We all have negative aspects of ourselves we want to fix, disown, or even expunge completely from our being, but even with practice some things are extremely hard to change. As we strive to break free of our less-than-helpful aspects of self, we typically employ violent means, ranging from subtle rejection to vicious and debilitating self-loathing that may even manifest physically. Regardless of the severity of the violence, it causes damage. Much more transformative than our typical approaches to change is making a vow of complete, unconditional, inner nonviolence and then working toward complete acceptance and integration.
Quicklinks to Article Content:
Trying to Change Negative Aspects of Self Through Violent Means
The Futility of Violent Means
Change Through Complete Acceptance and Integration
The Surprising Efficacy of Acceptance
Where are the Buddhist Teachings about Self-Acceptance?
Trying to Change Negative Aspects of Self Through Violent Means
We all have negative aspects of ourselves we would like to fix, disown, or even expunge completely from our being: Laziness, greed, jealousy, anger, anxiety, depression, addiction, judgmentalism, attachment to thoughts, concerns about appearance… the list can go on and on.
Some things change easily with practice. Such change is rewarding and can give us faith in the path. However, other aspects of ourselves are resistant to change. These aspects are much more deeply rooted in our karma – all the causes and conditions that have led to our current state of body and mind, including our own past choices. Despite the difficulty of changing deeply rooted karmic habits of body, speech, and mind, we don’t want these negative aspects to continue to cause suffering for self or others, or to impede our practice.
We generally seek to keep our less-than-healthy aspects of self under tight control while hoping that, in the long run, we can get rid of them entirely. Our well-meaning struggle against negative aspects of self takes many forms. We may try to control or change ourselves through sheer force of will, perhaps making vows we repeatedly break. We may find ourselves ruminating on the reasons for our flaws, hoping for resolution through assigning blame. We may console ourselves with the idea that progress is being made because we wish intensely for things to be different, nurture shame, or dwell on self-recrimination. We may keep ourselves busy with self-help schemes or the advice of others.
To illustrate what I’m talking about, I share this story about an aspect of myself I’ve long wanted to get rid of: I have a strong attachment to – you might even say “addiction” to, if you want to use that term imaginatively – productive thinking. Part of me is constantly busy trying to take care of things, anticipate needs, solve problems, improve things, and create new things. Sometimes a situation demands my full attention, but most of the time any spare mental bandwidth I have is automatically dedicated to productive thinking. Note that creating verbal expressions, descriptions, and explanations – like this podcast – are all part of my nonstop effort to improve the world. Any gap between the wondrous Dharma and people seeking to understand and practice it seems like a problem to be solved.
My fondness for productive thinking has felt like a terrible impediment to my Zen practice over much of the past 30 years. A mind full of projects and problem solving may not sound like a negative thing, and most of the time I enjoy my productive thinking. However, it’s the nature of karma that what starts as a benign or even helpful tendency can develop into an entrenched habit or even a compulsion over the years. Our mind and body create deep grooves of habit energy with repeated actions such that it becomes increasingly difficult to avoid getting pulled into them even when at least part of us longs to behave differently.
I have always loved zazen, but for the first 15 years or so it felt like a constant struggle. Even when I was able to convince myself to let go of the projects and problems I was currently working on in my life, I would find myself sitting zazen and designing elaborate shelving for disorganized areas of the house. I never once followed up these thoughts by actually building such shelving, and, honestly, I never intended to. The designing was simply my mind compulsively producing even when there was no need for it to do so. Mindfulness – cultivating awareness moment by moment off the meditation seat – similarly felt like an incredible struggle. I aspired to pay attention to whatever was right in front of me, but unless the present moment demanded 100% of my brain power – a rare situation – any unused mental bandwidth would be dedicated to creative and productive thinking. Instead of simply washing the dishes, I was simultaneously contemplating the major challenges facing Zen in America and how to solve them. Instead of simply weeding, my hands moved on automatic pilot while I was planning new and improved workshops for the Zen center.
Only another practitioner of a contemplative spiritual tradition will be able to understand the anguish my busy mind caused me. I felt like I was a Zen fraud. The concentration and spaciousness other people described experiencing eluded me except in the depths of a silent retreat. I hoped I managed to look mindful from the outside even though most of the time I was mentally working through my to-do list. I began to feel like any moments I was caught up in productive thinking were stolen from me – that they were precious moments of life I was oblivious to, or not even present for. I began to believe that at my core I was terribly deluded – that part of me was convinced that fixing, finishing, improving, or creating was going to bring me ultimate happiness, but that in actuality almost all my activity was utterly meaningless.
I struggled to subdue my busy mind in all the violent ways I described earlier – sheer force of will, repeated vows I continually broke, unending self-analysis and self-recrimination, seeking the advice of others, trying to convince myself that thinking was a tragic waste of time, all of it. For hundreds and hundreds of hours, over years and years, I stubbornly attacked this internal problem. Every time I went into a meditation retreat, I carried the firm intention to overcome this ridiculous busy mind once and for all. It never, ever worked. When my mind settled a bit after many days of retreat, it only provided a terrible contrast to the busy mind that flared up the instant retreat was over. Deeply discouraged, I kept on trying all the same approaches to change over and over again, convinced that either I was too flawed to be free, or that at some level I just didn’t want it enough.
The Futility of Violent Means
The typical approaches we take to changing negative aspects of self have limited effectiveness and are usually a kind of inner violence. Such violence can range from very subtle rejection to vicious and debilitating self-loathing that may even manifest physically. Regardless of the severity of the violence, it causes damage. This is true even if a violent approach appears to give us the result we are seeking, at least temporarily.
To give context to our typical approaches to change, think of a negative aspect of self you are trying to change as a child. If your inner child is strong and willful, they will rebel – preventing change and encouraging the development of a weird internal passive-aggressive struggle. For example, for years I set my alarm extra early so I could fit more activities into my day – notably without going to bed any earlier. Every morning some other aspect of myself would wake up, turn off the alarm, and go back to sleep. I kept up this absurd struggle for an embarrassingly long time, ever hopeful that my ambitious self would get the upper hand over the part of me that knew I needed more sleep.
Alternatively, the inner child you are trying to change may fight back aggressively, sometimes seizing the controls and driving you into crazy or unhealthy behavior. Or your inner child may be scared and anxious – obeying without understanding why, afraid of rejection, burdened by shame, and nurturing resentment. In any case, whenever you use violent means, your relationship with yourself is compromised – usually with little to show for it.
When we employ harsh or antagonistic means to change part of ourselves, it doesn’t matter if, deep down, we are motivated in part by a sincere desire to do good – to improve the situation, or to relieve or prevent suffering, like a parent trying to guide a child’s behavior toward what is truly positive. Part of us knows we are also motivated by judgement, frustration, shame, revulsion, or impatience, and reacts accordingly.
When we act based on rejection, whether our action is turned inwards or outwards, we break the first Buddhist precept, “do not kill.” We may not be taking the life of another living thing, but we are cutting ourselves off from something and identifying it as unworthy of existence, or even as worthy of extermination. We may think we are justified in this judgment, but isn’t that the excuse for all kinds of violence? As the Bodhidharma One-Mind precept against killing says: “Self nature is wondrous and imperceptible. Within the everlasting dharma, not arousing the view of extinction is called the precept of not killing.”[i] In other words, even if we are able to achieve some change through inner violence, we should think carefully about using this approach because it is incompatible with the path of practice.
Change Through Complete Acceptance and Integration
It isn’t wrong to want change. The essence of practice is that we can learn to make choices that lead to less suffering and to greater wisdom and compassion. What are the alternatives to inner violence if we want to change?
Much more transformative than our typical approaches to change is to clearly see and accept whatever manifests within us, making a vow of complete, unconditional, inner nonviolence. Complete acceptance means giving up our agenda to expunge or even change negative aspects of ourselves at all. We need to recognize whatever it is as part of who we are – embracing it and taking care of it the same way we take care of our hands or feet. Through an infinite number of causes and conditions, this is the way our precious human life has manifested, like it or not. We experience only suffering and delusion by wishing it to be otherwise.
Any attachment to being different than how you are is ultimately self-centered and is therefore an impediment to spiritual realization and freedom. We imagine ourselves to have a holy agenda of self-improvement, but at a deep level we just don’t want to be someone who is thus. We don’t want to be a person who feels, thinks, experiences, or behaves in such a way. Even if our desire to change includes an aspiration to relieve the suffering of others, or to be a better bodhisattva, an agenda to become different is based in an idea of a self who is in control, or at least should be – someone who bears the blame or can take the credit. I want to be different.
To study Buddhism is to study the self. We gradually learn about the aspects of self we secretly desire to expunge. We watch the ways we habitually deal with those aspects, and the negative consequences of engaging in inner violence. We first learn to stop the inner violence without knowing what is going to happen next. We stop because we make a vow to do so, consistent with the precepts and with our deeper aspirations. We know violence is never a sustainable answer, whether it manifests inwardly or outwardly. Unless a negative aspect of self is causing serious harm to self or others, it’s better we never change than to continue our internal struggle.
We may spend the rest of our lives screwed up and imperfect – fat, quick to anger, insecure, judgmental, not very smart, lazy, whatever – but at least we’ll maintain our integrity in the sense that we’re not engaging in self-abuse. To reach full acceptance of our negative aspects, we have to let go of ideas about who we are and who we think we should be. This can be difficult and may even bring some confusion and grief. Instead of sustaining ourselves with fantasies about the person we are just about to become, we have to learn to be this limited, imperfect person. The more violence we have inflicted on ourselves in the past – or the more violence that has been inflicted on us by others – the more difficult this self-acceptance can be. All our past judgments of ugly, stupid, weak, lazy, deluded, fraudulent, unlovable, and illegitimate will come back to bite us.
Fortunately, there is a reward for complete acceptance and integration. Once we have let go of employing violent means to achieve the change we want, we can open up to other possibilities.
The Surprising Efficacy of Acceptance
We may think complete acceptance of a negative aspect of self means resignation – giving up hope of change, growth, freedom, and alignment with our deepest aspirations. We think acceptance means our less-than-helpful aspects will persist or even run wild, controlling our lives. But this is not what happens. Critically, the kind of acceptance we need for lasting change is nothing like resignation or giving in. Whatever we are trying to change is part of us, but it is not all of us. We are also our aspiration to live in a better way. We are also the capacity to recognize what actions lead to suffering and stress, and which lead to freedom and peace.
When we fully accept, embrace, and integrate all aspects of ourselves, we see everything more clearly. If change happens, it happens through love, just like when a parent unconditionally loves their child and steadfastly holds a vision of the child being able to behave in a way that manifests their freedom and leads to positive outcomes. If the child is able to change, it is a fulfillment of the parent’s patient and firm faith, not an escape from judgment or rejection. When we deal with ourselves this way, inner integrity is preserved.
Ironically, it is complete acceptance and openness which opens up the possibility for lasting, transformative change. When we are no longer pitting parts of ourselves against other parts, when the light of awareness shines on our whole being, we can see much more clearly what steps we can take toward freedom and peace. Often, this change doesn’t happen the way we think it will, or the way we used to hope it would, but once the change happens, we are pleasantly surprised and profoundly grateful.
The efficacy of radical acceptance is illustrated by the success of Alcoholics Anonymous and related 12-step programs. The addict identifies the drive to addiction as being part of who they are, and they don’t expect to expunge that part in this lifetime. Instead of struggling against their addiction through force of will, those working the 12 steps gradually change their relationship to their addictive tendency by shining the light of awareness on it and taking responsibility for it.
In my own story, I eventually made the vow to forego inner violence even if it meant my busy mind dominated my waking hours for the rest of my life. I was sick of the struggle, and it was getting me nowhere. Stopping the inner violence didn’t lead to instant transformation, though. For many years it felt like an uneasy truce: My busy mind dominated most of my waking hours, but some peace could be found in zazen and moments of mindfulness when I simply noticed its activity and nonjudgmentally expanded my awareness. At least I was relieved of my anguish about being robbed of life by my busy mind, and my sense of being a Zen fraud. I just couldn’t be bothered by those miserable, self-centered thoughts anymore.
Despite a greater sense of acceptance and peace, however, it was clear this process was unfinished. I still had a sense that when my busy mind took over, it was not “me.” I was the one who aspired to be mindful and present every moment. I was the one who had some insight into emptiness and knew that ultimately all this busyness was not going to bring me lasting peace – that there was never going to be a time when everything was taken care of, when everything was finally finished. I was the one who wanted to be appreciative of each moment of life, just as it is, rather than being obsessed with improving it.
In a recent retreat, I was sitting zazen and suddenly had a sense that my busy “mind” lived in my body. The drive to take care of things, improve things, create things, arose from a part of myself that isn’t ruled by rationality or large spiritual perspectives. An image came to me of a squirrel, busily running here and there, collecting nuts and burying them for later. This part of myself has great energy. When set to a task, it can’t stop until the task is done. It is instinctive, life-sustaining, and compulsive. All the lectures in the world about emptiness will not convince it that its tasks are not of the utmost importance.
This was a moment of deeper acceptance and integration. It was also a moment of healing, relief, joy, love, compassion, and intimacy. It could not have happened if I was harboring a secret agenda of killing, trapping, or subduing my squirrel nature. Subsequently, I can’t say that my busy mind has gone away and that I glide serenely from moment to moment, mind empty except for what is immediately relevant to the present situation. I don’t even want to be able to say that. Honestly, I don’t even want that to happen. What has happened is that my squirrel nature and the “I” who aspires to be mindful are more integrated. When one is ascendant, the other is not altogether absent. The one is not pitted against the other. In the midst of busyness, the mindful part of myself might say, “Hmmm, maybe it’s time to take a break?” In the midst of mindful stillness, I feel the squirrel nature fidgeting, ready to leap into action, and I smile.
Where are the Buddhist Teachings about Self-Acceptance?
Given the Zen emphasis on the “emptiness” of self, it may seem strange to be talking about the need to identify and embrace certain aspects of your self. However, Reality-with-a-capital-R has two aspects, like two sides of a coin – form and emptiness. Remember, as the Heart Sutra says, form is emptiness, emptiness is form. It is this very being, this very body-mind, which is empty of inherent, enduring, autonomous self-nature. Emptiness and boundarylessness are meaningless without something to be empty or boundaryless. The first step toward awakening to emptiness or boundarylessness is full acceptance of your very body, mind, and life.
If you’re anything like me, you might think about all this talk of inner nonviolence and self-acceptance and say, “Okay, that’s all well and good. But is it Buddhism?”
Naturally, the answer to this question is, “Yes and no.” Let me start with the no. There is nothing I know of in the classic Buddhist or Zen literature and teachings (that is, those 100-200 years old or more) that uses any terms like “self-acceptance.” I know of no warm and fuzzy texts about how, if you want to practice the Buddha way, you first have to love yourself. On the contrary, there are countless teachings about transcending your selfishness and letting go of obsession with self.
However, I think I can call my teaching on inner nonviolence “Buddhism” because everything I have said is compatible with Buddhism. My offering does not exactly resemble classical Buddhist texts because I am using psychological language. I feel comfortable doing this because Buddhism, as I see it, is a living tradition. There is no dogma. It’s all about waking up to the truth. Each generation, each country, each culture, contributes to the collective wisdom held in the Buddhist tradition. Whether something is truly a valuable addition, adaptation, or innovation can be determined by two things: How effective it is at reaching its audience, and how it stands the test of time.
The Buddhism you and I encounter in the 21st century, especially in areas where Buddhism has recently arrived, is profoundly informed by psychology. I’m not a scholar in this area, but it is clear to me that, because of psychology, we have a new way of talking about and accessing our inner experience. We recognize that many of us need healing and integration before we can embrace emptiness. We understand that people vary widely, and instructions that work for some may be useless or even harmful for others. We appreciate that fulfilling our aspirations is rarely as simple as the superego asserting itself over our flawed or animalistic parts.
If I look to the tradition that I love to back me up as I advocate making a vow of inner nonviolence, I think first, of course, of the Buddhist precept about not killing. Fully ordained monastics don’t even dig in the soil for fear of killing worms and insects. Clearly, the Buddha advocated a profound practice of non-harming for those who wanted to awaken. If even harming a worm has negative repercussions on your practice, surely inner violence is counterproductive!
I also think of the Lotus Sutra story of the Lost Son. I tell the story of this parable in Episode 152, and in essence the message of the story – which is over 2,000 years old – is that you have to overcome low self-esteem before you can awaken and recognize your own Buddha-Nature!
The classic Chan poem The Precious Mirror Samadhi, commonly attributed to Chan master Dongshan (807-869), has a line, “You are not it, but in truth it is you.”[ii] An inherently existing “you” is not to be found within your negative aspects, an inherently existing “you” is not defiled or burdened by your negative aspects, so you are not it. But in truth it is you – “you” are not to be found anywhere other than this very body and mind, either. I am not my squirrel nature in that I not limited or defined by it, but it is as much “me” as my hands or feet are. It is as much “me” as my aspirations, judgments, and insights.
The Zen teaching of radical nonduality also seems related to profound self-acceptance. I’ll let Zen master Lin-Chi, or Rinzai, have the final word:
Followers of the Way, the really first-rate [person] knows right now that from the first there’s never been anything that needed doing. It’s because you don’t have enough faith that you rush around moment by moment looking for something. You throw away your head and then hunt for a head, and you can’t seem to stop yourselves. You’re like the bodhisattva of perfect and immediate enlightenment who manifests his body in the Dharma-realm but who, in the midst of the Pure Land, still hates the state of common mortal and prays to become a sage. People like that have yet to forget about making choices. Their minds are still occupied with thoughts of purity or impurity.
But the Ch’an school doesn’t see things that way. What counts is this present moment —there’s nothing that requires a lot of time. Everything I am saying to you is for the moment only, medicine to cure the disease. Ultimately it has no true reality. If you can see things in this way, you will be true [persons] who have left the household, free to spend ten thousand in gold each day.[iii]
Endnotes
[i] Okumura, Shohaku, and Taigen Daniel Leighton. The Wholehearted Way: A Translation of Eihei Dogen’s Bendowa with Commentary by Kosho Uchiyama Roshi. Rutland, VT: Tuttle Publishing,1997.
[ii] https://global.sotozen-net.or.jp/eng/practice/sutra/pdf/01/06.pdf
[iii] Watson, Burton (translator). The Zen Teachings of Master Lin-Chi. New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 1993.
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