Believe It or Not—or Not

“You didn’t believe him?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” Bryan asks incredulously while rifling through the box of tools on the floor in front of him. He plops a pair of pliers in my hand.

I glance at my hand. “I said wrench, Bry. These are channel locks.”

“Oh.”

I hand the pliers back to him.

He tosses them back into the tool box and recommences his rifling.

I’m lying on my back under a dripping toilet: middle bathroom at the back of the studio to be exact. I’m hip deep in just one of many glamorous tasks involved in owning a yoga studio: crashing computers, broken switches, leaky toilets, all things that are conveniently absent from Yoga Journal magazine. Once upon a time, I wanted to own a yoga studio; little did I know that it would end up owning me. But I digress.

A 3/16” wrench magically appears in my hand. I go to work on the bolts holding the toilet’s tank to its base.

“So why didn’t you believe him?” Bryan asks again. “I mean, he was one of the preeminent spiritual teachers in the United States.”

“Well, I suppose it was because I was young, brash, and thought I knew everything.” I say, then interrupting myself: “Hold this.” I hand the wrench back to Bryan.

He takes it away.

“Rag, please.” I wipe the bottom of the tank and inspect for leaks. All clear it seems.

I continue, “And to top it off, his claim seemed so…how shall I say…outlandish.”

“Outlandish?”

“Yeah, it felt over-the-top and exaggerated, like something you’d expect to hear from a salesman.” I say, “You know, like one of those this-is-the-last-sofa-you’ll-ever-buy kind of claims.”

“What exactly was it that he said to you again?”

I slide out from under the commode and clamber up to sitting. I wipe my hands dry on a towel. I lean in close, face-to-face with Bryan.

“It was like this: He looked me in the eye, held up his index finger, and said: ‘Your practice is the one thing—the ONE thing—that will take care of every other thing in your life.”

“Wow. That’s powerful.”

“It is,” I agree, “Powerful and at the time, seemingly outlandish.”

“Uh, I dunno, I guess…” Bryan shrugs. “It sounds good to me.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that it didn’t sound good, it just didn’t make sense.” I say, “I mean how could balancing on one foot, standing on my head, and sitting cross-legged with my eyes closed take care of everything else in my life? That didn’t make any sense to my young twenty-something brain. Yoga wasn’t going to pay my bills, yoga wasn’t going to get me promoted, yoga wasn’t going to make my girlfriend more cooperative. The whole thing seemed preposterous.”

“I guess, if seen from a certain perspective.” Bryan concedes.

“And that’s precisely the perspective I had.” I smile to myself, “Little did I know how right he was.”

I take the towel and begin wiping down the tools and placing them back in the tool chest. Bryan follows my lead and begins corralling the various spare parts into a pile.

“So it’s true?” he asks.

“Oh, it’s true.” I nod, “You’d be amazed how true. I’ve got volumes of real-life stories, but another time…”

Bryan nods and begins sorting through the various nuts, bolts, washers, and seals.

“Are you sorry?”

“For what?” I ask.

“Are you sorry you didn’t believe him at the time?” Bryan asks.

A good question. And one to which I don’t have an immediate answer. I pause for a moment and the answer comes.

“You know, there was a time that I would have answered yes to that question. I was, for a time, sorry that I hadn’t believed him.” I say, “I felt a tinge of guilt for being so obstinate. But now, I recognize how important it was that I didn’t believe him.”

“Important that you didn’t?” Bryan shoots back quizzically, “Shouldn’t students believe their teachers?”

Yet another good question. And this one has an answer that is rather surprising to many—and it’s a question that quite frankly, I wish more students would ask.

Belief is a tricky thing. More than one spiritual aspirant has ended up in the weeds because of their willingness to leave their brain on a shelf somewhere and blindly follow some spiritual malarkey that they’ve eagerly gobbled up. Too many practitioners are willing to swallow every spiritual nicety laid down before them—particularly when it’s dispensed by a shiny, charismatic teacher perched before an altar and wrapped in shimmering spiritual garb. In this business, blind belief is a recipe for disaster. Don’t believe it, just look at history.

I shake my head in answer to Bryan’s question.

“No?” the incredulity is evident in Bryan’s voice.

“Nope.”

“So I shouldn’t believe anything you tell me?”

I continue to shake my head. “But.” I interject, “don’t disbelieve what I say either.”

I can almost see the wires crossing in Bryan’s head.

“If I don’t believe and I don’t disbelieve, what choice is left?”

Bryan is wrestling with a common misunderstanding: the idea that when faced with a new concept or idea, we have but two choices—we believe it, or we don’t. It’s no surprise then that most people either believe a particular teaching or reject it. When a concept resonates with a student on some level, he believes it; when it doesn’t, he rejects it. But there is an area that lies between belief and disbelief, one that is often overlooked, and most importantly, it’s an area in which the most fruitful and potent transformation is possible. The territory that lies between belief and disbelief is called trust.

“Don’t believe Bry, trust.”

“I’m not sure I get the difference.” Bryan admits.

. In order to fully understand trust, we first need to take a look at belief, so we start there.

“First off, we have to remember that spiritual evolution is about experience, not understanding. Real transformation occurs as a result of visceral experience, not due to some randomly adopted notion.” I say,

“That makes sense, but what does that have to do with belief?”

“Consider the difference between the idea of walking through Paris and the actual experience of walking through Paris. Would you admit that they’re not even close to the same thing.”

“Of course.”

“Well, a belief about something suffers from the same disconnect. A belief is a mental phenomenon, and as such, it’s a thought about something rather than the thing itself. And just like the idea of walking through Paris is a really poor substitute for the experience itself, the idea of spiritual liberation or enlightenment is a completely different animal from the actual event.”

I hear a single drip, or I think I do. “Did you hear that?” I ask.

Bryan shrugs.

I duck down behind the toilet again, flashlight in hand. The beam reveals a slowly developing drip. Drat! I turn off the water, flush, and I’m on my back again under the tank.

Bryan unpacks the tools and drops a wrench in my hand, and I again go to work on the tank bolts. The wrench is replaced by a screwdriver which is followed by a tube of silicone. I ply the toilet with each in turn.

I continue, “The trouble with belief, Bryan, is that we confuse it for the actual experience. In the case of spiritual evolution, one adopts an idea of one’s place in the universe and believes that they’ve actually ‘got it.’ Unfortunately, the idea about one’s true identity is a far cry from the tangible experience of it.”

“So the problem with belief is that it tricks you into thinking you know.”

“Pretty much.” I answer, “It’s one thing to not know something; it’s a far more problematic situation to think you know—when you don’t.”

“In this case, the mistaken conclusion caused by belief snuffs out the inquiry that will ultimately lead to the experience we seek. We cease our journey and pitch our tent in the midst of a forest of mental fabrications, never even getting a glimpse of what our teachers so adamantly encouraged us to see. Belief kills the investigation.”

I again dab the water from the base of the tank before reaching for the flashlight to again inspect the undercarriage of my porcelain friend.

“That all makes sense to me,” Bryan says, “but I’m still not seeing how belief differs from trust?”

“Trust means to have confidence in the wisdom of the teacher, and to be trusting enough to actually go out and see for yourself.” I say.

And here’s the crucial difference between belief and trust. Belief supplants experience; it becomes a stand-in for the genuine article—but a fraudulent stand-in. The teacher makes a grand pronouncement about the nature of things and we believe it. Once believed, it can be shelved and our attention moves on to something else. We think we know about Paris without ever leaving our living room.

Trusting the teacher, on the other hand, involves a very different process. In this case, the teacher may still make the very same grand pronouncement, but instead of believing the pronouncement, I trust in the teacher. Meaning I trust in the possibility that what the teacher says is true; and I trust enough to actually go out and see for myself. Trust keeps the investigation alive. It supports the attainment of the experience, rather than squelching it as belief so often does.

“To use our analogy about Paris: I need to trust the teacher enough to go to the trouble of following her instructions, applying them in my life, and actually go and experience Paris myself, first-hand. Trust means that I have enough confidence in the teacher to do what she asks.”

“So you believe her?”

“Not exactly.” I say, “I suppose you could say that I believe in the teacher, but I don’t make a belief out of what she says. But it’s still probably more clear to use the word trust.”

I search Bryan’s face for some sign of understanding. He seems to be coming along.

I continue: “In this context, to believe the teacher would be to take her word that Paris is a beautiful place without ever leaving the confines of my cushy La-Z-Boy recliner. Belief would have me accepting the teacher’s narrative about where she’s been to such a degree that I think that I’ve actually got the goods on the experience itself.”

“So the key is to focus on your own experience; to actually go out and see for yourself?”

“That is the key.” I echo, “You have to go out and do the work.”

I inject a ridiculous amount of silicone goo around the tank bolts in a last ditch effort to stop the leaks. I hand the tube back to Bryan.

“You see, the attractive thing about belief is that it’s easy, it takes no work. Someone lays an idea out in front of you and you just pick it up as true. That’s a darned sight easier than planning your journey, making sense of the directions, packing your bags, and actually lugging them through the territory that the idea points toward. Belief can appeal to the lazy side in all of us.”

I tighten the bolts again over the new layer of silicone and again slide myself out from under the toilet. I push myself up to sitting and continue.

“So here’s the irony: when I didn’t believe my teacher, I thought I was being a poor student, but actually I was inadvertently stumbling into a great and long-standing tradition.”

“The tradition of being pig-headed?” Bryan chides.

“Kind of.” I reply, “The Buddha himself implored his students not to fall into the trap of blind belief. ‘Believe nothing,’ he said, ‘no matter where you read it or who has said it, not even if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.’”

“And so what your teacher was telling you didn’t agree with your own common sense?”

“Not right off.” I say, “It required more investigation on my part.”

I grab a rag and wipe down the toilet a final time.

“The thing we need to recognize is that any teaching is only a starting place.” I continue, “It’s a pointer offered for the purpose of guiding you to experience the truth on your own.”

“Like that old saying: a finger pointing toward the moon?”

“Exactly. All teachings are just fingers pointing. They invite us to go and experience for ourselves. The trouble is that so many of us get focused on the finger (the teaching) itself. As one great teacher put it: ‘Focus on the teaching and you’ll miss the heavenly glory that it points toward.’”

“Let me ask you something, Bryan.”

“Shoot.”

“You said that the claim my teacher made—that your yoga practice is the one thing that will take care of every other thing in your life—you said that didn’t seem outlandish to you, right?”

“Yeah…”

“So tell me. How.”

“How what?”

“Tell me how your yoga practice will take care of everything else in your life.”

“Well, uh, you know…”

A dubious start. Over the years, I’ve learned that any answer prefaced by the age-old phrase ‘well, uh, you know’ is likely to be a bit light in the loafers. Nevertheless, I listen intently, eager to be proven wrong.

What comes is a dizzying slurry of yoga-related techniques, concepts, and buzz words cobbled together in a way that would have made even Patanjali’s head swim. From asana to concentration, then off to breath and the third eye, a sprinkle of karma, a dash of prana, a short jaunt through meditation, and then a tippy-toe through surrender, before wrapping it all up with the warm hug of devotion.

I’m dumbstruck.

He looks at me. I look at him. The toilet drips. I let out a sigh.

“Well?” he says.

“Well what?”

“Well, how do you think I did?”

“How do you think you did?” I ask.

A pause, and then Bryan shakes his head: “I really don’t know what I’m talking about.” He says before breaking into a raucous laugh.

I have to join in.

It’s a funny thing. Not only in yoga, but in all things, we can feel quite sure we’ve got a handle on how something works—right up until someone asks us to explain it. There’s something about the process of articulating a concept that solidifies understanding—or exposes the lack of it. This is partially why the practice of teaching yoga is so powerful. Time after time you’re asked to clarify esoteric ideas, each time your understanding grows. And in the cases where your understanding is weak, you can rest assured that you’ll be made acutely aware of where you need to do more homework.

“I’ll give you this,” I smile, “you definitely hit all the bases.”

He smiles, shaking his head, “About half way through I felt myself disappearing into the hole I was digging.”

“In all seriousness though, it’s really just a matter of being able to connect the dots.” I say, “You’ve got the dots down, it’s now about sequencing.”

Bryan nods, “I’m not so sure.”

“It’s true, but,” I hold up my finger to underscore the point, “know that if you’re comfortable with the claim that your practice is the one thing that will take care of every other thing in your life AND you can’t answer that question…”

Bryan interrupts, “I’ve trodden into the territory of belief?”

“And a potential blind alley.” I add.

“Let’s give it another go, this time with a more simplified question: How does your practice help you with $4 a gallon gasoline?”

A pensive silence.

“Think simple.” I coach, “Don’t get lost in the details. What is one thing that your practice transforms that in turn affects everything else?”

More silence.

“Want a clue?”

“Yes please.”

“Think of a person who seems to get along with everyone.” I prompt.

“Okay.”

“What do you think makes that person’s relationships so effortless?”

“Well, she’s good at relationships, of course.”

“It’s not because she’s surrounded only by loving people, cooperative with her every whim?”

“People like that exist only in Hollywood and Fairy Tales.” Bryan smiles.

Truer words were never spoken, I think.

“So what you’re saying then is that her skill with relationships makes her experience with all kinds of people more easeful and rewarding.”

“Yes.”

“So…” I prod.

“That was my clue?”

“That was your clue.”

Bryan closes his eyes as if waiting for the answer.

His eyes pop open: “It’s about relationships then.”

“Go on.”

“Your yoga practice makes you good at relationships—not just with people but with situations as well.”

“And…”

“And for one who has mastered the art of relating to experiences as well as people, all kinds of experiences—even those that would send most people off the deep end—become similarly easeful and rewarding.”

Ahhh, the sweet smell of clarity.

“By Jove, I think you’ve got it.” I say.

It’s funny really, how most of us are really out of tune with what makes an experience feel positive or negative. We tend to blame our dis-ease on the experience when truly it spawns directly from our relationship to our experience.

“The way we relate to an experience is much more important than the quality of the experience itself in this regard.”

“And that’s why some people can remain relaxed in traffic?” Bryan confirms.

“And when they lose a job, have a health problem, or…”

“Or have their air conditioning break when it’s 113 degrees outside?” Bryan adds.

“Even then.” I nod. “But…”

“But what?”

“Well, we’ve suggested that yoga practice takes care of every aspect of our lives by transforming our relationship to our lives, but we’ve not answered how it does it.”

“And that’s the crucial question, because otherwise, it will just remain a belief?” Bryan confirms.

“Very likely.” I nod. “Understanding how will help us to go out and do the work, to experience this truth for ourselves—and without getting lost.

Just then, an impatient knock on the door.

“You guys having a convention in there?” comes from a disembodied female voice.

I look at Bryan; he at me.

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.” he says.

I push back the door and see a line of anxious yoga students queued up for the bathrooms.

“I’d say you’re right.” I agree, “Let’s clear out and we can pick up on the how later.”

“Do we have to wait for a toilet to start leaking before we can talk again?”

I hear a drip.

“I trust that won’t be necessary.” I say.

Copyright 2008, Eric Walrabenstein, all rights reserved.