Who Do You Think You Are?

Because the thought stream is so pervasive and the habit of identifying with it is so deeply ingrained, it takes some initial effort to recognize what is going on at a moment like that. But if you look carefully, you'll notice that these mechanisms of identification and self-definition run on autopilot. They're like the crawl on CNN. The mood, the thought, even your feeling of 'me' is a loop. It may be a repetitive loop, but if you look closely, you see that like the crawl, it's just passing through. The problem—the avidya—occurs because you identify with it.

In other words, you don't think, "Here's some sadness," but "I'm sad." You don't think, "Here's a brilliant idea." You think, "I'm brilliant." Remember, avidya is "to mistake the impermanent for the eternal, the impure for the pure, and the not-self for the self. In your internal universe, that means habitually mistaking an idea or feeling for 'me' or 'mine.'" Then you judge yourself as good or bad, pure or impure, happy or sad.

But actually, none of these feelings are you. They are just passing through. True, they may have deep roots; after all, you've been identifying yourself as this or that for years. Nonetheless, to let that sad feeling define you is actually as nutty as it is for the actor playing Julius Caesar to come off the stage and begin giving commands to the stagehands as if they were his soldiers. But we do it all the time.

That morning I remembered to work with the feeling (something I might not have done had I woken up feeling more positive). I closed my eyes and breathed into the lower belly, filled up my lungs imagining the prana washing its way into all the alveoli in my lung sacs, felt the sensual bliss of the breath inside my body, and watched the feelings. I remembered that I am not my thoughts. I also noticed how my sadness acted like a pair of blue-tinted glasses, coloring everything, so that a friend's failure to call me back looked like rejection (actually, she was only busy with a deadline), and even the branches on the oaks outside my window seemed to droop (in another mood, I might have noticed their leaves sprouting toward the sky).

Then the sun came out. Within seconds the sadness had dissipated. Now, the self-identification mechanism was busily saying, "I'm happy! See, that was just a reaction to the weather. Actually, I'm fine. I'm a joyful person! My practice worked!" In fact, my mind was engaging in the very same process—grabbing the mood, identifying and describing it as happy, then identifying myself as happy. To free myself from avidya demanded that I free myself from identifying with the happy mood, too.

What you'll notice here is how the basic misperception—taking the non-self (that is, a mood) for the self—leads inexorably to feelings of aversion (I can't stand being depressed) or attachment (I feel so much better now that the sun is shining). And these bring up fear; in this case, fear that the sadness would be permanent, or that I was hopelessly trapped by my genetic predispositions, or that I needed to change where I was living.

Dismantling Avidya
Dismantling avidya is a multilayered process, which is why one breakthrough is usually not enough. Since different types of practice unpick different aspects of avidya, the Indian tradition prescribes different types of yoga for each—devotional practice for the ignorance of the heart, selfless action for the tendency to attach to outcomes, meditation for a wandering mind. The good news is that any level you work with is going to make a difference.

You free yourself from a piece of your avidya every time you increase your ability to be conscious, or hold presence during a challenging event. You can do this in dozens of ways. For instance, you can increase your consciousness (and decrease your avidya) about your connection and responsibility to the planet by sensitizing yourself to the energy in the natural world, in wind and water and trees. You can increase your awareness of your connections with others by listening better and by practicing kindness, but also by sinking your awareness into the heart center, and making an effort to tune into others from that interior place, speaking and listening as if from the heart.

You increase your consciousness of yourself by noticing your own blind spots or by observing your emotions and their effect in the body.

Meditations that tune you into pure Being—the Presence and unconditioned I am-ness that you are at your core—will begin to remove the deeper ignorance that makes you automatically identify 'me' with the body, personality, and ideas. On a day-to-day, moment-to-moment level, you burn off a few layers of avidya every time you turn your awareness inward, and reflect on the subtle meaning of a feeling, an encounter, or a physical reaction.

These types of intervention are not just key spiritual practices. They are also practical self-help techniques. When George asks himself "Is it really true that my wife's involvement with another man damages my sense of self?" he has a chance to recognize that his wife's choices are not statements about who he is. This calms his anxiety, which gives him some leverage for moving forward. Noticing where the sadness and disorientation sit in his body, feeling his way into the sensations around sadness might lead him to look for the root feeling behind the fear and disorientation. He might notice that he has a hidden belief about himself—"I'm unlovable," or "I'm not safe"—and recognize that it comes from childhood and is not really related to the current situation. He could then practice with the sad feeling, maybe breathe it out, or substitute a positive thought for the painful belief, and notice how either practice changes his mood. In this way, his self-inquiry practice gives him support as he navigates the change in his relationship with his wife.