Attachment is the root of all suffering… Or is it?
This past summer I traveled alone to Nepal and spent ten days at a silent meditation retreat in the mountains…without much prior meditation experience. Why? I had been interested in meditation since I was seven years old. Standing in the living room of my great-grandmother’s house days after she passed away, my mother told me that meditation was the reason she reached 98 years of age. My cognitive science classes had also been preaching its muses and I was, at the time, experiencing a challenging period of my life. I was seeking an experience to bring me a new perspective; seeking anything, really, that would help. While researching various programs, I came across the Dhamma Vipassana organization, which offers free silent retreats to those interested. All you have to do is apply.
Their website read that “vipassana” means to “see things as they really are.” That is, this practice can help you gain clarity in your life. Those words were seductive to me, like honey on my lips. I applied before I ever read another sentence.
Of course, I did not go in completely blind. I knew that I wouldn’t have access to my phone - alright, that’s okay, I’m trying to spend less time on it anyways. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to read - no worries, I’ve never been a big reader. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to write - that one did sting, but I’ll still have my thoughts, right? I knew that I wouldn’t be able to talk or even look at anyone. Ten days is not forever, though, and if it was going to help in the end, a little temporary discomfort did not faze me. All this to say, I knew the process would be difficult, maybe even very difficult, but I did not expect it to be one of the hardest things I’d ever do in my life. I saw the beginnings of a shining path to spiritual enlightenment and I returned with something different.
…
We all know intuitively that humans are social creatures. We know that it “takes a village to raise a child,” that loneliness contributes to many health problems, and that love is something highly sought after. Without social connection, neither we nor our species for that matter would exist. Person + person = greater chance at survival and yada yada. That’s obvious, right?
Well, now I’d like to ask you something different. What does hunger feel like to you?
Did you think about it? It’s dull and annoying at first, then all-consuming, right? It’s uncomfortable and often leads to irritability, even anger, until you are willing to eat the leftover fries on a stranger’s plate. Or, maybe that’s just me. “You’re not you when you’re hungry!”; I guess! One might dare to say that we are “food creatures.”
How does this relate to us being “social creatures”, though? Why, I’m glad you asked! In 2020, a study in Nature Neuroscience led by Livia Tomova and MIT’s Rebecca Saxe found that after brief isolation, people’s brains responded to opportunities for connection in a way resembling how hungry brains respond to food (Tomova, L., Wang, K.L., Thompson, T. et al., 2020). Read that again. We crave people like we crave food. That may sound a bit creepy, but it’s true. We crave each other.
According to the Harvard Study of Adult Development, it is the quality of one’s social relationships that is one of, if not the, leading predictors of life satisfaction (Mineo, L., 2020). Hearing these things at the time, I remember thinking “Mmm, yes. Social interaction. Important. People, important. Yes very yes” and not giving it much further thought. Again, these are things we can all already intuit, right? We know we are social creatures.
I’d argue that we actually don’t know it, not fully at least. I think we know it similar to how we know that we have blood in our veins. But, until you scrape yourself and see the red liquid pouring out, it’s only an idea. Really, anything could be in there.
Back to Nepal, then. My scrape.
I left for the retreat in a taxi and, outside the window, we passed various neighborhoods and thousands of people. I think there must have been a festival going on that day because all I could see in everyone’s hands were these stunning, deep red flowers. Suddenly I recalled being driven to my open heart surgery at 15 and feeling that I was being taken from the world by force; ripped away from it if you will. Every tree and person that I saw on the way to the hospital was something that I tried desperately to grab one last time. I felt that I was reaching for those red flowers in a similar way.
I quickly sent my good-bye’s via text to my then-boyfriend, my sister, a guy from the Eagles (don’t ask), friends, and paid my mom and dad a short phone call. Before I knew it, the temple gates greeted me and I was placing my phone in a numbered, cloth bag. I had wanted to bring a photo of my mom with me; something I did as a kid when I’d go on school field trips, but didn’t because I wanted to fully embrace the experience. To let the detachment from people and things clarify my own inner confusion.
When I arrived, the first girl that I met happened to be who I’d be rooming with and, if that wasn’t coincidence enough, one of the first things she told me was that on day six a sort of “mental surgery” is supposed to occur. Surgery? I laughed it off.
When the noble silence began that night (meaning no verbal, written, or gestural communication with fellow students), many of us wished each other good luck and embraced in a deep hug. Many of us still didn’t know each other’s names.
The first couple of days felt quite easy. There was a rhythm to it all: wake up at 4AM to the ringing of a soft gong, meditate for ten hours, and then lights out by 9PM. In between were a few periodic breaks and two absolutely delicious meals. On my breaks, I’d watch ladybugs, hunt for four-leaf clovers, and walk up and down the courtyard. I took a liking to a certain tree and would often lay under it, watching the clouds pass by overhead.
I should have known that days one, two, and three were a little too kind. By day four, I had become so increasingly involved in the activities of my own mind that it was now keeping me up at night. I’d start the evening tracing the walls of the room with my eyes, followed by singing songs in my head. The lyric “don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy” by the Eagles became an affirmation. I wrote poetry and stories in my head that I’ll never remember and, at one point, delivered imaginary stand up comedy routines - complete with audience laughter of course. I had no clock to check the time, but when 4AM came I was utterly exhausted.
The next night, I did not sleep at all. I tried changing positions, flipping and then abandoning my pillow, and almost sneaked into someone else’s room to try and find a clock. What time was it! When the morning gong rang, I was already dressed and ready for the first meditation. My anxiety was reaching a level it never had before and my heart pounded as if it were trying to tell me something. Ah yes, surgery awaits. She did say this would happen on the sixth day.
I tried to sleep during each break that day, though the moment my head hit the pillow my heart soared to the moon. If I couldn’t sleep again that night, I told myself I’d have to leave - it would have been nearly three days awake. In preparation, I wrote my number down with eyeliner onto a piece of toilet paper to give to my roommate. After what seemed like days, the night came and along with it the tossing and turning. For the first time in years, I had a full blown panic attack and then gave up. The words “you’re a failure” played incessantly in my mind as I rushed to find the meditation teacher to ask permission to leave.
I stumbled across one of the volunteers and tears flooded my face the moment that she looked at me. It was the first time I had truly made eye contact with anyone in six days. She took me to the teacher who spoke to me and held my hands and my anxiety in this moment almost vanished. She informed me that if I still wanted to leave in the morning, they would help me, but that tonight she’d arrange for the volunteer to sleep near me. The volunteer then told me that if I needed her, I could wake her up - even if it meant shaking her. I finally slept.
My anxiety waned the following five days, aided by a few secret exchanges with my roommate. One morning, we were near each other when music blasted outside the courtyard. Instinctively we shared a glance and ran to its source together, laughing like children. This happened again when a monkey appeared at our feet, tugging at someone else’s scarf.
Despite this, my mind was wandering more during meditation. I spent many of the hour-long sessions imagining phone calls I’d have with my family when this was over, having a genuine thrill at their hypothetical responses. At the same time, I was upset with myself that I wasn’t achieving the clarity I came here for.
On the morning of the final day, the silence was lifted. Without pause, all forty of us seemed to become collectively high. That’s what it felt like, at least. We exclaimed how we could feel the vibrations of our voices in the air; each word tangible and tasteable. It was impossible to keep myself from smiling or laughing and from then until late in the night the conversations flowed on. I felt that I had just taken a bite of a crisp, juicy apple after ten days of hunger.
The following weeks, nearly every waking hour of mine was spent with those girls from the retreat. We went to karaoke bars, spas, restaurants, and discussed our deepest fears on a 2AM rickshaw ride through Kathmandu. Interestingly, it was these 2AM conversations that ended up bringing me the clarity I was looking for. Now back in California, my appreciation for connection has changed. I notice now how a small positive interaction can flip my entire day upside down. In fact, instead of going home to my bed when I’m feeling down, I’ll now wander around campus or spend time at a busy cafe just so that I can run into someone.
Yet, this kind of social reliance is in contradiction with what I was supposed to learn. The day after I had finally slept, I remember approaching the teacher to thank her for her help that night. She responded by telling me that while she was glad that I fell asleep, the volunteer would likely not be sleeping near me again. It defeats the purpose of the program, which is largely to learn how not to rely on anyone or anything for one’s happiness. It is the Second Noble Truth: attachment, or craving, is the root of all suffering.
There was a story they told at the retreat, in regards to craving. There was once a woman who owned a small purse with trinkets; all she had left from someone she loved who was gone. A monkey came and took that purse and she spent the entire day crying for it until someone else retrieved it. This was supposed to be a story to teach us that cravings lead to suffering and so we should learn not to crave. That’s not what I heard from it, though.
If the woman was never reunited with her purse, I doubt that she would have never recovered. Humans are incredibly resilient. Decades of psychological research on post-traumatic growth, pioneered by researchers Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun, suggest that the struggle to cope with profound loss or hardship can sometimes lead to positive changes, including deeper interpersonal relationships and a greater sense of personal strength (Tedeschi, R. G., & Calhoun, L. G., 2004). In one exercise, happiness researcher Shawn Achor asked senior managers at Pfizer to list the five experiences that most shaped who they were. Nearly all the experiences they listed involved significant stress (Achor, S., 2012). Without this craving that we have for people, would we ever reach for each other in the first place? Craving and attachment come with the risk of pain, but they may also be what makes anything worth fighting for.
Now, the teacher may not have been asking me to stop loving people, only to stop needing them for my own wellbeing. Psychologist Brooke Feeney found in 2007 that people whose partners accept their need for support tended to pursue their own goals more independently, a result she calls the dependency paradox (Feeney, B. C., 2007). That is, needing others to some degree may be part of what gives us the security to engage more fully in life.
Of course, I’m not enlightened. I don’t have inner peace. Maybe if I were, I’d scrap all of this - I would love to worry less when someone doesn’t respond to my texts. Still, my limited understanding of Buddhism has taught me that clinging, cravings, attachment (whatever you want to call it) are the root cause of suffering. I do not disagree, but that is not the same thing as saying that we should avoid them completely. They are also the root of pleasure. By my teacher’s logic, those daydreams about my family were suffering in the making, but they were also the best part of my day. When I finally called my mom, I felt connected and, then, ready to go back into the world alone. Enlightenment largely means to see things as they really are. Well, we really are social creatures. There is no denying it now; I can taste it just as well as I can see my blood. And to me, it tastes good. One of the hardest days of my life was not saved by detachment, but soothed by the comfort of looking a stranger in the eye.
Works Cited
Tomova, L., Wang, K.L., Thompson, T. et al. Acute social isolation evokes midbrain craving responses similar to hunger. Nat Neurosci 23, 1597–1605 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41593-020-00742-z
Mineo, L. (2023, February 10). Work out daily? OK, but how socially fit are you? The Harvard Gazette. https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2023/02/work-out-daily-ok-but-how-socially-fit-are-you/
Tedeschi, R. G., & Calhoun, L. G. (2004). Posttraumatic growth: Conceptual foundations and empirical evidence. Psychological Inquiry, 15(1), 1–18. https://doi.org/10.1207/s15327965pli1501_01
Achor, S. (2012). Positive intelligence. Harvard Business Review, 90(1–2), 100–102. https://hbr.org/2012/01/positive-intelligence
Feeney, B. C. (2007). The dependency paradox in close relationships: Accepting dependence promotes independence. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 92(2), 268–285. https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.92.2.268