Linda and I play board games at night to wind down, have fun, and spend time together. On this night, I see a great move. I have the coins to buy the piece I need and it fits perfectly on my board. This will blow the game wide open.
I throw my coins into the bank and reach for the piece.
“Don’t forget to pay for it,” Linda says.
“I did!” My heart leaps and my eyes widen.
“I don’t think you did.”
My chest tightens. I stop breathing. Alarm bells are shouting in my brain. Without this piece, my game falls apart. I don’t have enough to buy it again.
“Yes, I did! I paid for it! You should pay closer attention.”
I feel accused. Linda feels attacked. The game we’re playing for fun just became not fun. Instead of being a place of relaxation and connection, the board has become a battlefield. My amygdala is roaring and I’m gone, absorbed into the competition, my focus narrowed to the ridiculous stance of fighting to the death for a few chipboard tokens. How did this happen? Haven’t I advanced spiritually beyond these immature reactions?
Sorry, I’m afraid not. I know there are bodhisattvas somewhere whose composure is complete, but that’s not in the cards for me this lifetime. The trigger points of my nervous system are embedded to the bone. I accept that my path is to work with each thorn as it shows itself. I’m reminded of the story of a samurai who meets a soldier and defeats him, only to have another foe appear, and then another. As he looks up, he sees an endless line of warriors stretching out beyond the hills and over the horizon. He readies his sword and settles in, satisfied to greet them one by one.
It’s a gift, really. Each ugly flare-up of my ego defenses is another opportunity to see how pettiness can flash and overwhelm my better self. My current strategy is to try to recognize the flash as soon as it arises. There’s a familiar feeling to the brittle current, a catching in the chest. If I can realize I’m caught, I have a fighting chance to get ahead of it. In my better moments, I find a spot to stand in the rushing water, pause, and let the current pass me by. The overpowering compulsion to fight lessens, and reasoning returns. The foe evaporates.
In the story, if I remember right, the samurai realizes he is fighting himself and comes to view his foes with love, self-love. He sees life as a training ground and all his inner battles serve to strengthen him.
It’s all a game, really. There are chipboard tokens everywhere, shiny and distracting. I don’t mean to be dismissive – the stakes are high, the suffering we inflict and receive is real, as are the heroic acts we undertake to heal each other. That’s the way of spiritual warriors: to see the game, know it’s real, and strive to play at ever higher levels.
Photo by Christopher Paul High on Unsplash