Make Me an Instrument of Change

Pain -- has an Element of Blank --
It cannot recollect
When it begun -- or if there were
A time when it was not --

It has no Future -- but itself --
Its Infinite contain
Its Past -- enlightened to perceive
New Periods -- of Pain.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

The scene: an unhappy infant cries for no discernible reason—as far as the frustrated and anxious mother or father can tell. Hunger, colic, wet diaper, safety pin poking at its tender flesh, some sense of danger? Perhaps unexplainable anger—in someone so young and with so few life experiences—especially experience that teaches us to use anger as a weapon, hoping somehow to gain advantage. What does Mother, or Father, do? The answer should be obvious—try to find the source while soothing the unhappy one. Before reading “Anger” by Thich Nhat Hanh, Zen Buddhist master and spiritual leader, I wouldn’t have thought that as adults we can and should approach our own anger similarly. Caress my anger? Cradle my spleen? What does this mean?

In Thich Nhat Hanh’s words, anger is one of the seeds that we carry deep within us, along with love, hope, despair, joy, fear. He counsels us to water the seeds of love, hope and joy. We are counseled further not to deny our anger, but instead, to attend to it, just as a mother and father seek to find the source of their infant’s unhappiness, while lovingly reassuring the child of her safety and wellbeing. How often are we advised to take a deep breath? We know about counting to 10. How often do we remember to do just that when our instinct is to fight or flee? Cultivating the seeds of anger, despair and fear comes so naturally to us, but why?

I think of all of the ordinary seeming situations that we find ourselves in on any given day—family conflict, work stress, juggling the balls of a social life that we not only choose but that we have sought out. Sometimes we give away our time and talents and find even there that we end up struggling with expectations—both perceived and real. Even our religious practices, inherited and chosen, can add to the challenge of our lives. We fear our bosses, and sadly, we sometimes fear our family and friends. And out of this fear grow anger and despair. We are afraid of failing, even when there is no race. We are afraid of our limitations, perceived and real. We are afraid of intimacy, honesty, and our vulnerability. And all of this fear easily translates into sadness and anger.

For many years, I have known that one way of understanding depression is by its roots in anger—anger turned inward. While we don’t want to be the victims of our own anger, most of us don’t want to go around making others our victims either. It happens, though. We’re angry at family—Mother and daughter, brother and sister, spouses and partners—and at friends, colleagues and bosses, faces known and unknown, the guy in the car ahead and in the next lane over, and in line at the market. We carry the seeds of unrealized hopes and we trade joy for despair and inner peace for turmoil. Our anger erupts—blame and hostility lead to damaged souls and relationships and to much sadness. Or equally as destructive, we stuff our anger and use it as a weapon on ourselves. Why would anyone choose to be angry? It is habit, learned behavior so well rehearsed that the script is imprinted on our very fabric.

Change requires a new perception and hard work. It requires mindfulness. Everything we can lay our hands on to read or to experience first hand tells us that if we are to find peace—indeed to live in peace—we must learn to be in the moment. It is there that we can acknowledge our anger and give comfort to our ravaged sense of worth. It is there that we can put aside blame. It is there that we breathe—seeking awareness—inhale, release. “We must be the change we want to see in the world,” Ghandi is so often quoted. First, however, we must be the change we want to see in ourselves. If we cannot let go of blame, recognize our righteous indignation for what it is, we cannot neutralize the poisonous effects of our anger. Without first loving ourselves, we cannot love others, and certainly, without first forgiving ourselves, we cannot forgive others. Make me an instrument of change.

Make Me an Instrument of Change—Santa Fe, New Mexico (July 29, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis