Resources
excerpt from The Red Thread of Story
from "Returning to the Middle World", chapter 9 of
The Red Thread of Story:
Emerging, Transforming, Dissolving
The Down: Depression, Integration or Purification?
This ceremony won’t make your life easier,
but it will make it more authentic.
I don’t recall where I first heard this line, or from whom, but over the years I’ve repeated it to countless groups. After a visit to the High Country, returning to the of middle world of everyday life is seldom easy. But as Ram Dass has said: “the down is part of the high.”
For many years, I’ve taught alongside Meredith Little, co-founder of the School. Meredith calls this post-fast challenge “the predictable depression”: the down that often hits weeks to months after a program has ended. A rush of feelings may come and, with that, a torrent of self-doubt: Was that all just a dream? Have I really changed? What do I do now? Meredith’s advice: “Commit to moving through the next year as if what happened were real, especially when you doubt it most.”
For many, the root of this down, this predictable depression, is a clash between a true self and a false self. Having dropped down into a much deeper telling of a soul story—a finding and naming of that life thread—each person must return home to family, friends and acquaintances who weren’t part of the desert ceremony. These others may want that person, post-fast, to keep giving the same old answers, to keep behaving in the same old ways. But what if a deeper, more authentic self would have it be otherwise—even if the emerging self is just the first intimation of a true self? What if, instead of giving the expected answer, this person speaks truthfully? What if, instead of acting in the usual way, this person behaves authentically? Do I disappoint myself? Or do I disappoint someone else? There’s no easy resolution to be found here, whether that other person is a spouse, a lover, a friend, or a boss.
Not long ago I saw a documentary, “Seymour: An Introduction”, directed by Ethan Hawke, the well-known actor. Hawke had met Seymour Bernstein—a pianist, teacher, writer, and composer in his late-80s—at a dinner party hosted by one of Bernstein’s students. Hawke has this to say about meeting Bernstein: “My first impression of him—it might sound a little grandiose—but every now and then, you make eye contact with somebody where you feel like there’s something really special happening inside them, where they’re operating on a plane that you recognize immediately as different from the rest of society.”
Decades earlier, at the age of 50, Bernstein had walked away from an international career as a concert pianist to focus on teaching music students, both individually and in master classes. Perhaps his greatest teachings during these later years were not those about how to play the piano, but lessons about how to live life. Seymour would encourage his students to pursue art and everyday life with the very same passion, thereby integrating into one the creative self and the social self.
“In other words,” says Seymour, “Ethan shouldn’t think one part of him is an actor and another part is a husband and another part is a father. He’s all the same person. Over the three years that I’ve known him, he’s now the same person.”
The predictable depression after a fast—this film made clearer for me—is borne out of a call to do this kind of self-integration, combined with the overwhelm that comes if you don’t know how to do that. A few years ago, I received an email from someone just weeks out from a four-day fast that painfully described this kind of overwhelm.
“This last week I dropped into a deep, dark hole,” he wrote. “A place of abject despair, like nothing I’ve ever known. Horrible pain and grief. Sobbing, raging, wailing. Even moments of terror.”
A common urge in this situation, I wrote back, is to self-anesthetize, be it with alcohol, drugs, or other addictions. Either that or to seek out constant distraction: doing way too much, way too fast. Anything to avoid and suppress. Anything not to feel the feelings.
"This is when a person most risks a true clinical depression," I warned him, "not merely the down that comes after the high. I invite you to consider both the high of the retreat and the down of being back home as two phases in a process of purification.”
In the clear air of the high country, I explained, a person may see and name an old wound, an old story. And then—perhaps miraculously so—he lets that go and claims a new story, a new life. But this kind of healing can be like the un-damming of a river. Once a large boulder has been released and sent down stream, the upstream water flows more freely. With that comes all the sticks and branches—more of the old wounds and old stories—that have been held back, perhaps for decades.
What if a person doesn’t use addiction, distraction, or overwork to block up the stream? What if you just sit there and let the waters rush through? Seems to me that’s what you were doing this past weekend, and what I’d encourage you to keep doing. You can point to the fast as the source of the feelings, or you can see this as a delayed grief reaction to things that happened long ago. Or both. Whatever the cause, if you just let the river flow on through, you’ll be allowing a more thorough purification, a greater letting go. Mind you, if you can’t bear it, go get help—be that from a therapist or a friend. But as best you can, sit there and let the feelings flow on through.
I closed my response with that oft-repeated line: “This ceremony won’t make your life easier, but it may help to make it more authentic.”
This time I added something new: “The more you do this work of purification, the more you’ll bring your authentic self into alignment with how you live your daily life. And that will make your life easier.”
The Red Thread of Story:
Emerging, Transforming, Dissolving
The Down: Depression, Integration or Purification?
This ceremony won’t make your life easier,
but it will make it more authentic.
I don’t recall where I first heard this line, or from whom, but over the years I’ve repeated it to countless groups. After a visit to the High Country, returning to the of middle world of everyday life is seldom easy. But as Ram Dass has said: “the down is part of the high.”
For many years, I’ve taught alongside Meredith Little, co-founder of the School. Meredith calls this post-fast challenge “the predictable depression”: the down that often hits weeks to months after a program has ended. A rush of feelings may come and, with that, a torrent of self-doubt: Was that all just a dream? Have I really changed? What do I do now? Meredith’s advice: “Commit to moving through the next year as if what happened were real, especially when you doubt it most.”
For many, the root of this down, this predictable depression, is a clash between a true self and a false self. Having dropped down into a much deeper telling of a soul story—a finding and naming of that life thread—each person must return home to family, friends and acquaintances who weren’t part of the desert ceremony. These others may want that person, post-fast, to keep giving the same old answers, to keep behaving in the same old ways. But what if a deeper, more authentic self would have it be otherwise—even if the emerging self is just the first intimation of a true self? What if, instead of giving the expected answer, this person speaks truthfully? What if, instead of acting in the usual way, this person behaves authentically? Do I disappoint myself? Or do I disappoint someone else? There’s no easy resolution to be found here, whether that other person is a spouse, a lover, a friend, or a boss.
Not long ago I saw a documentary, “Seymour: An Introduction”, directed by Ethan Hawke, the well-known actor. Hawke had met Seymour Bernstein—a pianist, teacher, writer, and composer in his late-80s—at a dinner party hosted by one of Bernstein’s students. Hawke has this to say about meeting Bernstein: “My first impression of him—it might sound a little grandiose—but every now and then, you make eye contact with somebody where you feel like there’s something really special happening inside them, where they’re operating on a plane that you recognize immediately as different from the rest of society.”
Decades earlier, at the age of 50, Bernstein had walked away from an international career as a concert pianist to focus on teaching music students, both individually and in master classes. Perhaps his greatest teachings during these later years were not those about how to play the piano, but lessons about how to live life. Seymour would encourage his students to pursue art and everyday life with the very same passion, thereby integrating into one the creative self and the social self.
“In other words,” says Seymour, “Ethan shouldn’t think one part of him is an actor and another part is a husband and another part is a father. He’s all the same person. Over the three years that I’ve known him, he’s now the same person.”
The predictable depression after a fast—this film made clearer for me—is borne out of a call to do this kind of self-integration, combined with the overwhelm that comes if you don’t know how to do that. A few years ago, I received an email from someone just weeks out from a four-day fast that painfully described this kind of overwhelm.
“This last week I dropped into a deep, dark hole,” he wrote. “A place of abject despair, like nothing I’ve ever known. Horrible pain and grief. Sobbing, raging, wailing. Even moments of terror.”
A common urge in this situation, I wrote back, is to self-anesthetize, be it with alcohol, drugs, or other addictions. Either that or to seek out constant distraction: doing way too much, way too fast. Anything to avoid and suppress. Anything not to feel the feelings.
"This is when a person most risks a true clinical depression," I warned him, "not merely the down that comes after the high. I invite you to consider both the high of the retreat and the down of being back home as two phases in a process of purification.”
In the clear air of the high country, I explained, a person may see and name an old wound, an old story. And then—perhaps miraculously so—he lets that go and claims a new story, a new life. But this kind of healing can be like the un-damming of a river. Once a large boulder has been released and sent down stream, the upstream water flows more freely. With that comes all the sticks and branches—more of the old wounds and old stories—that have been held back, perhaps for decades.
What if a person doesn’t use addiction, distraction, or overwork to block up the stream? What if you just sit there and let the waters rush through? Seems to me that’s what you were doing this past weekend, and what I’d encourage you to keep doing. You can point to the fast as the source of the feelings, or you can see this as a delayed grief reaction to things that happened long ago. Or both. Whatever the cause, if you just let the river flow on through, you’ll be allowing a more thorough purification, a greater letting go. Mind you, if you can’t bear it, go get help—be that from a therapist or a friend. But as best you can, sit there and let the feelings flow on through.
I closed my response with that oft-repeated line: “This ceremony won’t make your life easier, but it may help to make it more authentic.”
This time I added something new: “The more you do this work of purification, the more you’ll bring your authentic self into alignment with how you live your daily life. And that will make your life easier.”
from The Red Thread of Story
anticipated publication date: 2021
anticipated publication date: 2021