Zen and the Art of Therapy

I was recently asked by a friend who works in the field of Mental Hygiene (a strange phrase, don't you think?) how I would apply the Zen concept of "skilled love" to her practice.

I assumed my teachers would suggest that I should answer the question as honestly as possible--i.e., with: "I don't know."

However, when I asked Sensei for help in addressing this, he insisted that I struggle towards an answer.

Right. So here goes:

The principle of "skilled love" is closely related to the Buddhist concept of non-attachment. However, the tough-mindedness which attracted me to Zen in the first place sees non-attachment as impossible without an understanding of compassion.

Compassion is this, simply:

You are not your ego.

You are not your thoughts.

You are not the sum of your memories.

Neither is anyone else.

However, Zen cannot tell you what you are (and, no, I'm not going to say we're Nothing or neti-neti, because I don't have a black belt in that type of thinking yet).

Before I understood this, I was lost in thought. Since I fully identified with my thoughts, I was attached to each. As a result, depression, anxiety, and suffering were inevitable.

Here's what changed: as (perhaps) opposed to New Age-thinking, which advocates increasing love of the self, I chose to turn my love of "me" off. That's very tough. It's unbelievably shattering to REALLY grasp that all my problems are self-generated. That I was making the self up--out of memory. Not here, not now.

Nevertheless, here's the bottom line: it's been a very long time since I've been emotionally overwhelmed and it's extremely unlikely that I will be again--in fact, it's technically impossible--if there continues to be centered observation of the ego, as opposed to living inside of ego. But I know as surely as I'm going to die, that if I were to take an extended trip back to a lack of mental discipline, relapse into the usual would be unavoidable.

So, one needs skills of mind.

And at the top of the list is the need for "skilled love." In fact, this love is so tough-minded, it initially doesn't feel like love.

Why?

Because it isn't love. Not in the usual sense. But after practice, it's much more fun.

The most accessible example of this might be: drumming.

Here are the phases of drumming, as I understand them:

1) Drum is tuned. Focus is on the instrument, but attention is still not fully present.

2) Tuning up and finding the rhythm. I dare any drummer, no matter how experienced, to attempt drumming and thinking at the same time while they're warming up.

3) Skilled love. Drumming is a little mechanical without dedication. So you let go.

Letting go actually means letting go. Muscular tension, then, is redundant, unnecessary to playing. But so is attachment to the music. In the skilled love phase, you could stop just as surely as you could continue. The choice is your own. Karma.

Here's where something weird happens. Right about then, when skill on the drum mixes with devotion and choice--thought returns. In fact, you can carry on a perfectly coherent (actually, amazing) conversation while your hands are doing the walking.

This experience is duplicated in the practice of yoga and martial arts. Our teachers refuse to engage us in talk until we're immersed in the zone. Then the conversation flows.

Do enough of this, repeat, and something shifts.

So, how does this apply to the therapeutic session?

I think "the zone" can be accomplished in Western therapy if we wouldn't overburden it with all the expectations it currently has to bear.

Right about now, therapy is trying to compensate for an increasing lack of meaningful companionship. The therapist is paid to stand in as confidant.

I think it's great that this service is available. The only problem I can see is that the analysand can spend the entire therapy session getting warmed up.

Since the client "needs to talk," and that's probably a good thing, this implies a Zen-like responsibility for the therapist.

I would say it can work something like this: skilled love never, ever means "working on someone else." The most emotionally moving gift, I believe, that you can give someone, is to work on (getting off) your self in their presence. By doing this, something dramatic can happen in the room. We change and we don't know why--but we certainly don't feel controlled--in the company of someone who is always centering themselves.

How does that make you feel?

P.S.No jokes about "work on (getting off) your self in their presence," please. Too easy.