The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times

by Pema Chödrön

That we hope to get what we want and fear losing what we have—this describes our habitual predicament. The Buddhist teachings identify eight variations on this tendency to hope and fear: pleasure and pain, praise and blame, gain and loss, fame and disgrace. As long as we’re caught in one of these extremes, the potential for the other is always there. They just chase each other around. No lasting happiness comes from being caught in this cycle of attraction and aversion. We can never get life to work out so that we eliminate everything we fear and end up with all the goodies. Therefore the warrior-bodhisattva cultivates equanimity, the vast mind that doesn’t narrow reality into for and against, liking and disliking.

When we have a feeling of spaciousness and ease that’s not caught up in preference or prejudice, this is equanimity. We can wish for ourselves and our loved ones to dwell in that sense of freedom. Then we extend that aspiration to our friend and to neutral persons and to our enemy. We then have the aspiration that all five of us could dwell in equanimity. Finally we can extend the aspiration to all beings in time and space. “May all beings dwell in the great equanimity, free from passion, aggression, and prejudice.”

When people ask me how long this will take, I say, “At least until you die.”

With unfailing kindness, your life always presents what you need to learn. Whether you stay home or work in an office or what ever, the next teacher is going to pop right up. —CHARLOTTE JOKO BECK

The near enemy or misunderstanding of loving-kindness is attachment. There’s a Tibetan word, lhenchak, that describes this well. “Lhenchak” points at how free-flowing love can go astray and get stuck. It is taught that the strongest lhenchak occurs in the following three relationships: between parents and children, between lovers, and between spiritual teachers and their students. Lhenchak is characterized by clinging and self-involvement. It’s like weaving ourselves into a web of shared neurosis. By its nature, it inhibits human growth. Inevitably the lhenchak relationship turns into a source of irritation and blindness. Loving-kindness is different from lhenchak.

There are three near enemies of compassion: pity, overwhelm, and idiot compassion. Pity or professional warmth is easily mistaken for true compassion. When we identify ourselves as the helper, it means we see others as helpless. Instead of feeling the pain of the other person, we set ourselves apart. If we’ve ever been on the receiving end of pity we know how painful it feels. Instead of warmth and support all we feel is distance. With true compassion these up-down identities are stripped away. Overwhelm is a sense of helplessness. We feel that there is so much suffering—whatever we do is to no avail. We’ve become discouraged. There are two ways I’ve found effective in working with overwhelm. One is to train with a less challenging subject, to find a situation we feel that we can handle.

The third near enemy of compassion is idiot compassion. This is when we avoid conflict and protect our good image by being kind when we should say a definite “no.” Compassion doesn’t imply only trying to be good. When we find ourselves in an aggressive relationship, we need to set clear boundaries. The kindest thing we can do for everyone concerned is to know when to say “enough.” Many people use Buddhist ideals to justify self-debasement. In the name of not shutting our heart, we let people walk all over us. It is said that in order not to break our vow of compassion we have to learn when to stop aggression and draw the line. There are times when the only way to bring down the barriers is to set boundaries.

The near enemy of equanimity is detachment or indifference. Especially in spiritual practice, it is easy to mistake dangling above the unkemptness of life for genuine equanimity. We are open and friendly and serene and proud that we’ve transcended emotional upheaval. If we feel distress, embarrassment, or anger, we think we’ve really blown it. Yet feeling emotional upheaval is not a spiritual faux pas; it’s the place where the warrior learns compassion. It’s where we learn to stop struggling with ourselves. It’s only when we can dwell in these places that scare us that equanimity becomes unshakable.

HE FIVE STRENGTHS are strong determination, familiarization with the bodhichitta teachings and practices, the seed of goodness that is found in every living being, the practice of reproach, and the power of aspiration. These are five ways that a warrior increases confidence and inspiration.

The fourth strength is reproach. Reproach can be tricky because it backfires if there’s no maitri. Its strength is that if used with loving-kindness it will steer us away from debilitating habitual patterns. The gentlest method of reproach is to ask ourselves, “Have I ever done this before?” When we suspect that we’re turning away from the moment, we can say to ourselves as a reminder, “Does this way of acting or thinking feel familiar?”

The point of reproach is to develop enough self-respect that when we catch ourselves getting hooked in familiar ways we can stop. We aren’t disciplining our badness; we’re simply getting smart about what brings suffering and what brings happiness. We’re finally giving ourselves a break.

The fifth strength is the strength that comes from aspiration. We may not yet feel ready to act, but even in very difficult situations, we can do something to help. We can aspire to arouse bodhichitta, to free ourselves from neurosis and be of benefit. We can aspire to find the warrior’s strength and ability to love.

So these are the five strengths we can utilize in our practice of awakening bodhichitta: Cultivating strong determination and commitment to relate openly with whatever life presents, including our emotional distress. Building familiarization with the bodhichitta practices by utilizing them in formal practice and on the spot. Watering the seed of bodhichitta in both delightful and miserable situations so that our confidence in this positive seed can grow. Using reproach—with kindness and humor—as a way of catching ourselves before we cause harm to self or other. Nurturing the habit of aspiration for all of us that suffering and its seeds diminish and that wisdom and compassion increase, nurturing the habit of always cultivating our kind heart and open mind.

There are three kinds of laziness—comfort orientation, loss of heart, and “couldn’t care less.” These are three ways that we become stuck in debilitating habitual patterns. Exploring them with curiosity, however, dissolves their power.

The first kind of laziness, comfort orientation, is based on our tendency to avoid inconvenience. We want to take a rest, to give ourselves a break. But soothing ourselves, lulling ourselves, becomes a habit and we become jaded and lazy.

At the first threat of cold, we turn up the heat. In this way we lose touch with the texture of life. We trust the quick “upper” and become accustomed to automatic results.

This particular brand of laziness can make us aggressive. We become outraged at inconvenience.

Comfort orientation dulls our appreciation of smells and sights and sounds. It also makes us dissatisfied. Somehow we always know in our hearts that pure pleasure is not the route to lasting happiness.

The second kind of laziness is loss of heart. We feel a sense of hopelessness, of “poor me.”

The third kind of laziness, “couldn’t care less,” is characterized by resentment. We are giving the world the finger. It’s similar to loss of heart but much harder.

There are three habitual methods that human beings use for relating to laziness or any troubling emotion. I call these the three futile strategies—the strategies of attacking, indulging, and ignoring.

This is the strategy of fully experiencing whatever we’ve been resisting—without exiting in our three habitual ways.

six ways of compassionate living: generosity, discipline, patience, enthusiasm, meditation, and prajna—unconditional wisdom. Traditionally these are called the six paramitas, a Sanskrit word meaning “gone to the other shore.” Each one is an activity we can use to take us beyond aversion and attachment, beyond being all caught up in ourselves, beyond the illusion of separateness. Each paramita has the ability to take us beyond our fear of letting go. Through paramita training we learn to be comfortable with uncertainty.

the flexible mind of prajna doesn’t draw conclusions of good or bad. It perceives the sound without adding anything extra, without judgments of happy or sad.

Pain is always a sign that we are holding on to something—usually ourselves. When we feel unhappy, when we feel inadequate, we get stingy; we hold on tight. Generosity is an activity that loosens us up.

When we practice generosity we become intimate with our grasping. When we practice the discipline of not causing harm we see our rigidity and self-righteousness. Our practice is to work with guidelines of compassionate conduct with the flexible mind of prajna—seeing things without “shoulds” or “should nots.”

Patience takes courage. It is not an ideal state of calm. In fact, when we practice patience we will see our agitation far more clearly.

The paramita of enthusiasm is connected with joy. In practicing this paramita, like little children learning to walk, we train with eagerness but without a goal.

We practice what is called the threefold purity—no big deal about the doer, no big deal about the action, no big deal about the result. This joyful exertion is rooted in no expectation, no ambition, no hope of fruition. We just eagerly put one foot in front of the other and are not discouraged when we fall flat on our faces. We act without self-congratulation or self-censure, without fearing criticism or expecting applause.

Through continual practice we find out how to cross over the boundary between stuckness and waking up. It depends on our willingness to experience directly feelings we’ve been avoiding for many years. This willingness to stay open to what scares us weakens our habits of avoidance. It’s the way that ego-clinging becomes ventilated and begins to fade.

So these are the six activities of the warrior: Generosity. Giving as a path of learning to let go. Discipline. Training in not causing harm in a way that is daring and flexible. Patience. Training in abiding with the restlessness of our energy and letting things evolve at their own speed. If waking up takes forever, still we go moment by moment, giving up all hope of fruition and enjoying the process. Joyful enthusiasm. Letting go of our perfectionism and connecting with the living quality of every moment. Meditation. Training in coming back to being right here with gentleness and precision. Prajna. Cultivating an open, inquiring mind. With these six activities of the bodhisattva, we learn how to travel to the other shore, and we do our best to take everyone we can find along with us.

Ego can use anything to maintain the illusion of security, including the belief in insubstantiality and change.

Form is that which simply is before we project our beliefs onto it. The prajnaparamita represents a completely fresh take, an unfettered mind where anything is possible.

We train, as Trungpa Rinpoche said, in “not afraid to be a fool.” We cultivate a simple, direct relationship with our being—no philosophizing, no moralizing, no judgments. Whatever arises in our mind is workable.

So when Avalokiteshvara says, “Form is emptiness,” he’s referring to this simple, direct relationship with the immediacy of experience—direct contact with blood and sweat and flowers, with love as well as hate.

First we wipe away our preconceptions and then we even have to let go of our belief that we should look at things without preconceptions. We keep pulling out our own rug. When we perceive form as empty, without any barriers or veils, we understand the perfection of things just as they are. One could become addicted to this experience. It could give us a sense of freedom from the...

The “secret” of life that we are all looking for is just this: to develop through sitting and daily life practice the power and courage to return to that which we have spent a lifetime hiding from, to rest in the bodily experience of the present moment—even if it is a feeling of being humiliated, of failing, of abandonment, of unfairness. —CHARLOTTE JOKO BECK

direct, unarmored participation with our experience.

When we start to interrupt our ordinary ways of calling ourselves names and patting ourselves on the back, we are doing something extremely brave. Slowly we edge toward the open state, but let’s face it, we are moving toward a place of no handholds, no footholds, no mindholds. This may be called liberation, but for a long time it feels like insecurity.

In an attempt to avoid the fact that our partner is alcoholic or that we’re addicted to marijuana or that we’re in yet another abusive relationship, we earnestly train in relaxing into spaciousness, openness, warmheartedness. We try to use our spiritual training to avoid the queasy feeling in our gut. The point is that we will bring our habitual ways of gluing ourselves together right into bodhichitta practice, right into the training in ungluing. If we want some insight into our habitual patterns, we can look at how we are relating to our practice, to the teachings and the teacher. Do we expect to have our needs met in the same way that we do in any neurotic relationship? Are we using spirituality to bypass what scares us? It’s easy not to see that we are still seeking ground in the same old ways.

The four methods for holding our seat provide just such support for developing the patience to stay open to what’s happening instead of acting on automatic pilot. These four methods are: 1. not setting up the target for the arrow, 2. connecting with the heart, 3. seeing obstacles as teachers, and 4. regarding all that occurs as a dream.

it is helpful to think about the person who is angry, the anger itself, and the object of that anger as being like a dream. We can regard our life as a movie in which we are temporarily the leading player. Rather than making it so important, we can reflect on the essencelessness of our current situation. We can slow down and ask ourselves, “Who is this monolithic me that has been so offended? And who is this other person who can trigger me like this? What is this praise and blame that hooks me like a fish, that catches me like a mouse in a trap? How is it that these circumstances have the power to propel me like a Ping-Pong ball from hope to fear, from happiness to misery?” This big-deal struggle, this big-deal self, and this big-deal other could all be lightened up considerably.

Moving closer to someone who is so dangerous to the ego takes time.

It’s important to understand that the minds of the teacher and the student meet, not by making the teacher all right or all wrong, but in the ambiguity between those two views, in the capacity to contain uncertainty and paradox. Otherwise our adulation inevitably flips into disillusionment. We bolt when the teacher doesn’t fit our preconceptions.

IT TAKES SOME TRAINING to equate complete letting go with comfort. But in fact, “nothing to hold on to” is the root of happiness. There’s a sense of freedom when we accept that we’re not in control. Pointing ourselves toward what we would most like to avoid makes our barriers and shields permeable.

However, even though those things can be pleasurable, we’ve seen that eating a pizza or watching a video is a feeble match for our suffering. We notice this especially when things are falling apart. If we’ve just learned that we have cancer, eating a pizza doesn’t do much to cheer us up. If someone we love has just died or walked out, the outer places we go for comfort feel feeble and ephemeral.

The challenge is to let it soften us rather than make us more rigid and afraid. Becoming intimate with the queasy feeling of being in the middle of nowhere only makes our hearts more tender. When we are brave enough to stay in the middle, compassion arises spontaneously. By not knowing, not hoping to know, and not acting like we know what’s happening, we begin to access our inner strength.