Dass 1

(Babysitting requires that you find the balance between playing the Cat in the Hat and playing authority figure. Sometimes, in times of crisis, we must learn to drop both roles and access the compassionate self.)
Kids say the darndest things. Last summer, I babysat twin five-year-old boys. (Actually they turned six on July 20 – they’d be furious if I suggested that they were five for the entire summer.) By August, I had developed a good healthy and mostly enjoyable relationship with them. Some of my fondest moments were when one of the two would unexpectedly pop out some profound comment or aphorism. Driving them back from summer school one afternoon, I was doing my best to simultaneously keep my eyes on the road and stop the cardboard box war in the back seat. Ben, as usual, ended up crying because his brother had once again out-muscled him. Avery, the macho man, would of course get frustrated at his brother’s childish tears and usually lash out angrily. So I asked him, “Why can’t you let Ben cry? What’s wrong with crying?” After giving me the usual reasons – “he always cries; he wants his mommy; I’m tired of it” – Ave said, “His crying makes my brain hurt.” Now, this might seem beside the point, but I thought it was quite an astute observation. Not, “His crying hurts me,” but “His crying hurts some part of me, some object within me.” We say similar things like, “My stomach hurts,” or “This great idea just passed through my mind,” or “My desires lead me astray.” But who is this “me” behind the “my,” the owner of the stomach, the mind, and the desires? Is the stomach part of a physical me? – but we still say, “my physical body.” Are my desires an aspect of my mind or a bridge between physiology and mind? Is the mind an aspect of the mental rational me? “Our own mental reactions are equally objects to be observed as anything else in our field of awareness” (Dass, How Can I Help?, 104). Who or what is this me encompassing my physical, mental, and emotional bodies?
(Yes, Thing 1 and Thing 2 are the perfect metaphor for twin five-year-olds.)

Ram Dass writes about this problem of identity. He says the identifying with roles is one of the greatest hindrances to helping others and being compassionate. “[A]ny model of the self, positive or negative, will limit our capacity to help” (Dass, How Can I Help?, 26) because “[t]he more you see yourself as a “helper,” the more need for people to play the passive “helped.” You’re buying into, even juicing up, precisely what people who are suffering want to be rid of: limitation, dependency, helplessness, separateness” (Dass, How Can I Help?, 28). So if I truly want to help or share an experience, I ought to try to shed my identity as nurse, father, boyfriend, and, during the summer, as babysitter. By simply being present I can better understand what you actually need or want. Stripping myself of the guardian role led to some of my most intimate experiences with Ben and Ave. Just sitting and allowing them to cry or shout or express their pain was usually the most effective path. I generally kept certain boundaries in place, however, because five-year-olds do need guidance and structure. The balance is interesting.

("Know thyself.")
If you “Know thyself” (inscribed on the tower at Delphi), finding the balance between self and higher Self or babysitter and compassionate listener becomes easier. This brings us back to that slippery question, which the Caterpillar sums up so nicely, “Who are you?” (Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, 48), or simply, “Who you?” (Dass, How Can I Help?, 30). We can answer this question with varying degrees of specificity and profundity: I’m a doctor, a teacher, a brother, a child, an intellectual, a human being/becoming. We need theses identities for stability, but not completely identifying with any of them has benefits as well. Shedding identities can help us to remember “the Self, seated in the hearts of all beings” (Swami, Gita, 81). What is this Self? Does this Self feel like a religious concept? In what ways is it beyond religion? (I’m curious.) Some people say their greatest fear is that they might be nothing. As Zen lineage holder Genpo Roshii responds, “You might just be” (Integral Life Practice, Big Mind DVD). The Gita says, “At the dawning of that day all objects in manifestation stream forth from the Unmanifest, and when evening falls they are dissolved in It again” (Swami, Gita, 67). It, Self? Here we see examples of the problematic dualistic nature of words, which we have stumbled upon so often in recent classes. It and Self are symbols, but that’s all. As concepts they have their limits. Without the appropriate experience, this signifier may be nonsensical because it will have no referent and the mental signified will be distorted.

I’m sure Avery had all this in mind when he informed me of his brain pain.