Work of Heart Why mental and spiritual health seems like hard work
"Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go..."
(Bonnie Raitt, "Angel from Montgomery")
First, let's define some terms.
For the purposes of this article, let's agree that mental health is a state of mind/brain, that is, the convergence of biological structures and chemical processes that results in emotions, like joy and sadness, and states of mind, like love and despair. Included here are the effects of nature and nurture - genetics and environment - on how we think, feel, process events and situations, and lean in any given moment toward love or fear. Attraction, revulsion, elation, and fight-or-flight responses can be included here, with the caveat that these are changeable depending on where one is in time and circumstance.
Spiritual health, on the other hand, is less defined, and less definable. In my mind, it is where and who you are once you have passed thinking and feeling and are instead in a region where words are irrelevant, or are, at least, merely conveniences. Your spirit is what connects you to the divine, no matter what your definition of that is. It is what leads you beyond yourself. It's that space where knowing and feeling merge and where interconnectedness is tangible. It's what's in your (non-physical) heart.
We could conceivably argue about these definitions, but we are constrained by time and space, and for the sake of getting on with it, let's just start with the above.
Mental work is something with which we are all familiar. We sit at our desk all day and do it. We deliver lectures, keep files straight, remember which wire connects to which circuit, and keep children's schedules organized. We know how a long day of work, even if it involved very little physical activity, can wear us out. Mental health is what we achieve when we attend to our mental needs. We see a psychotherapist when we are depressed, or have been traumatized, or are just confused (and, of course, when there is clinical mental illness, such as bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, which are beyond the scope of this article. See Postscript below.). Even when we don't pursue therapy in a formal setting, we work on ourselves. Every time you ask yourself "Why do I do this?' or "Why do I feel this way?" you are in therapy with yourself. Some people do it naturally and without hesitation. Others set things aside, compartmentalize, or put things off until they become too large to ignore. Did you understand all the things I said in those last few sentences? Then you have done some measure of mental health work. In fact, if we were to sit down and discuss all those concepts, THAT would be mental health work.
Spiritual work isn't all that different, but because it is so ethereal, we have fewer defined terms to rely upon. When we are speaking in terms of faith, of "knowing" things without knowing them, or when we are tuned into something as subjective as inner peace, discussion points become a little less at-hand. To be clear, for the sake of this article, I am not referring to religious dogma, doctrine, or practice here, but rather the things that religion may (or may not) point to, such as relationship to the divine, or to the universe, when one is not only talking about planets and stars. As an example, if you have ever been in a group of people and been moved because you feel connected and close to them, as if your souls (or inner children, or higher selves, or whatever term you prefer) are in concert and joined at some level, then you have experienced spiritual connection. Definitions like this are perhaps a bit hazy.
People who "work" on themselves, or on their relationships with others, are "working" toward mental and, usually, spiritual health. When a person is well-adjusted, has relatively few bouts of anxiety or depression, and is able to function successfully throughout each day with a minimum of anguish or emotional struggle, we usually agree that he is mentally healthy. If someone is at peace with herself, sees her relationships as mostly harmonious, and feels as if she belongs to and is at home in her smaller world and the greater interconnected web of all things, we may call her spiritually healthy. Great. But most of us have something here or there - whether it's an illness, a relationship, a financial or power situation, or just about any other kind of circumstance, finite or existential - that keeps us from considering ourselves 100% healthy on either front. And here is where the work comes in. Those questions we ask. The self-examination we do (or put aside). The help we find in experts and counselors.
I once had a couple in my mediation practice who were having trouble in their marriage. They had grown apart and were finding that they were just very different as people, with different ways of seeing things. They both wanted to save their relationship and they agreed that a marriage counselor might help them find the solutions. The trouble was, they couldn't even begin the counseling from the same viewpoint. The wife wanted the counselor to delve deep into the issues and help explain why each saw things so differently from the other so that they could arrive at some kind of compromise. The husband, on the other hand, wanted the counselor to decide who was right and who was wrong. He wanted her to tell the wrong one what was needed to fix the problem, then help fix it. He wanted a quick solution. In his misery over his marriage, he just wanted a solution, like an antibiotic for an infection. He was dismayed when the counselor told him that the wife's idea - not to find fault but to explore each spouse's viewpoint so that each could better understand the other and endeavor to maximize the other's comfort level - was more what the therapist had in mind. The husband was immediately downcast and said "that's so much work. It will take too long."
Why did the husband consider it work? Why do we think exploring our feelings and habits and points-of-view - and those of others - is work? And why is it so hard?
I think that anytime you challenge yourself mentally or spiritually, it feels like work. You are asking yourself to consider something new. Perhaps the hardest part of this is the eventually possible conclusion that you may have been wrong about something. If you've thought or felt something for a long time and you then have to consider the possibility that you have been wrong all along, or that one solution does not fit all problems, the conclusion that you have been incorrect, or merely missing the mark, can be a hard pill to swallow. Why? Because of fear.
Fear is what keeps us stuck anywhere, it is what leads to and causes most of our anguish and upset, and it is the hardest habit to extinguish. Most of the time, fear about being wrong is unjustified. In the end, it is not so terrifying to realize that you have been wrong; you just hit reset and go on with emboldening new knowledge. Admit you have been wrong one time, and you will find it is not the end of the world. Anyone with any integrity will commend you for the strength to admit it. Yes, strength. Heaven forfend we admit we are wrong: politicians will tell you that that puts you in a weakened position. Let's not align ourselves with (most) politicians; we can guess how that will work out for us! In the end, remaining adamant that you are right in the face of insurmountable evidence to the contrary just makes you look impudent and stubborn, and, perhaps, self-indulgent and in denial. (Note to some politicians. You know who you are.) The overarching theme here is change. It is hard to change. It is hard to discipline your mind and remain calm and focused when it wants to ruminate over the personnel issues at work, the balance in the checking account, or the grocery list. It is hard to change habits and take the time to listen to someone else's ideas when for years you have relied on your own ingenuity to solve problems. It is hard to countenance the idea that one person is just as objectively valuable as another if you've been raised to think that some people deserve more. It is hard to admit you've been or are now wrong. Why? Again, fear. Fear that we have not done all that we could have. Fear that we have let someone else or ourselves down. Fear that we are not as wonderful as we have always thought we were. Or fear that we have not been as deserving of criticism. Yes, it can be scary to realize that you are pretty darn great when you have long had a habit of self-reproach. Habits serve a purpose: they allow us to be lazy and not do the work it would take to change.
Just because you've always done something a certain way does not mean it is the best way. Or even correct at all.
Think of this: if you have always eaten basically the same way and always gotten around the same amount of daily exercise, then you have probably always had more or less the same level of fitness and physical health, barring accidents or catastrophic illness. Then one day, at age 45 or so, you begin to see that those habits aren't cutting it. You've gained some weight. You ache here and there now and then. Some things have diminished, and others have sagged. "But," you protest, "I have always eaten properly and gotten enough exercise! What the heck is this?!" And your doctor says," Well, looks like it's time to change things up. A little more protein, a little less bread, some vitamins, and two hours more cardio every week, if you want to have something like what you've had."
" But," you protest further, "I've never had to do that before!"
" I know," soothes your doc. "But you need to do it now."
And you know your doctor is right. But you hate it. You've gotten used to the old routine. You've gotten used to it working. You don't want to change. To change means to admit the old way isn't working anymore. It means admitting the old way is...yep...wrong. At least if you want anything close to the results you're used to.
Same thing for mental and spiritual health. Like physical health, there is some discipline involved. Some reordering of habits when they become obsolete. Some examination of motives, needs met and unmet, and preferences. The most fundamental of whys and wherefores. Some insight into the excuses we make for ourselves. Is it your habit to feel guilty rather than to do the right thing? What is going to enable you to look yourself in the mirror at the end of your life? How is doing it this way serving you? How is it serving others? Which do you emphasize? Why? Is it tiresome to even ask yourself these questions? Is that why you're not doing it? Is it self-indulgence? Are you really that worried about what you might see if you clean that smoke from the mirror? Are you just so satisfied with who you are that you feel no need to examine it?
We all know someone who "is never wrong." You know, they are the people you can't tell anything because they already know everything. Usually these are people whose habit is to deny themselves the possibility of being wrong because they are worried about the person they might actually be. To them, the idea of being wrong contravenes their constructed identity - someone who is wise, strong, smart, and, therefore, valuable. For these people, their habit of fear of being wrong can be so entrenched they can't even understand it when you ask them to look at it. Fear of the habit of fear of being wrong. Sheesh.
It is hard work to confront the things in ourselves that cause us disquiet. It is hard work to admit where we have been wrong, whether due to misunderstanding or to self-delusion. At the deepest heart of it, we may be frightened that the very essence of who we've been has been, somehow, wrong. The answer to that is this: would you rather keep being wrong? Or would it serve you and everyone else more to stop now and do something better?
Think of the person you love most in the world. If that person discovered an uncomfortable truth about himself, and vowed to change, would you celebrate that decision and do everything you could to support him in his efforts to do better? Or would you condemn him continuously until you and he thought so little of him that change became pointless? Think of what you would do for that person you love. Then do it for yourself. Someone who loves you would want that for you. Why can't that someone be you?
Mental and spiritual work are hard because change is hard. Admitting you are or have been wrong is one of the scariest things we can do. But if you have ever encouraged - kindly or not - someone else to admit their wrongs, why not encourage yourself (let's stick to kindly)? And let's stop using the word "wrong." It's so judgmental, and who are we to judge anyone, even ourselves? Let's use "mistaken" instead. If you were at one time sure you were right, but you find out later that you weren't, you were mistaken. Being mistaken isn't the end of the world. It's just an opportunity to feel better from now on.
POSTSCRIPT/DISCLAIMER: I realize that the kind of therapy, formal or informal, that deals with painful memories or managing the effects of traumatic events is hard work because it can really hurt - in a real and definable way - to relive feelings when dredging up the past. Just the memory of a tragic or upsetting incident can be painful, and the process to inner peace is hard because pain is hard. I am not addressing that kind of deep, wrenching work here. That is a topic for another article. Or two. Or twelve.
Spiritual work isn't all that different, but because it is so ethereal, we have fewer defined terms to rely upon. When we are speaking in terms of faith, of "knowing" things without knowing them, or when we are tuned into something as subjective as inner peace, discussion points become a little less at-hand. To be clear, for the sake of this article, I am not referring to religious dogma, doctrine, or practice here, but rather the things that religion may (or may not) point to, such as relationship to the divine, or to the universe, when one is not only talking about planets and stars. As an example, if you have ever been in a group of people and been moved because you feel connected and close to them, as if your souls (or inner children, or higher selves, or whatever term you prefer) are in concert and joined at some level, then you have experienced spiritual connection. Definitions like this are perhaps a bit hazy.
People who "work" on themselves, or on their relationships with others, are "working" toward mental and, usually, spiritual health. When a person is well-adjusted, has relatively few bouts of anxiety or depression, and is able to function successfully throughout each day with a minimum of anguish or emotional struggle, we usually agree that he is mentally healthy. If someone is at peace with herself, sees her relationships as mostly harmonious, and feels as if she belongs to and is at home in her smaller world and the greater interconnected web of all things, we may call her spiritually healthy. Great. But most of us have something here or there - whether it's an illness, a relationship, a financial or power situation, or just about any other kind of circumstance, finite or existential - that keeps us from considering ourselves 100% healthy on either front. And here is where the work comes in. Those questions we ask. The self-examination we do (or put aside). The help we find in experts and counselors.
I once had a couple in my mediation practice who were having trouble in their marriage. They had grown apart and were finding that they were just very different as people, with different ways of seeing things. They both wanted to save their relationship and they agreed that a marriage counselor might help them find the solutions. The trouble was, they couldn't even begin the counseling from the same viewpoint. The wife wanted the counselor to delve deep into the issues and help explain why each saw things so differently from the other so that they could arrive at some kind of compromise. The husband, on the other hand, wanted the counselor to decide who was right and who was wrong. He wanted her to tell the wrong one what was needed to fix the problem, then help fix it. He wanted a quick solution. In his misery over his marriage, he just wanted a solution, like an antibiotic for an infection. He was dismayed when the counselor told him that the wife's idea - not to find fault but to explore each spouse's viewpoint so that each could better understand the other and endeavor to maximize the other's comfort level - was more what the therapist had in mind. The husband was immediately downcast and said "that's so much work. It will take too long."
Why did the husband consider it work? Why do we think exploring our feelings and habits and points-of-view - and those of others - is work? And why is it so hard?
I think that anytime you challenge yourself mentally or spiritually, it feels like work. You are asking yourself to consider something new. Perhaps the hardest part of this is the eventually possible conclusion that you may have been wrong about something. If you've thought or felt something for a long time and you then have to consider the possibility that you have been wrong all along, or that one solution does not fit all problems, the conclusion that you have been incorrect, or merely missing the mark, can be a hard pill to swallow. Why? Because of fear.
Fear is what keeps us stuck anywhere, it is what leads to and causes most of our anguish and upset, and it is the hardest habit to extinguish. Most of the time, fear about being wrong is unjustified. In the end, it is not so terrifying to realize that you have been wrong; you just hit reset and go on with emboldening new knowledge. Admit you have been wrong one time, and you will find it is not the end of the world. Anyone with any integrity will commend you for the strength to admit it. Yes, strength. Heaven forfend we admit we are wrong: politicians will tell you that that puts you in a weakened position. Let's not align ourselves with (most) politicians; we can guess how that will work out for us! In the end, remaining adamant that you are right in the face of insurmountable evidence to the contrary just makes you look impudent and stubborn, and, perhaps, self-indulgent and in denial. (Note to some politicians. You know who you are.) The overarching theme here is change. It is hard to change. It is hard to discipline your mind and remain calm and focused when it wants to ruminate over the personnel issues at work, the balance in the checking account, or the grocery list. It is hard to change habits and take the time to listen to someone else's ideas when for years you have relied on your own ingenuity to solve problems. It is hard to countenance the idea that one person is just as objectively valuable as another if you've been raised to think that some people deserve more. It is hard to admit you've been or are now wrong. Why? Again, fear. Fear that we have not done all that we could have. Fear that we have let someone else or ourselves down. Fear that we are not as wonderful as we have always thought we were. Or fear that we have not been as deserving of criticism. Yes, it can be scary to realize that you are pretty darn great when you have long had a habit of self-reproach. Habits serve a purpose: they allow us to be lazy and not do the work it would take to change.
Just because you've always done something a certain way does not mean it is the best way. Or even correct at all.
Think of this: if you have always eaten basically the same way and always gotten around the same amount of daily exercise, then you have probably always had more or less the same level of fitness and physical health, barring accidents or catastrophic illness. Then one day, at age 45 or so, you begin to see that those habits aren't cutting it. You've gained some weight. You ache here and there now and then. Some things have diminished, and others have sagged. "But," you protest, "I have always eaten properly and gotten enough exercise! What the heck is this?!" And your doctor says," Well, looks like it's time to change things up. A little more protein, a little less bread, some vitamins, and two hours more cardio every week, if you want to have something like what you've had."
" But," you protest further, "I've never had to do that before!"
" I know," soothes your doc. "But you need to do it now."
And you know your doctor is right. But you hate it. You've gotten used to the old routine. You've gotten used to it working. You don't want to change. To change means to admit the old way isn't working anymore. It means admitting the old way is...yep...wrong. At least if you want anything close to the results you're used to.
Same thing for mental and spiritual health. Like physical health, there is some discipline involved. Some reordering of habits when they become obsolete. Some examination of motives, needs met and unmet, and preferences. The most fundamental of whys and wherefores. Some insight into the excuses we make for ourselves. Is it your habit to feel guilty rather than to do the right thing? What is going to enable you to look yourself in the mirror at the end of your life? How is doing it this way serving you? How is it serving others? Which do you emphasize? Why? Is it tiresome to even ask yourself these questions? Is that why you're not doing it? Is it self-indulgence? Are you really that worried about what you might see if you clean that smoke from the mirror? Are you just so satisfied with who you are that you feel no need to examine it?
We all know someone who "is never wrong." You know, they are the people you can't tell anything because they already know everything. Usually these are people whose habit is to deny themselves the possibility of being wrong because they are worried about the person they might actually be. To them, the idea of being wrong contravenes their constructed identity - someone who is wise, strong, smart, and, therefore, valuable. For these people, their habit of fear of being wrong can be so entrenched they can't even understand it when you ask them to look at it. Fear of the habit of fear of being wrong. Sheesh.
It is hard work to confront the things in ourselves that cause us disquiet. It is hard work to admit where we have been wrong, whether due to misunderstanding or to self-delusion. At the deepest heart of it, we may be frightened that the very essence of who we've been has been, somehow, wrong. The answer to that is this: would you rather keep being wrong? Or would it serve you and everyone else more to stop now and do something better?
Think of the person you love most in the world. If that person discovered an uncomfortable truth about himself, and vowed to change, would you celebrate that decision and do everything you could to support him in his efforts to do better? Or would you condemn him continuously until you and he thought so little of him that change became pointless? Think of what you would do for that person you love. Then do it for yourself. Someone who loves you would want that for you. Why can't that someone be you?
Mental and spiritual work are hard because change is hard. Admitting you are or have been wrong is one of the scariest things we can do. But if you have ever encouraged - kindly or not - someone else to admit their wrongs, why not encourage yourself (let's stick to kindly)? And let's stop using the word "wrong." It's so judgmental, and who are we to judge anyone, even ourselves? Let's use "mistaken" instead. If you were at one time sure you were right, but you find out later that you weren't, you were mistaken. Being mistaken isn't the end of the world. It's just an opportunity to feel better from now on.
POSTSCRIPT/DISCLAIMER: I realize that the kind of therapy, formal or informal, that deals with painful memories or managing the effects of traumatic events is hard work because it can really hurt - in a real and definable way - to relive feelings when dredging up the past. Just the memory of a tragic or upsetting incident can be painful, and the process to inner peace is hard because pain is hard. I am not addressing that kind of deep, wrenching work here. That is a topic for another article. Or two. Or twelve.
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