In a recent conversation, a Vajrayana Buddhist friend offered a perspective that was both startling and liberating. He shared that in his tradition, raw, powerful emotions such as rage, pain, and wrath are not obstacles on the path. Rather, they are considered treasures: potent, direct, and efficient gateways to awakening.
His words stayed with me. Most of us who are drawn to Buddhist teachings know that the acknowledgment of suffering is its foundation; the first Noble Truth. Yet, how many of us have subtly (or not so subtly!) absorbed the idea that to be a “good” Buddhist, we must present as calm, peaceful, and serene at all times? I know I have. There’s a quiet pressure to transcend our humanity rather than to fully inhabit it, especially when what we’re feeling is messy, loud, or uncomfortable.
I see this tension in my own life. In my mindfulness coaching practice, I specialize in guiding highly sensitive women. My approach is built on creating a non-judgmental space where deep feelings are welcomed as vital wisdom. I gently encourage my clients to see their sensitivity not as a defect, but as a finely tuned compass pointing toward what needs care and attention. And yet, I still surprise myself. When a wave of fear, anger, or irritability rises in me, my first impulse can still be to turn away from it. The gap between what I teach and how I sometimes live is humbling.
The recent passing of the renowned Buddhist ecologist Joanna Macy had me revisiting her work, and I was deeply moved by a passage in her book Pass It On (Parallax Press, 2010). She describes facilitating a “Council of All Beings,” a ritual where participants step aside from their human identities to speak on behalf of other life forms: the flora being poisoned, the species facing extinction, the mountains being mined. They created masks from cardboard, paint, mud, and leaves, and gathered in a circle to the beat of a drum. One by one, they gave expression to the unique sufferings and resilience of the animals, plants and landscapes of the Earth.
Macy writes: “Laughter bubbled up at the implausibility of what we were attempting, and tears came, too, for the losses we were allowing ourselves to feel. The depth of feeling and the playfulness mixed well, as they do with children.” (72) That phrase, “the depth of feeling and the playfulness mixed well,” struck a deep chord. It brought me back to my own childhood in Switzerland, raised with a deep, sometimes heavy, reverence for our ecological impact. The natural world was our rich playground, yet we felt the weight of every footstep. I can only imagine the profound sorrow, anger, and fear children today must carry as they face the imminent reality of climate change. How do they process such colossal feelings when we adults so often model numbing or turning away?
We tend to treat despair and other difficult emotions as problems to be solved or energies to be tamed. But they only become more fortified the more we try to avoid them. This conjures up the teachings of Pema Chodron, an American-born teacher in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition. In her book Start Where You Are (Shambhala Publications, 2001), she urges us to meet ourselves with unflinching honesty, without waiting to feel a different way. She reminds us that the practice is not for later, “when you get it all together and you’re this person you really respect.” Instead, she insists, even the most violent, depressed, or self-hating place within us is “a fine place to start. That’s a very rich place to start—juicy, smelly.” (34)
Juicy. This word now deeply infuses my relationship with my own emotional world. My feelings aren’t flaws; they are the rich, fertile soil from which compassion grows. Lately, I have been sitting with a strong emotion: fear. As an immigrant with no firm place to call home, and having recently lost a dear friend, this fear is not an easy thing to admit. It can bring on a sense of shame, powerlessness, and isolation. But when I accept what is there—noticing how it manifests as a clenching in my jaw, a shallow breath in my throat, and recognizing it as an echo of childhood rejection—I see that this emotion has been felt and endured by humans since time immemorial. Feeling it this deeply no longer isolates me. Instead, it connects me more profoundly to my fellow human beings.
Macy’s work exemplifies this approach. She writes of her time in Novozybkov, a Russian city deeply contaminated by the Chernobyl disaster. The residents were open to gathering for group practices, but when Macy invited them to speak directly about their pain and struggles, they met her with rage. They lived with the consequences of this human-made disaster every day and were outraged by the suggestion of laboring on it. Macy didn’t offer platitudes. As recounted in Pass It On, she shared a story about post-war Germany, where a generation worked tirelessly to give their children everything—except their broken hearts. “And their children,” she told them, “have never forgiven them.” (45)
The next day, a shift occurred. The woman who had been the most angry was the first to speak: “I hardly slept. It feels like my heart is breaking open. Maybe it will keep breaking again and again, I don’t know. But somehow—I can’t explain—it feels right. It connects me to everything and everyone, as if we were all branches of the same tree.” (46)
This is the magic Macy spent her life teaching. She writes: “This is a dark time filled with much suffering and almost total uncertainty. Like living cells in a larger body, it is natural that we feel the trauma of our world. So don’t be afraid of the anguish you feel, or the anger or fear. These responses arise from the depth of your caring and the truth of your interconnectedness with all beings. To ‘suffer with’ is the literal meaning of compassion.” (104) Our pain for the world is not a sign of our failure, but a proof of our profound belonging.
So I invite you to check in with yourself: what is your juiciest, smelliest feeling? Is it anger, jealousy, fear, embarrassment? Notice any resistance to what’s truly there—any attempt to favor what you think you should feel. How might embracing this juicy feeling shape your ability to connect with the world at large?
Nina Müller is a Mindfulness Teacher who offers online mindfulness coaching sessions. If you would like to find out more, please visit The Mindful Practice to book a complimentary consultation.
References
Chödrön, Pema. 2001. Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living. Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications.
Macy, Joanna. 2010. Pass it On: Five Stories that Can Change the World. Berkley, CA: Parallax Press.
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