Church of the Churchless

No lions? Then relax. Especially if you're a zebra.

I've been saying "No lions" to myself quite often the past few days.

Not because there aren't any lions in my life, because there also aren't any elephants, black holes, or starfish in my immediate vicinity, and I don't go around commenting on their absence via my inner thoughts.

Rather, recently I started reading Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers, a book by Robert M. Sapolsky. First published in 1994, it's been updated regularly, with the current 3rd edition coming out in 2004.

Naturally I checked the index under "ulcers" to see if Sapolsky talks about the research that implicates H. pylori bacterial infections and non-steroidal inflammatory drugs like Aspirin and Advil in the formation of stomach ulcers. Not surprisingly, he does.

So contrary to what was thought for a long time, stress isn't the primary cause of ulcers. However, stress is a risk factor for ulcers, and can make them worse and more difficult to heal, according to the Mayo Clinic.

My interest in the book comes from my desire to worry less and enjoy life more.

I agree with my psychotherapist wife (now retired) that worrying can be productive if it leads us to recognize potential or actual problems that we can do something about.

But as Sapolsky notes early on in his book, modern life for us humans tends to be filled with stress that bears little resemblance to that felt by a zebra being pursued by a hungry lion, or to that felt by a hungry lion desperate to find food needed to survive. Instead, we often worry about things that are far removed from clear and present dangers.

That's why I've started saying "No lions" when I find myself getting worked up by thoughts or feelings that aren't connected to a genuine problem that I can do something about. 

I combine those silently-spoken words with a mental image of zebras grazing peacefully on an African savannah. Of course, I'm aware that my carefree zebra-mind can, just as with actual zebras in the wild, be jolted into full alert by an actual problem at any moment.

Which comes with being alive. A problem-free life doesn't exist. Our only choice is how to deal with problems, not whether they're going to appear.

The genius of Sapolsky's book title, Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers, is that it points to a truth that zebras intuitively understand, but we humans have a lot of trouble grasping. Namely, problems should only be a source of stress when they actually exist.

If there's no lion in sight, go back to grazing. If a lion appears, run. Then go back to grazing. Worrying about lions isn't going to make lions disappear.

For zebras, there's no way to guarantee a lion-free life. Similarly, there's no way any of us can guarantee a problem-free life. Something is going to go wrong before too long, guaranteed.

Cars break down. Bodies fall prey to disease. A nasty email gets inadvertently sent to the person being complained about. Our job demands too much of us. Family members are fighting. A beloved sports team has a nasty losing streak. What we care about most gets a yawn from politicians. Noisy neighbors make it impossible to sleep.

Etc. Etc. Etc. 

That's why I enjoy saying "No lions" when my mind conjures up a problem that is imaginary rather than real. I should be saving my energy for dealing with genuine problems in my life, just as zebras go back to grazing after a lion attack because they need to be able to cope with the next appearance of a lion.

Sure, it's wonderful that we humans can envision a future or past that doesn't actually exist. This enables us to plan, learn, create, and so much more. But that capacity also leaves us prone to stress, anxiety, worry. We often find it difficult to let go of a problem that has already occurred, or to stop thinking about a potential future problem.

Since I'm sharing this post on my Church of the Churchless blog, I want to add that religious beliefs can also be a non-existent lion that leads to stress. 

People worry about their afterlife even though there is no solid evidence that life after death exists. Ditto for sin, whether God is pleased with us, and a host of other sources of worry that lack any demonstrable foundation. No zebra spends its day anxiously wondering, "Am I doing the right thing?"

And neither should we, without good reason.

Life is too short to spend it in a state of concern over supernatural imaginings. Be concerned about real problems in the real world. There's no lack of them. Don't add on extra religiously-inspired worries that almost certainly are non-existent. 

Do less, be happier

I believe it was in a comment by Amar on one of my blog posts that I learned about a great book by Mark Williams and Danny Penman, "Mindfulness: An Eight-Week Plan for Finding Peace in a Frantic World."

I've been practicing mindfulness meditation for quite a while, as noted in Mindfulness has become my meditation and Mindfulness is meditation on reality, not supernatural illusion.

The book by Williams and Penman is the best I've ever read on this subject. Very clear, well-written, and creative.

A core theme is the difference between Doing and Being. Doing is fine, if what we're after can be obtained through specific actions. But as you'll read in the excerpt below, Doing leads us astray when we try to apply it in the wrong way.

Why do your best efforts to get rid of unpleasant feelings backfire so tragically? When you try to solve the "problem" of unhappinesss (or any other "negative" emotion) you deploy one of the mind's most powerful tools: rational critical thinking.

It works like this: you see yourself in a place (unhappy) and know where you want to be (happy). Your mind then analyzes the gap between the two and tries to work out the best way of bridging it. To do so, it uses its "Doing" mode (so called because it performs well in solving problems and getting things done).

The Doing mode works by progressively narrowing the gap between where you are and where you want to be... It's a tremendously powerful way of s0lving problems. It's how we find our way across cities, drive cars and arrange hectic work schedules.

...It's perfectly natural, then, to apply this approach to solving the "problem" of unhappiness. But it's often the worst thing you can do because it requires you to focus on the gap between how you are and how you'd like to be: in doing so, you ask such critical questions as, What's wrong with me? Where did I go wrong? Why do I always make these mistakes?

Such questions are not only harsh and self-destructive, but they also demand that the mind furnishes the evidence to explain its discontent. And the mind is truly brilliant at providing such evidence. 

Imagine walking through a beautiful park on a spring day. You're happy, but then for some unknown reason a flicker of sadness ripples across your mind. It may be the result of hunger because you skipped lunch or perhaps you unwittingly triggered a troubling memory.

After a few minutes you might start to feel a little down. As soon as you notice your lowered spirits you begin to probe yourself.: It's a lovely day. It's a beautiful park. I wish I were feeling happier than I am now.

Think about that: I wish I were feeling happier.

How do you feel now? You probably feel worse. This is because you focused on the gap between how you feel and how you want to feel. And focusing on the gap highlighted it. The mind sees the gap as a problem to be solved. This approach is disastrous when it comes to your emotions because of the intricate interconnection between your thoughts, emotions, and bodily sensations.

...The mind can do so much more than simply analyze problems with its Doing mode. The problem is that we use the Doing mode so much, we can't see that there is an alternative. Yet there is another way.

If you stop and reflect for a moment, the mind doesn't just think. It can also be aware that it is thinking. This form of pure awareness allows you to experience the world directly. It's bigger than thinking. It's unclouded by your thoughts, feelings, and emotions.

It's like a high mountain -- a vantage point -- from which you can see everything for many miles around.

Pure awareness transcends thinking. It allows you to step outside the chattering negative self-talk and your reactive impulses and emotions. It allows you to look at the world once again with open eyes. And when you do so, a sense of wonder and quiet contentment begins to reappear in your life.

Makes a lot of sense.

What's said above applies to spiritual goals as well, like believing that you need to do something to reach God, heaven, holy spirit, or whatever. That belief creates a gap between where you are now and where you want to be. Then that gap becomes a problem to be solved, which takes work and creates anxiety.

Yet where is the evidence for any gap at all? God, heaven, holy spirit, and such are just concepts, ideas, thoughts. Give them up, and you are much closer to where you want to be: reality, here and now.

Happiness lies in ordinary things

Am I happier since I gave up the fantasy of religion? Probably.

It's a big relief to not have a cosmic weight on my back -- the expectation that I need to do this and that, plus that and this, in order to be worthy of being admitted to God's heavenly realm. 

That's a lot of pressure, believing that the fate of my supposedly immortal soul rests on whether I've been fortunate enough to find a path that leads to God-realization, and, having hopefully found the right path, on whether my efforts to follow it will meet with success.

In my current atheist days I'm much more satisfied with finding happiness in small things, ordinary things.

Before, I had my sights set on a Very Big Thing: ultimate reality. Now, scratching our dog's stomach when she rolls on her back in newly-mown grass makes me feel like life is good. As does a cup of coffee, which I'm enjoying right now.

A TIME special edition, "The Science of Emotions," contained a short essay by Meg Wolitzer that resonated with me. Here's an excerpt from her The Psychology of Happiness that I like a lot.

Everyone talks incessantly about stress now, and how it has changed our lives and made us so unhappy. Less obviously, I think stress has also changed the quest for happiness itself, making it more aggressive and occupying more of our time.

Ever since antidepressants and sexual-enhancement drugs hit the airwaves and ever since we were told that we had a right to our happiness, damn it, and that we could ask for it -- no, demand it -- from our doctors, spouses, friends, or employers, it seems that the desire for happiness has increasingly become a source of anxiety.

Which is why I have taken a few steps back. At this point, being happy is about having the space to appreciate the ordinary things that do in fact make me "happy," though at first glance they might not be seen that way. 

An absence of chaos; an absence of phone calls with disturbing news; an absence of business emails that up-end your day and demand attention right then and there; no acutely ill parents; no fragile children calling shakily from college.

Being able to sit down with a glass of wine and some really good, tiny little olives with your husband; having a nice meal with your kids that's not rushed or fraught.

These seem like small things, perhaps pedestrian things, but I protect them fiercely, knowing that on the other side of an imaginary wall waits the possibility that all of them will soon be gone and that something terrible will replace them.

But I no longer quake in fear.

I used to think that happiness was something a person was so lucky to find that, like Lord Voldemort (a.k.a. He Who Must Not Be Named), it should never actually be mentioned. Now, with happiness taking on a new, modest cast, the fear of losing it is smaller too.

You might think: Good god, woman! This isn't happiness. Happiness has wild colors and flavors; it involves bodies draped across a bed, or things that come in gift wrap. Or even, once in a while, Carvel. Don't you want any of that?

Of course I do.

But being allowed to enjoy some of the more modest pieces of my life happens right now to be my own personal Carvel; my own dachshund, gift-wrapped present, snow day and secret lover. Perhaps for most of us -- or anyway, for me -- happiness has gotten smaller over time, becoming endlessly and exquisitely refined, though somehow never diminished.