For a long time now, I have noticed that I tend to carry a great deal of difficulty directly within my body.
It is something I have explored from many angles over the years. I know that being even a little bit more physically active alleviates quite a bit of that collected tension. And I look closely at what I eat, and pay attention to my immediate environment that might cause pain. All of these things help, but I always have the lingering sense that lifestyle tweaks alone are not the entire story.
For years, I used to wake up with daily morning headaches—with many that classify as migraines. They had a strange, sharp predictability. For instance, whenever I walked outside into the cold air or stepped back indoors, whether from seasonal allergies or smoke from fireplaces that linger in the winter air—the headache would suddenly flare or intensify.
Then my workday would begin. As soon as I sat down at my desk and poured my attention into the tasks ahead, something remarkable happened: I would barely notice the pain at all. They would disappear.
I realized that I could take my mind, apply it to a task, and almost completely shut off how I was feeling in the body. But the moment I stopped working—the moment I took a break during the day, walked away from the screen, or paused to check in with how I was feeling—those painful sensations would return. So I realized that a lot of this depended on what I was paying attention to.
This reflects the way our brains function. When we are deeply engaged in an external task or thinking of others, the brain quiets what neuroscientists call the Default Mode Network—the resting-state circuitry that runs when we aren't focused on a specific outside goal. But as soon as the task ends and we turn inward, the default mode comes back online, and our internal sensations and thoughts take center stage.
Later on, we will see why engaging directly with this default mode—rather than running away from it—is one of the most beneficial fruits of our meditation and spiritual practice. That is where real transformation takes place.
Working brought its own stress, of course. Yet in a strange way, I got quite comfortable with that stress.
We humans actually do have an immense ability to carry a lot of tension. The trouble is that we often fluff it off and attribute it entirely to something outside of ourselves. We place the blame elsewhere, rarely looking at our own habits and actions. I think this a lot has to do with the innate fear that inhabits us.
A lot of us use work to distract ourselves, but work is hardly the only distraction we use. We often bang our head against the wall trying to escape stress, yet in many ways we feel we have no choice. We all have to work. The stress of earning a living is not something we can just easily get around, short of constantly switching jobs or being lucky enough to find work we truly enjoy.
For a long time, I have seen that navigating this physical and mental distress requires something far more honest than distraction. It requires learning how to stand in the middle of our conditions—what I call The Practice of Double Holding.
When difficulty enters through our senses, we discover an inescapable reality: we do not get to choose whether we experience it or not.
The experience has arrived. The truth of a matter is that our senses are aware of what we experience before we can cognize it.
Sometimes the intensity is mild, and we can manage our way around it. But when pain is severe—like a full migraine—choice vanishes. You cannot simply meditate it away or talk yourself out of it. We have no choice but to be right there with it.
In contemplative practice, this is the First Arrow (Sallatha Sutta): the immediate, raw hit of life. There is really nothing we can do to stop the immediate arising of that hit. It is what it is.
When a migraine strikes, really the only thing we can do is do our best to alleviate it through sensible, practical means. Depending on the intensity, that might mean taking a pain reliever like ibuprofen, or using something topical on the temples, or stepping into a dark room, or drinking water. When I have a migraine, I frequently have to do all of these things.
During these moments, our mental outlook is essential. Severe pain can make us very short-tempered. But rather than going off on a tangent and compounding things, we can simply explain to those around us that we are having a migraine and need to pay attention to that. We don't have to snap or blame; we simply need to hunker down and focus on our well-being. A lot of this is quite natural. We don't really have to think about it.
Whether we are holding that pain or not, however, this is where our spiritual practice begins. Learning to let go does not mean getting rid of the pain or trying to force it away. It means releasing our tight mental grip around it.
Once we do what we can to alleviate that initial difficulty and things start to settle down, a much subtler challenge arises: the Second Arrow.
Normally, the first thing we do is look outside of ourselves to find a cause, trying to figure it out and point the finger at external circumstances. But when we realize we can't point the finger outside, our minds often turn inward into self-depreciation.
We start feeling sorry for ourselves. The mind creates stories and explanations: "Why does this always happen? What is wrong with me?"
What cuts this off is simply bringing mindfulness to the experience. We don't necessarily have to talk to ourselves or recite internal phrases. Many times this helps. But ultimately it is a quiet awareness—an immediate, wordless knowing:
Being aware of the head aching and the stomach being tight or knotted up.
Being aware that an unexpected bill or difficult news has arrived.
Being aware that the mind is trying to find out why this is happening, generating stories and self-pity around the ache.
This is the vital function of the one who knows—the observing quality. When we rest as the observer, we stop taking the thoughts personally. We recognize that the mind is creating stories around the pain, but we do not have to claim those stories as who we are. This especially becomes clear when we realize that there is nothing that we can point the finger at, and that this storytelling actually is a sign that we are stressed.
Bringing this knowing quality to both the first arrow and the second arrow usually makes the second arrow very short-lived, or prevents it from happening at all.
None of us like to suffer, and none of us want to suffer. By not adding the second arrow, we save ourselves from unnecessary torment. Over time and practice, we come to this realization fairly quickly.
As we observe life with this knowing quality, we begin to see the subtle web of causes and conditions (Idappaccayatā): "When this happens, this is the result. When this doesn't happen, this is not the result."
Yet notice how many things we repeat over and over, even when we know they aren't necessarily good for us.
I work a great deal on my computer, which means I sit for long stretches. I used to speak often about headaches and tension, yet how often did I simply forget to get up and move around a bit, or get up to drink a tall glass of water? Dehydration is a very common reason for headaches, as is prolonged sitting. Looking to causes where we can, and knowing the results that follow, is a continuous practice. With reflection, I can see more clearly these causes. I certainly have a lot of work to do on this, but now it is my general way of going about life. For instance, while I still don't get enough formal exercise, I am more active overall.
Causes and conditions are compounded by many factors. Some within, and many not in our control. But recognizing them protects us from a major illusion: believing we can think our way out of our problems.
We cannot solve bodily and life difficulties purely in our heads. Believing that if we just analyze our thoughts enough, or arrange external conditions to be completely perfect, is unreasonable. It doesn't make sense, yet that is how most of us live our lives. When we get caught up in our heads, we end up keeping the threat response alive—we think about the tiger when there is no tiger. We fixate on making problems out of things due to causes that we are actually co-creating.
We cannot take the "easier, softer way" of constant avoidance—numbing ourselves in work or grasping onto other ways to distract ourselves, ignoring the messages the body is sending us, or pretending difficulty doesn't exist. Avoidance definitely has its limits, and it only creates other problems down the road.
Nor can we live in the fantasy of perfect control.
Standing in the middle and trying to be as skillful as possible is the key:
1. Clear Seeing | 2. Disarming the Story | 3. Bringing Compassion | 4. Grounded Action |
|---|---|---|---|
Mindfulness • The One Who Knows | Observing the Mind | The Open Heart | Short & Long-Term Relief |
Being aware of raw sensory experience without denial or minimization. | Noticing when the mind searches for outside blame or turns to self-pity. | Recognizing that we don't want to suffer; bringing warmth to pain. | Applying practical relief now, and adjusting conditions over time. |
"Experiencing difficulty is present. Given conditions, this arose." | "Dropping the story without taking it personally." | "Meeting vulnerability with care rather than abandonment." | "Skillful living that eases distress and protects well-being." |
Without needing internal dialogue, the observing quality simply recognizes what is present: being aware of the headache, the tight belly, or the sudden news. It acknowledges: Experiencing Difficulty is present.
We notice when the mind begins searching for external scapegoats or collapsing into self-depreciation. By resting as the one who knows, we see that the mind is creating stories around the ache, and we gently let those stories drop.
Knowing that suffering is present, and recognizing that we do not want to suffer, we bring genuine care and compassion to ourselves. We can gently place a hand over the belly or forehead, invite a slow, resetting breath, and meet our hurting body with the patience we would offer a friend.
From this centered ground, we take sensible, skillful steps:
Short-Term Actions: Taking immediate steps to alleviate physical distress—taking an ibuprofen, drinking a glass of water, resting our eyes, stepping away from the screen for a few minutes, or communicating our needs cleanly to others.
Long-Term Actions: Looking honestly at causes and conditions over time—building daily habits of movement, drinking water consistently, setting healthy work boundaries, and engaging with the default mode in our meditation practice so that stress does not become a chronic, unconscious habit.
We will never have completely perfect conditions. We will have days where our heads ache, where our bodies feel tight, where the bills are due, or where unexpected demands arrive on our doorstep.
We have no choice but to experience these moments, because life brings them to our door.
Yet we do have a choice in how we hold them.
We don't have to flee into distraction or drown in self-pity. We can stand right in the middle:
In one hand, we hold the difficult reality of the world and our bodies as they are—seeing the facts clearly, and letting go of the need to fight what is already here.
In the other hand, we hold our own heart and body with genuine compassion—meeting our pain with care, and taking sensible short-term and long-term actions to alleviate suffering.
In that quiet balance between clear seeing and active care, the storm may still be passing through, but the ground we stand upon remains steady, open, and at peace.