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[post_content] => Getting good at nearly anything requires a certain amount of discipline. At the very least, you need the discipline to practice it on a regular basis. You’d expect this for learning violin or karate, but you might not think you’d need it in order to have a peaceful and positive mind.
And perhaps you don’t. But if it’s a struggle for you to maintain a clear, lighthearted, optimistic outlook – if you find yourself often in bondage to a negative mind that has taken the driver’s seat – I would bet that your mind could use some discipline.
Around age 18, I discovered Carlos Castaneda’s books. In case you’re unfamiliar, Castaneda was a doctoral student at UCLA in the 1960s and 70s who studied the use of magical practices and psychedelic herbs by the Yaqui Indians of northern Mexico. After some detective work, and a few meetings with charlatans, he managed to track down the real deal: a secretive shaman named don Juan Matus. Castaneda was bumbling and boastful, and he tried to impress the shaman with his minimal knowledge of these practices.
Don Juan wasn’t fooled, but he kept Castaneda around because he saw in him the makings of a shaman or nagual. In a relationship similar to that of Daniel and Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid (but much stranger), don Juan put Carlos through rigorous trainings of body and mind, and fed him a variety of powerful hallucinogenic plants.
All of this was fascinating and mind-opening for me at the time, but there was one element of the training that, while less bizarre, was actually more poignant. Don Juan was intent on teaching Carlos to discipline his mind, and whenever Carlos became anxious or depressed, the shaman would admonish him to stop indulging in his mind’s melodrama. As my teenage self read the word indulge, it really cut through me. My late teens had been full of plenty of melodrama, and I couldn’t help wondering if don Juan would have considered it indulgence. It certainly hadn’t felt like I had any choice in the matter, but what if I did?
Thus began a lifetime’s journey to understand the difference between ME and my mind. To discover my power . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it. And because I decided to go into medicine, I’ve had the opportunity to witness and assist many others through the same exploration. Central to the process is the recognition of choice. As it pertains to discipline, this means being disciplined to remember you have a choice and being disciplined to repeatedly exercise this power.
When you suggest to someone in the throes of anxiety or depression that there is an element of choice in their psychological experience, it’s not uncommon for them to feel guilty, offended, and defensive. Because the implication, of course, is that they’ve been making things bad for themselves – that it’s their fault.
But the notion of fault can only serve to degrade the process. While the recognition of choice – AKA free will – is empowering, fault is disempowering. It leads us to think things like, “Why would I do this to myself? Why can’t I stop it?” The answer to those questions is, respectively, confusion and habit. Responding to feelings of fault (blame) with forgiveness and compassion for oneself will neutralize it, and this, too, requires discipline.
Throughout, the overarching practice of discipline is to pay attention to where your mind is going, and to not let it get away with taking you to dark or fearful places. And Mr. Miyagi, don Juan, and any Zen monk would probably add, practice the discipline of being deliberate about everything you do.
The life of a Zen monk, if fact, can teach us a lot about discipline. Discipline is not necessarily army boot camp or the One-Grape-a-Day Diet. It doesn’t imply restriction or deprivation as much as a continuous application of attention. (Our attention is more scattered than ever, due to the many things with screens in our lives.) Zen monks are, by and large, carefree and light of heart. And this results from prioritizing what is here and now, what is real, what is precious, over the moody demands of a wayward mind. Such a practice actually works best when guided by love – when you simply care too much about yourself to let your consciousness be degraded by mental bondage.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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[post_content] => I once took a required course in a subtle form of bodywork called Jin Shin Do. Rather than pressing, kneading, or stroking, the practitioner simply rests her fingers on specific combinations of acupuncture points and intends for healing to occur. During the first few classes, I thought, “I have all these other healing tools. Why would I waste my time on this? Who can even tell if anything is happening?!”
Yet, I was pleasantly surprised. This class gave me an appreciation for the power of subtlety in medicine. I now believe that subtle healing techniques often succeed where others fail, because there’s less potential for the recipient’s mind or body to object to the intervention, less potential to exacerbate an existing condition, plus an opportunity to “slip under the radar” and initiate a deeper healing.
Frequently, the professor broke us into pairs – a giver and a receiver – to try experiments. And there was one experiment that I’ll never forget.
While the givers’ hands rested on the receivers, she would circulate through the room whispering a variety of words into the givers’ ears. Some of the phrases I remember were, “I love you,” “You are safe,” “You are healed,” and “Everything is good.” The givers were instructed to hold each set of words in their consciousness without changing anything about what they were doing with their hands. Sometimes they were directed to think about what they were going to have for dinner or to ponder a current problem in their life. After a few minutes, both the giver and the receiver would report about what they experienced.
Nearly all the receivers, without knowing what the givers were focused on, reported feeling better when the givers were focused on a positive intention rather their own “stuff.” They weren’t always able to articulate what exactly felt better about it, but some felt more “held” by the giver, or more energy, or an alignment of their skeleton, or a reduction in pain.
There were minimal differences in the effect of the various positive intentions – except one. Everyone in the room reported that the best, most “connected” experience occurred when the giver held the phrase “I am here for you” in their mind. In fact, when the giver thought, “I am here for you,” there were sighs around the room from the receivers. Their breathing deepened and they relaxed more.
I’ve thought about this a lot in the years since. It reminds me of an anxious phase I went through as a tween. When I was 12 I had some panic attacks, and afterwards I always wanted one of my parents to be near me. That need for physical proximity eventually passed – I actually preferred to be alone much of the time – but as I got clearer about it, I realized that I what I really wanted was to know that someone would be available to give me their full presence if I ever needed it. (Kind of like the ease that comes from having a Xanax in your pocket, even if you never take it.)
This realization eventually led to the understanding that attention is an exceedingly valuable thing. We all know that “time is money” because there’s a finite amount of it in the workday. But attention (or presence) is even more precious. How often do you feel that you have someone’s complete, undivided attention?
Back in my angsty tweens and teens – before the Internet, and when it used to cost a lot to make a long-distance phone call – if there wasn’t someone nearby, it might be difficult or expensive to find a human connection. Today, it’s much easier and cheaper. We can Skype or Facetime with someone on the other side of the planet for free! We’ve made great gains in bridging distance with technology.
And yet, it seems even more uncommon to find someone who can give you their presence in a sustained way. Based on my conversations with patients, people feel busier and more distracted than a few decades ago. We have shorter attention spans and less ability to focus. (I believe the phenomenon I’ve dubbed the Human Data Stream – that massive flow of information in the form of texts, calls, videos, social media, emails, etc., and the devices that transmit it – is largely to blame.) You could be sitting across the table from someone, engaged in a conversation, and still feel that they’re not really “here for you.”
HERE. FOR. YOU.
Think about what it means to really be present for someone you care about. As in, I offer you my total presence. And consider how good it would feel if you could allow yourself to fully trust and relax in the presence of a loved one who’s holding the space for you. What a gift! I encourage all of us to practice offering our presence to others – setting aside our personal agendas and giving our full attention to the one in front of us.
Now, there’s a little more to the story. So, I realized that I didn’t need someone always holding my hand, but I wanted to know I had a support system in my family and community. I gathered folks who would be here for me if I needed it (and I for them). And I will always prioritize family and community for the rest of my life.
However, I came to understand that even that level of support was still external in a way. I don’t mean to diminish its value, but I recognized that there was a deeper or closer trust available, a closer presence, that wouldn’t require calling a friend.
I saw that I rarely offered myself my own total presence, choosing instead, almost incessantly, to give my attention to my mind’s constant stream of thoughts. I saw that I rarely told myself, I AM HERE FOR YOU! (By “I” in this phrase, I mean my Authentic Self, my Divine Self, my Absolute Self, or what many people simply call a Oneness with God.) It’s at once tragic and glorious to recognize this self-deprivation.
Sometimes I have difficulty remembering it or accessing it, but I know it’s always there. That is, I am always here. And, because you and I are one, I am always here for you, and you are always here for me. Let’s remember together, and dispel the illusions of separation that cloud our vision.
Be well my friend,
Peter
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[post_content] => If we hear a saying enough – especially at an impressionable time and/or spoken by someone we respect – we may accept it without applying critical thinking to determine if it’s actually true. For me, one such saying was, “People don’t change.”
As a young adult I heard it said by a guy I looked up to, and I remember thinking he must be wise. He stated it with triumph and bitterness – as a keen insight that would allow him to never be hurt again.
In writing this article, I googled “people don’t change” and “people can’t change” and got about 4 million hits for each phrase. Clearly this is a prevalent idea. But is it true?
When psychologists Dan Gilbert, Jordi Quoidbach, and Timothy Wilson set out to investigate perceptions of personal change, they discovered something surprising: most people believe that they have gotten all of their changing over with. Interviews with 19,000 participants revealed that young people, middle aged people, and old people all saw themselves as having changed a lot in the past, but believed they had more or less “arrived” at who they would be from now on. The scientists called this the “end of history illusion.” They used the word “illusion” because . . . we’re almost always wrong.
Perhaps this widespread view of ourselves as unlikely to change spills over onto what we expect of others – i.e., that they won’t change either. But we might ask, when someone believes that people don’t change, did it originate as a rational assessment of the likelihood of change? Or did it begin as a way of saving face, as in, “It may look like I got blindsided, but I actually saw this coming – because people don’t change.” Or as ammo for self-punishment, as in, “I’m a fool. I should have seen this coming – because people don’t change.” Or as the basis for blaming others for our pain, as in, “I was relying on you to become different so that I could be happy, but I’m not happy – because people don’t change.”
I happen to be in the business of tracking change. A few folks come to me for health maintenance, but I like to empower people to do most of their maintenance themselves, so the majority of my patient visits are from humans wanting the same thing: change. They want their body to change or their mind to change or their life circumstances to change. Because my task is to help facilitate this change, a significant part of my job is to be a change tracker. As a change tracker, I can assure you, people change all the time, often dramatically. If they didn’t, I’d feel like a charlatan.
But of course, we all have recurring patterns. In Vedic philosophy, these are considered to be expressions of our samskaras – the imprints of past experiences. Samskara literally means “impression” – like a footprint in the sand or a groove cut in the earth – and we tend to fall into them over and over, just as water naturally follows ruts in the land. Likewise, as experiences “flow” through our consciousness, they are manipulated by these contours of our psyche. Our capacity for discernment, called the buddhi, is said to be impaired by the presence of samskaras because they cause us to see things differently than they really are.
Scientists in the field of psychoneuroimmunology discovered that there’s a biological basis for this behavior. The repetition of the same thoughts, feelings, or behaviors strengthens a particular neurological pathway. These neurons “wire together” making a more efficient channel for nerve impulses to flow through, much like a groove in the sand. This increases the likelihood of our continuing to repeat the thought / feeling / behavior and thus to further strengthen the pathway and increase the potential to revisit it.
What can we do about this? There are many useful strategies, most of which amount to the cultivation of clear vision and perspective. Traditionally, this is one of the central purposes of yoga – meditation, specifically – which is said to be like polishing the dirty mirror of the buddhi so that it provides accurate reflections.
Meditation is like walking to the top of a mountain, where we can see the big picture (something impossible to do when we’re stuck in a rut in the ground). Here we can determine our most efficient course of action. Here we see the grooves of samskaras and “fill them in” through forgiveness, love, and acceptance. Here we can see the ways we have changed, and, indeed, see that big change is inevitable for ourselves and everyone else.
Take a few minutes today for a mental fast. Close your eyes and allow yourself to rise above the chattering and judgements, the push and pull of emotions, and perceive what kind of change would bring you into closer alignment with your inner being. Then set an intention to allow this change to happen. Perhaps even ask your highest self to reconfigure you to experience peace more readily. A change is gonna come.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
[post_title] => Can You Change?
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[post_content] => Getting good at nearly anything requires a certain amount of discipline. At the very least, you need the discipline to practice it on a regular basis. You’d expect this for learning violin or karate, but you might not think you’d need it in order to have a peaceful and positive mind.
And perhaps you don’t. But if it’s a struggle for you to maintain a clear, lighthearted, optimistic outlook – if you find yourself often in bondage to a negative mind that has taken the driver’s seat – I would bet that your mind could use some discipline.
Around age 18, I discovered Carlos Castaneda’s books. In case you’re unfamiliar, Castaneda was a doctoral student at UCLA in the 1960s and 70s who studied the use of magical practices and psychedelic herbs by the Yaqui Indians of northern Mexico. After some detective work, and a few meetings with charlatans, he managed to track down the real deal: a secretive shaman named don Juan Matus. Castaneda was bumbling and boastful, and he tried to impress the shaman with his minimal knowledge of these practices.
Don Juan wasn’t fooled, but he kept Castaneda around because he saw in him the makings of a shaman or nagual. In a relationship similar to that of Daniel and Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid (but much stranger), don Juan put Carlos through rigorous trainings of body and mind, and fed him a variety of powerful hallucinogenic plants.
All of this was fascinating and mind-opening for me at the time, but there was one element of the training that, while less bizarre, was actually more poignant. Don Juan was intent on teaching Carlos to discipline his mind, and whenever Carlos became anxious or depressed, the shaman would admonish him to stop indulging in his mind’s melodrama. As my teenage self read the word indulge, it really cut through me. My late teens had been full of plenty of melodrama, and I couldn’t help wondering if don Juan would have considered it indulgence. It certainly hadn’t felt like I had any choice in the matter, but what if I did?
Thus began a lifetime’s journey to understand the difference between ME and my mind. To discover my power . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it . . . and lose sight of it . . . and rediscover it. And because I decided to go into medicine, I’ve had the opportunity to witness and assist many others through the same exploration. Central to the process is the recognition of choice. As it pertains to discipline, this means being disciplined to remember you have a choice and being disciplined to repeatedly exercise this power.
When you suggest to someone in the throes of anxiety or depression that there is an element of choice in their psychological experience, it’s not uncommon for them to feel guilty, offended, and defensive. Because the implication, of course, is that they’ve been making things bad for themselves – that it’s their fault.
But the notion of fault can only serve to degrade the process. While the recognition of choice – AKA free will – is empowering, fault is disempowering. It leads us to think things like, “Why would I do this to myself? Why can’t I stop it?” The answer to those questions is, respectively, confusion and habit. Responding to feelings of fault (blame) with forgiveness and compassion for oneself will neutralize it, and this, too, requires discipline.
Throughout, the overarching practice of discipline is to pay attention to where your mind is going, and to not let it get away with taking you to dark or fearful places. And Mr. Miyagi, don Juan, and any Zen monk would probably add, practice the discipline of being deliberate about everything you do.
The life of a Zen monk, if fact, can teach us a lot about discipline. Discipline is not necessarily army boot camp or the One-Grape-a-Day Diet. It doesn’t imply restriction or deprivation as much as a continuous application of attention. (Our attention is more scattered than ever, due to the many things with screens in our lives.) Zen monks are, by and large, carefree and light of heart. And this results from prioritizing what is here and now, what is real, what is precious, over the moody demands of a wayward mind. Such a practice actually works best when guided by love – when you simply care too much about yourself to let your consciousness be degraded by mental bondage.
Be well,
Dr. Peter Borten
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