Who is asking?
Who is asking?
From our friend Lindsey V. in the New York Center
Happiness cannot be consistent with longing for something that is not in the present. — Epictetus
Sometimes humor helps us see patterns in ourselves that we might not ordinarily admit to. In one of my favorite films, Groundhog Day, Phil Connors, a cynical, arrogant, and self-centered weatherman, finds himself mysteriously trapped in the same day, February 2. Every morning he wakes up to the same song, the same people, and the same events. Sound familiar? At first, he desperately tries to escape. Then he uses his knowledge of the future for his own pleasure and advantage. When that fails, he falls into despair. No matter what he does, tomorrow will be February 2 all over again.
Eventually something changes—not the day, but Phil. He stops trying to force reality to give him what he wants and begins to accept the day he has been given. Acceptance brings patience: if the day cannot be escaped, perhaps it can be lived differently. He begins paying attention to others, saves a choking man, catches a falling child, helps elderly women, and repeatedly tries to save a homeless man. His attention gradually moves away from himself toward compassion and service. The day that seemed like a prison becomes the field of his transformation. The film portrays Phil's transformation humorously, but we can recognize some deep truths in his story.
Recently I have had a little Groundhog Day of my own. My elderly father badly injured his leg riding his e-bike—something I wish he would give up—and stubbornly refused to go to the ER. I observed ‘I’s of concern, frustration, and growing irritation. Any reasonable person would already have been in the ER! The Steward was able to maintain patience and acceptance for a while but was simply not strong enough for such a sustained experience. As Confucius wisely said, “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” I begin the work again, without judgement or self-deprecation.
Several days later, with his leg increasingly red and swollen, my father finally went to the hospital. My father can be a demanding patient, pressing my buttons as only a parent can. In the weeks since, I repeatedly encounter the same ‘I’s: the impatient one, the angry one, the worried one, and especially the one absolutely certain they know what my father should be doing. Like Phil waking again to February 2, I find myself returning to the same reactions. The circumstances repeat, but my aim is to use this situation for presence.
Patience and acceptance allow us to work with suffering rather than simply react to it. Non-expression offers another possibility: the energy ordinarily wasted in irritation, blame, complaint, or self-pity can be conserved and transformed.
What may not be altered is made lighter by patience. — Horace
Although these tools of the Steward are treasures, they are not the higher centers. The Steward belongs to the machine and helps bring greater order to our ordinary inner life. It can practice patience, acceptance, non-identification, and non-expression. It can interrupt mechanical reactions and create a little inner space, but it cannot manufacture higher consciousness.
Phil does not escape Groundhog Day by becoming more clever at manipulating his circumstances. His transformation begins when the world is no longer organized entirely around Phil Connors. His question changes from How can I make this day give me what I want? to something closer to How can I use this day to be more present and to serve?
In my experience with my father, I could see the succession of ‘I’s: the one wanting to be patient, the one insisting my father follow my advice, and the one frustrated when he does not. But amidst all this, something else seems to be calling. I have come to believe that our higher centers want to be present to our lives. They are already pinging us—quietly and persistently—beneath the noise of our familiar sense of “me.” The tools of the Steward help quiet that noise so that something else may be heard.
Phil cannot change February 2. I cannot change my father's age, his accident, or his personality. We are continually given circumstances we did not choose and people we cannot control. Yet suffering can become material for the Work, and the energy bound up in resistance and resentment can become a springboard into presence. The Steward can help clear the way, but it cannot awaken us by itself. It seems that our work is to become quiet enough to hear what has been calling us all along. And this points to a deeper question: Where does our longing for presence come from in the first place, and who is asking?
The Magdalene with the Smoking Flame, Georges de La Tour (1648--1650)
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