The Precious Jewel of Adversity

Everything meaningful and beautiful has been fashioned in some way or another through the transformation of suffering: a newborn baby, a poem, compassion, a painting or sculpture, a song, or a lotus flower have all passed the test and grown through the necessary trials to rise above the mud and ripen into fruition. Something in me has known – and I suspect all of us have known – the truth of transforming suffering even as children, yearning to hear the part where they “lived happily ever after.” It would be painful to reach the conclusion of a fairytale without declaring the pinnacle of transformation. By the same token, the joy of transformation would not have its depth without the journey of hardship.

"Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

―William Shakespeare, As You Like It

Like everyone else, I have felt the inevitable pressures and suffering in life. Through acceptance and self-remembering I learned to process this raw material, and how to transform the experience into gratitude, even as the memory of these episodes may still momentarily touch and sting my heart. Accepting and enduring real suffering with presence relegates other types of irritations – which we might be tempted to call real suffering – into proper perspective.

There are three types of suffering that I have experienced and learned about on my journey using the tool of self-observation. The first, imaginary suffering, practically disappears the moment light shines upon it, although it can be difficult to struggle with because it resides in imagination, which is on its own such a formidable moment-to-moment characteristic of sleep. Holding on to resentment and the conviction that I have been ill-treated by someone; wallowing in the paralysis of self-doubt; and feeling unloved and undervalued are all forms of imaginary suffering, which fortify and protect my imaginary picture. These illusions and the power they have over me to keep me asleep can vanish through self-observation and by changing my attitudes. The charm of turning my attention toward the needs of others – external consideration – also helps to bring me back into a higher place where I am receptive to higher states.

Another type of suffering which can act as a counterbalance to imaginary suffering is voluntary suffering. Just how does this work? I can displace imaginary suffering by prompting myself to be present through more intentional reminders, such as placing a penny in my shoe, leaving one delicious bite of food on my plate, or letting another receive praise for an idea that was rightfully mine. Consciousness has degrees and it is a step in the right direction to suffer voluntarily because it involves a degree of awareness, intentionality, and an aim.

Whether we reach the point of “living happily ever after” is based upon the transformation of suffering, particularly the third type of suffering: real suffering. Although we might try, no one dodges real suffering as surely as no one can survive living on the planet without air. One of the most meaningful ideas about suffering that I have come across is from Maurice Nicole, a follower of P.D. Ouspensky. He writes that suffering is a fixative. In other words, what is foremost in our hearts and minds when we are going through real suffering determines the direction of our growth and transformation. Through suffering, if I hold on to resentment, self-pity, and doubt, I bond with resentment, self-pity, and doubt. If I self-remember and make efforts to be in higher states through suffering, I give strength to higher states of consciousness and nourish the part in me that has the possibility to evolve.

I get very impatient some days – am a little resentful … I wonder if it is all fair—whether the scheme, after all, is not doubtful: Then I go back, I find my way to my central thought again – my spinal conviction; I resent resentment. — Walt Whitman

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Portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh (detail), 1588