How to accept yourself in a world striving for imperfection
I picked up this lovely slim volume from the library last week, and read through it in a day. Written by a Korean Buddhist monk, it has all the gentleness one might associate with Buddhism, and some lively illustrations too.
For example, the second chapter is titled “Your Existence is Already Enough.” Do you feel that is so — that your existence is enough? Or do you feel somehow inadequate, as if something is missing? For whom is our existence enough, and in what sense is it enough?
The author Haemin Sunim narrates an anecdote in the second chapter. He meets a friend after many years, and they end up talking about their lives, and at one point his friend cries about the difficulties he has faced in the intervening years. After spending more time with his friend, as the monk bids his friend goodbye, he leaves behind a letter — ah! that most delightful way to communicate —
“When we were in graduate school, you were like a big brother to me. You helped me overcome several crises. You don’t know how grateful I am even now, when I think of your kind heart. And so for goodness’ sake please remember: Even if you never achieve anything big and significant, to me, your existence is already enough.”
What a lovely little note! Don’t you think? What if you read the last sentence of this note as if it were written to you? What might you feel?
There was a time when I would have cried while reading that last sentence, because at that time, I didn’t think my existence was worth much, let alone enough. I know that Rajesh did not feel his existence was enough either before he took his life. Would a note like the above have made a difference? He was clearly starved for love, and didn’t know how to receive that which came his way. Sometimes, I think it might have been easier if I had just loved him, or just hated him. But having done both, it has been quite confusing to come to terms with what our relationship was, and who I am now without him.
Over the last two years, things have changed for me, and I can’t help but think whether I would have arrived here if Rajesh hadn’t taken his life. I see that (my) existence is not just enough; the very fact of existence itself is an absolute miracle, that such a thing should even be! I read somewhere that each moment, we miss the miracle of existence a thousand times; our very heartbeat is a quiet reminder. It’s right there, if we would just turn our ear inwards.
The book has other chapters titled “Please Look After Mom” and “Understanding Our Fathers” which struck close to home — they are both topics I have written about and spoken in my podcast.
Here’s another passage from one of those chapters:
If you want to help your child, your partner, or your friend,
simply listen without offering advice
or your own interpretation.
And empathize, imagining that you yourself
just had that experience.
Don’t turn away from difficulties, but endure them together.
That is how you can be of greatest help.
I liked the last two lines. To sit beside someone who is hurting and partake in their grief, without doing much else, can be so healing. It can also be a quiet reminder that we all take turns to experience sadness in our lives, and we can endure it, perhaps on our own, or with others, and that’s okay.
This afternoon, I was watching some AI-generated videos of Shiva stories. One of the stories was very moving: his wife Shakti, in the human form of Sati, sacrifices her life when her own father disrespects his son-in-law Shiva (a bit foolish to disrespect the Supreme Being, no? blind too, maybe?) When Shiva hears of Sati’s passing away, he flies into a rage at the loss of his love. He unleashes his fury in the form of Veerabhadra upon his father-in-law. Then he arrives at the scene, unmindful of the destruction wreaked around him, looking for Sati; he finds her, picks her up lovingly in his arms, returns to his abode on Mt. Kailash, and deals with his grief by going into deep meditation, to be woken up from it only years later by Parvati, another incarnation of Shakti.
That’s one way to deal with pain, I guess! May not be for all of us.
Each chapter of the book has two parts. The first section is a narrative, and the second section has a set of suggestions, which are like nuggets of wisdom. The book juxtaposes the author’s personal anecdotes with universal experiences that all of us can identify with. It’s the kind of writing that I like, and try to incorporate in my own blog here.
If you find that you need some maitri (loving-kindness) in your life, as I do occasionally, a book like this can give it to you; and then you can learn to give it to yourself, and still later, perhaps to others.