You Can Ring My Bell

But I’d Prefer If You Didn’t

[I took this selfie in Kew Gardens, London, years ago. Only took about 900 tries.]

Something amazing and wonderful happened last week after I sent out my post about Lisa the goat’s death. This was not a straightforward path from sorrow to joy. Sandwiched in the middle was a brief but turbulent chunk of time during which I got to experience rage, defensiveness, defiance, and maybe even a little hate.

Early in the day, I found myself on the receiving end of a wave of condolences—emails, texts, public comments. Everyone had really kind and supportive things to say about the grief I was feeling over Lisa. This felt unexpected, though it should not have. It is always the case that when I let my sadness be known, I find comfort and consolation. But I also get amnesia around this. So every time a new wave of love arrives, it feels fresh and surprising.

Then came a comment from some unknown someone who went off on me and suggested I was evil, that I had let the goat suffer. As is par for my personal course, suddenly all the loving support fell away, and all I could focus on was this accusation, and how fucking infuriated it made me.

Some of you will recall that one thing I chose to do in my grief—not just around Lisa but around everything happening in the world—was to listen to an audiobook about Buddhism. Picture this: me, driving from a writing workshop in San Marcos to a writing workshop in Austin, listening to reminders of the benefits of equanimity, love and compassion even for assholes, while simultaneously wanting to track down the online troll, metaphorically rip off her head and then metaphorically shit down her throat.

Even as I was feeling great anger, I was slightly amused at the irony of these mutually exclusive tasks. I had a conversation with myself that went a bit like this:

Me: Fuck that bitch. She is so stupid. I am so kind to all of my animals.

Also Me: Girl! This is a perfect opportunity to practice letting go. You don’t even know her. She is no one to you. Focus on all the love. Send the troll love!

Me: I hope a fucking anvil falls from the sky and lands on her head.

Also Me; Try to focus on the book. This is A GREAT CHANCE to apply what you are learning.

Back and forth I went, distracting myself from the book itself, having to rewind, trying to be present, to listen harder.

To my credit, I had, upon first reading the cruel comment, blocked the bully. But I could not resist what my friend Carol calls Visiting the Poison Well. I decided to have a closer look at my antagonist. I unblocked her long enough to see she had also posted a long note about what a piece of shit I am. I gave in to the devil on my shoulder and I posted a comment telling her to fuck herself. Then I blocked her again.

Somewhere in all of this, I received a note from my friend Bob in Canada. Bob is what I like to call the Avocado de Diablo. He can make very pointed remarks. He likes to debate. Sometimes his words feel very blunt. While this will often spur a kneejerk defensiveness in me, I also know Bob is a safe one to go back and forth with, that he isn’t trying to put me down or prove me wrong, he’s enjoying the philosophical discussion.

He asked a question along the lines of if I ever wondered if the thinking itself is a problem, a big thorn in my protracted quest for a peaceful mind. He also noted he was not trying to offend me. I responded, not without some defensiveness, that of COURSE I knew that thinking could be a problem, and that, as a matter of fact, I think about this all the time. I told him I wasn’t offended by him, and then used this as an opportunity to tell him that I had been greatly offended by the internet troll.

Thanks to this conversation, I had a sudden memory of something that happened nearly twenty years prior. It was this memory that made me laugh and that lifted my spirits tremendously.

In 2007 I attended a Buddhist retreat at Deer Park Monastery near San Diego. Thich Nhat Hanh himself was in attendance, a very huge deal. When I signed up months before the retreat, I asked to be part of the group processing grief, as I was going through a divorce. This landed me among a group of other people who were going through really hard times. Though I don’t believe in competitive grief and suffering, when I heard the stories of my fellow group members—for example, one guy had lost two children—it helped me see that my own difficulties were not nearly so intense. This breakout group met every afternoon to meditate together.

Though we were not forbidden from using our cell phones, such usage was discouraged. So when I received an urgent text from a friend in distress, I hiked up a path far away from the other attendees to call and console him. This led to a screaming match with a truly creepy asshole who came upon me and went off on me for talking. He was very much like Tim Robbins’ character Ian in High Fidelity, using “zen speak” and dripping with condescension. I wanted to punch him in the face.

Instead, I retreated down the path and headed for my afternoon meditation circle. When I charged into the room, angry energy was pouring off of me. I told myself not to burden these people—with their much bigger, much more real problems—with the source of my aggravation. I took my seat.

The circle was being led by an old Vietnamese nun who spoke no English. She looked at me, turned to her very young Vietnamese nun translator, and said something. The translator looked at me. “She wants to know what’s wrong.”

I don’t remember how I worded my answer, but I’m sure I sputtered something about being yelled at, and not liking it. The translator turned to her elder and delivered my message in Vietnamese.

With this, the old nun began to laugh. And laugh. It was not cruel or mocking. She was genuinely amused and the softness of her eyes conveyed her sympathy. She said something to the translator. The translator turned to me, smiled, and delivered the message.

“She said that guy rang your bell,” the young nun said. “She said you need to listen to the bell.”

How had I forgotten this very simple, very profound lesson? Oh, I know. Because I most often forget the simple and profound lessons. But now, it came back. How it lifted my spirits to time travel back nearly two decades, to feel myself sitting in that room again, to see and hear that old nun laughing.

DING DING DING!

Remembering the old nun’s advice, I thought about the troll that accused me of goat cruelty, how loudly this rang my bell. I didn’t have to think long at all to hear what that bell was telling me. I was brainwashed from the moment I was born to believe I was unworthy of love. I was on the receiving end of daily criticism and the promise I would be spending an eternity in hell for all of my “sins.” In short, I was lied to on the regular about who I was and what my place is in the world.

When I started to see this brainwashing for what it was, I was already an adult. The resources—time, money, dedication—I poured into trying to unlearn these false beliefs were tremendous. Even with all the work I’ve done and continue to do, my cPTSD is always going to be a part of me. Which in turn means that there will always be moments that I get hooked into anger, anger prompted by being falsely accused.

Something else I learned at that meditation retreat—if you really, really listen to a ringing bell, you will notice you the bell tone persists for quite some time. So I listened some more. I got the message. Next time I get hooked in like that, I have three assignments for myself. Visualize the bully as a huge cartoon bell. Listen to the damn bell. Laugh like the old nun.

Now, if I can just remember that.

What rings your bell?

JOY & BEAUTY DEPARTMENT

LAWNMOWER REPORT

No mowing this week. Instead it was Moi vs. Mesquite with my adorable mini chainsaw. No rest for the weary.

NOTES:

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