Zen and the Art of This Overused Phrasing

Dear Wrestling,

It's been awhile. Yes, I am this bad at communication with humans, too--much worse, in fact. Too much of my writing depends on being struck by something and then excitedly rushing to share it.

In this case, I'm struck by this essay by the endlessly wise and kind J.J. McGee:

"Your worries and doubts and hopes, the ones that feel solid and heavy as stone: they’re raw material for wrestlers. Something that could be a weapon to break barriers. Something that could be a foundation to build on. So hold on to them, even if it means being willing to exist fully in those moments of despair, to stand in the dark with your heart squashed and your hopes buried, bereft and lost."

Existing fully in moments of despair is something most of us spend most of our lives trying to avoid. So much of life can be described as running to pleasure or running away from pain.

I've been interested in Buddhism for a long, long time. One of the ideas that most drew me, years ago, was precisely this idea of not running from pain. It seemed so...dumb, frankly, so bizarre, and yet there was also so much obvious wisdom down that path, too--and so many Buddhist leaders were deeply thoughtful and immensely compassionate. It was a puzzle to me.

I've always hated pain, passionately, and even as a very little child--age 8 or so--I was learning about herbs and medicine, whatever little things I could do. A friend got stung by a bee on his lower eyelid, and I mixed up some fresh mud to put on it until he could get home, to draw the venom out.  I am still the person my family goes to for help with injuries, which I sometimes even treat with my homemade salve.

It took one of the worst toothaches of my life to understand the difference between pain and suffering. I'd had to have oral surgery--I can't even remember which one--and even with the painkillers I'd been given, I was in agony. This happened toward the end of my first year studying Buddhism, and so I turned to my texts. I reread the passages on pain and suffering in Thich Nhat Hanh, Roshi Kapleau, and others, over and over. It took me that long to find the courage to really try it, probably.

"To suppress the grief, the pain, is to condemn oneself to a living death. Living fully means feeling fully; it means becoming completely one with what you are experiencing and not holding it at arm's length." ~ Philip Kapleau

“Do not lose yourself in the past. Do not lose yourself in the future. Do not get caught in your anger, worries, or fears. Come back to the present moment, and touch life deeply. This is mindfulness.” 
― Thich Nhat Hanh 

So, I gradually started turning my thoughts from "Holy SHIT do I want this pain to end!" to "Hoo boy, this is some pain. Strong, strong pain. Yep, that's still there. Still just sitting here with my pain..."

It was a process, and one I certainly didn't master that night--or any night since. Suffering, it turns out, is trying to escape what you are actually experiencing. Pain is just the experience itself. In wrestling terms, pain is the story, the match, the promo. Suffering is the late night discussion about whether Sami Zayn will still be a heel when he comes back from injury, months from now.

Wrestlers can't do anything with our smarkiness. Our prognostications are not the fuel they thrive on. They can't craft an emotion out of our preoccupation with who's going where and how the story might end. No criticism of a feud or booking is going to thrill our hearts.

They need our presence and our attention. Our enthusiasm helps, I think, but I'm not certain it's strictly necessary--the best draw it out of us despite ourselves.

All the guessing and the emotional games are fun, sometimes, and to a point, but for me at least it's essential that I remember: those games are not part of wrestling. They don't help my beloveds, and as often as not, they harm me and my enjoyment. Granted, I'm a person who is riddled with anxiety, so it doesn't take much to pull my head out of a match and start worrying about the ratio of money to good stories that wrestling seems to insist on, for instance.

Our presence, our emotional immediacy, and our openness. Those are the components we as fans can contribute to this art we love. Anything else, I suspect we do just for ourselves.

Love,
Autumn










*I do not include criticism of sexism, homophobia, racism, etc. in this. I'm referring only to criticism of aspects of wrestling that do not harm others, such as booking or some aspects of character work.