeth Zwerger from a [special edition of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales]( Remaining present and intimate with the moment, she argues, requires mastering maitri — the Buddhist practice of loving-kindness toward oneself, that [most difficult art of self-compassion](. She contrasts maitri with the typical Western therapy and self-help method of handling crises: What makes maitri such a different approach is that we are not trying to solve a problem. We are not striving to make pain go away or to become a better person. In fact, we are giving up control altogether and letting concepts and ideals fall apart. This starts with realizing that whatever occurs is neither the beginning nor the end. It is just the same kind of normal human experience that’s been happening to everyday people from the beginning of time. Thoughts, emotions, moods, and memories come and they go, and basic nowness is always here. […] In the midst of all the heavy dialogue with ourselves, open space is always there. Another Buddhist concept at odds with our Western coping mechanisms is the Tibetan expression ye tang che. Chödrön explains its connotations, evocative of Camus’s insistence on the vitalizing power of despair: The ye part means “totally, completely,” and the rest of it means “exhausted.” Altogether, ye tang che means totally tired out. We might say “totally fed up.” It describes an experience of complete hopelessness, of completely giving up hope. This is an important point. This is the beginning of the beginning. Without giving up hope — that there’s somewhere better to be, that there’s someone better to be — we will never relax with where we are or who we are. […] Suffering begins to dissolve when we can question the belief or the hope that there’s anywhere to hide. Decades after Simone de Beauvoir’s proclamation about [atheism and the ultimate frontier of hope]( Chödrön points out that at the heart of Buddhism’s approach is not the escapism of religion but the realism of secular philosophy. And yet these crude demarcations fail to capture the subtlety of these teachings. She clarifies: The difference between theism and nontheism is not whether one does or does not believe in God… Theism is a deep-seated conviction that there’s some hand to hold: if we just do the right things, someone will appreciate us and take care of us. It means thinking there’s always going to be a babysitter available when we need one. We all are inclined to abdicate our responsibilities and delegate our authority to something outside ourselves. Nontheism is relaxing with the ambiguity and uncertainty of the present moment without reaching for anything to protect ourselves. […] Hopelessness is the basic ground. Otherwise, we’re going to make the journey with the hope of getting security… Begin the journey without hope of getting ground under your feet. Begin with hopelessness. […] When inspiration has become hidden, when we feel ready to give up, this is the time when healing can be found in the tenderness of pain itself… In the midst of loneliness, in the midst of fear, in the middle of feeling misunderstood and rejected is the heartbeat of all things. Art from [The Lion and the Bird]( by Marianne Dubuc Only through such active self-compassion to our own darkness, Chödrön suggests, can we begin to offer authentic light to anybody else, to become a force of radiance in the world. She writes: We don’t set out to save the world; we set out to wonder how other people are doing and to reflect on how our actions affect other people’s hearts. Complement the immensely grounding and elevating [When Things Fall Apart]( with Camus on [strength of character in times of trouble]( Erich Fromm on [what self-love really means]( and Nietzsche on [why a fulfilling life requires embracing rather than running from difficulty]( then revisit Chödrön on [the art of letting go](. [Forward to a friend]( / [Read Online]( / [Like on Facebook]( [Eyes on the Stars: Astronaut Ronald McNair, Who Perished in the Challenger Disaster, Remembered by His Brother in an Affectionate Animated Short Film]( Shortly after noon on January 28, 1986, the Space Shuttle Challenger lifted off on its tenth mission. Seventy-three seconds later, off the coast of Florida, it combusted into a ball of fire and smoke on national television, imprinting generations with the shock of the tragedy. All crew members — five men and two women, including the first-ever non-government civilian to travel into the cosmos, a schoolteacher named Christa McAuliffe — perished. Among them was 35-year-old astronaut Ronald McNair (October 21, 1950–January 28, 1986) — a promising young physicist, a skilled saxophonist, and the second black person to fly into space. (On another Challenger mission three years earlier, [Sally Ride]( had become the first American woman in orbit.) Ronald McNair In this wonderful animated short film from [StoryCorps]( the text of which is included alongside other moving and deeply humane stories in the marvelous book [Callings: The Purpose and Passion of Work]( ([public library]( edited by StoryCorps founder Dave Isay, McNair’s brother Carl and his friend Vernon Skipper remember young Ronald’s defiant spirit of curiosity. Folded into this affectionate account is a larger piece of civil rights history, a counterpoint to cultural stereotypes about race, law enforcement and even librarians, and a meditation on the elemental impulse for curiosity that animates all scientists and propels all science. Above all, the story emanates a clarion call to never forget — never forget our history, however difficult it may be to own up to, never forget our heroes, however tragic their fate, and never forget the power of storytelling as a caring keeper of our collective memory. Carl McNair: We knew from an early age that my brother Ron was different. When he was nine years old, Ron decided to take a mile walk from our home down to the library — which was, of course, a public library, but not so public for black folks, when you’re talking about 1959 in segregated South Carolina. So as he was walking through the library, all these folks were staring at him, because it was white folk only, and they were looking at him and saying, you know, “Who is this Negro?” [Laughter.] He found some books, and he politely positioned himself in line to check out. Well, this old librarian says, “This library is not for coloreds.” He said, “I would like to check out these books.” She says, “Young man, if you don’t leave this library right now, I’m going to call the police!” He just propped himself up on the counter and sat there and said, “I’ll wait.” So she called the police and subsequently called my mother. The police came down, two burly guys, and say, “Well, where’s the disturbance?” She pointed to the nine-year-old boy sitting up on the counter. One of the policemen says, “Ma’am, what’s the problem?” So my mother, in the meanwhile, she comes down there, and she’s praying the whole way: “Lordy, Jesus, please don’t let them put my child in jail!” My mother asked the librarian, “What’s the problem?” The librarian said, “He wanted to check out the books. You know that your son shouldn’t be down here.” The police officer said, “Why don’t you just give the kid the books?” And my mother said, “He’ll take good care of them.” Reluctantly, the librarian gave Ron the books, and my mother said, “What do you say?” He said, “Thank you, ma’am.” [Laughs.] Ron did exceptionally well at school, and he was very good in science and math. During his junior year in high school, his chemistry professor told him about a summer institute for math and science, so he went three hundred miles or so from home to participate in this program. He met a professor there who said, “The highest academic level you can go is PhD, and young man, I think you should shoot for it.” And Ron says, “That sounds like a pretty good idea, sir. I’ll get a PhD.” And he went on to get a PhD from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Then, when NASA was looking for astronauts, here he was with a PhD in physics. Ron went on a space flight in February of 1984. When he went out in space and he looked out at the world, he saw no lines of demarcation. It was a world of peace, he said. And two years later, he took his last flight on the space shuttle Challenger. You know, as youngsters, a show came on TV called Star Trek. Now, Star Trek showed the future, where there were black folk and white folk — all kinds of folk — working together. I looked at it as science fiction — that wasn’t going to happen, really. But Ronald saw it as science possibility. He was always someone who didn’t accept societal norms as being his norm. That was for other people. In Ron’s own words, he was the kind of person who “hung it over the edge.” He’d go as far as he could, then go one step beyond that. Ron was a country boy from segregated, small-town South Carolina. Who would dream that he could become an astronaut? But it was his time. And he got to be aboard his own starship Enterprise. [Callings]( is a tremendously nourishing read in its entirety, featuring stories by and about inspiring humans from walks of life as varied as firefighters, NBA referees, funeral directors, and librarians. Complement this particular thread with Primo Levi on [how space exploration unites humanity]( and the wonderful [Blast Off]( a vintage children’s book that envisioned a black female astronauts decades before one flew into space. [Forward to a friend]( / [Read Online]( / [Like on Facebook]( [The Drift Called the Infinite: Emily Dickinson on Making Sense of Loss]( “The people we most love do become a physical part of us, ingrained in our synapses, in the pathways where memories are created,” poet Meghan O’Rourke wrote in her [stirring memoir of losing her mother](. More than a century earlier, another poet with a rare gift for philosophical prose reflected on mortality in the wake of her own mother’s death. Emily Dickinson (December 10, 1830–May 15, 1886) was about to turn fifty-two when her mother, after whom she was named, died. A stroke had left her paralyzed and almost entirely disabled eight years earlier. Despite her lifelong infirm health, her disinterest in the life of the mind, and the surges of unhappiness in the Dickinson home, Emily Norcross Dickinson had been attentive and affectionate to her daughter, igniting the poet’s [little-known but ardent passion for botany]( and prompting her to write that “home is a holy thing.” Emily Dickinson, daguerreotype, circa 1847. (Amherst College Archives & Special Collections, gift of Millicent Todd Bingham, 1956) Although a contemplation of mortality haunts nearly all of Dickinson’s 1775 surviving poems in varying degrees of directness, her mother’s death forced a confrontation with mortality of a wholly different order — loss as an acute immediacy rather than a symbolic and speculative abstraction. In a letter to her cousins penned shortly after her mother’s death in November of 1882 and found in [The Letters of Emily Dickinson]( ([public library]( the poet writes: Mother’s dying almost stunned my spirit… She slipped from our fingers like a flake gathered by the wind, and is now part of the drift called “the infinite.” We don’t know where she is, though so many tell us. Even as a child, Emily had come to doubt the immortality so resolutely promised by the Calvinist dogma of her elders. “Sermons on unbelief ever did attract me,” she wrote in her twenties to Susan Gilbert — her first great love and lifelong closest friend. Dickinson went on to reject the prescriptive traditional religion of her era, never joined a church, and adopted a view of spirituality kindred to [astronomer Maria Mitchell’s](. It is with this mindset that she adds in the letter to her cousins: I believe we shall in some manner be cherished by our Maker — that the One who gave us this remarkable earth has the power still farther to surprise that which He has caused. Beyond that all is silence… Emily Norcross Dickinson, daguerreotype, circa 1847 (Monson Free Library) Writing less than four years before her own untimely death, she ends the letter with these words: I cannot tell how Eternity seems. It sweeps around me like a sea… Thank you for remembering me. Remembrance — mighty word. In another letter from the following spring, penned after receiving news of a friend’s death, Dickinson stills her swirling sorrow the best way she knew how — in a poem: Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides. She adds a sobering reflection on the shock each of us experiences the first time we lose a loved one: Till the first friend dies, we think ecstasy impersonal, but then discover that he was the cup from which we drank it, itself as yet unknown. Complement with [a collection of moving consolation letters]( by great artists, writers, and scientists ranging from Lincoln to Einstein to Turing, psychoanalyst Adam Phillips on [how Darwin and Freud shaped our relationship to mortality]( Seneca on [the key to resilience in the face of loss]( and this unusual [Danish picture-book about death]( then revisit Cynthia Nixon’s beautiful reading of Dickinson’s [“While I was fearing it, it came”]( and Dickinson’s [forgotten herbarium]( — an elegy for time and mortality at the intersection of poetry and science. [Forward to a friend]( / [Read Online]( / [Like on Facebook]( [BP] If you enjoy my newsletter, please consider helping me keep it going with a modest [donation](. 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