Vachon Imagined

When my son aggravates me, when I’ve asked him three times to do something and somehow we’re discussing everything except the thing I’ve asked him to do, enlightenment isn’t very impressive.

When a woman laughs at me—not with me, but at me—and I feel that familiar sting of embarrassment rise from somewhere old and forgotten, enlightenment isn’t very impressive then either.

The ego likes enlightenment when it’s sitting quietly with a cup of coffee, reading a book about peace.

It likes enlightenment when life is cooperating.

But what about when life isn’t cooperating?

What about when someone misunderstands you?

What about when someone rejects you?

What about when your child is pushing every button he seems to know you possess?

That’s where the real work begins.

Because insight is easy to admire when nothing is threatening your sense of self.

The question isn’t whether I’ve experienced peace. The question is what happens when peace is interrupted.

Can I notice the irritation rising toward my son without becoming it?

Can I notice the hurt from another person’s words without building a home inside it?

Can I allow the embarrassment, the anger, the disappointment, and the defensiveness to pass through me without recruiting them (or others) into my identity?

Years ago, I thought enlightenment meant becoming untouchable.

Now I suspect it means becoming touchable.

Life touches you.

A comment touches you.

A laugh touches you.

A fear touches you.

A memory touches you.

And instead of spending the next three hours defending yourself against the experience, you simply notice it.

You allow it.

You feel it.

You learn from it.

Then you let it go.

Not because you’ve transcended being human, but because you’ve stopped demanding that being human look different than it does.

The irony is that genuine insight often produces less certainty, not more.

You become less interested in being enlightened and more interested in being honest.

Less interested in transcending humanity and more interested in participating in it.

Less interested in arriving and more interested in seeing.

Awakening, at least as I have come to understand it, is not the end of the journey but the end of believing there is a final destination. There is seeing, forgetting, remembering, deepening, and seeing again.

Like breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You don’t breathe once and declare yourself permanently oxygenated.

You don’t understand once and declare yourself permanently enlightened.

You meet life again and again, and each meeting reveals something new.

The bills still arrive.

The dishes still need washing.

The old wounds still occasionally knock on the door.

The world remains gloriously, frustratingly itself.

It reminds me of the old spiritual joke:

“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”

Perhaps the fuller version is:

“Before enlightenment, chop wood and wonder why you’re unhappy. After enlightenment, chop wood and notice you were never separate from the wood, the water, or the wondering.”

Then tomorrow you forget, remember, forget again, and life continues teaching.

My son aggravates me.

People occasionally hurt my feelings.

I still become impatient.

I still become afraid.

I still forget.

The difference is that I no longer mistake these visitors for who I am.

Perhaps that is the real surprise waiting on the other side of awakening.

You don’t become less human.

You become more willing to be one.

The ego expects a graduation ceremony.

Life hands you a broom.

You’re enlightened.

Now what?

Now you live.

Now you love.

Now you lose.

Now you learn.

Now your son leaves his shoes in the middle of the floor.

Now someone laughs.

Now your plans fall apart.

Now life continues.

And this time, maybe, you continue with it.

Because the journey never ended.

Only the idea that you would someday be finished.