When Things Fall Apart

When Things Fall Apart Plot Summary

Introduction

Life has a way of reminding us of our fundamental vulnerability. When things fall apart—when relationships end, careers stall, health fails, or plans crumble—we often feel overwhelmed by uncertainty. We grasp for solid ground, searching for answers and reassurance that everything will be okay. Yet these challenging moments, far from being obstacles to our happiness, offer precious opportunities for awakening and growth. The paradox at the heart of human experience is that our attempts to avoid suffering often create more pain. We fight against impermanence, resist change, and try to control outcomes—all strategies that ultimately lead to greater suffering. This book offers a radical alternative: learning to embrace uncertainty as the path itself. Through gentle yet profound practices, we can develop the courage to stay present with whatever arises, discovering wisdom in our wounds and freedom in facing our fears. As we learn to meet life's challenges with an open heart rather than reflexive avoidance, we unlock our inherent capacity for compassion, joy, and authentic connection.

Chapter 1: Cultivating Intimacy with Fear

Fear is a natural response to moving closer to the truth. When we embark on a spiritual journey, it's like setting out in a small boat on the vast ocean to discover unknown lands. With dedication comes inspiration, but sooner or later, we inevitably encounter fear. We might worry that when we reach the horizon, we'll simply drop off the edge of the world. Like all explorers, we feel drawn to discover what awaits us, without knowing if we have the courage to face it. What we habitually consider obstacles aren't actually our enemies but our teachers. When we experience fear—whether it's fear of loneliness, death, or simply the groundlessness of existence—we typically try to escape. We run, distract ourselves, or grasp for something solid to hold onto. This automatic response to discomfort prevents us from experiencing life directly. The author recalls asking a Zen master how he related to fear, and he simply replied, "I agree. I agree." This answer points to a profound truth: rather than trying to overcome fear, we can learn to acknowledge and befriend it. The author shares a powerful story about a student who was terrified of a snake that appeared in his meditation hut. All night, the student stayed completely alert, watching the snake in front of him. He was so afraid he couldn't move—there was just the snake, himself, and fear. Just before dawn, the last candle went out, and he began to cry—not from despair but from tenderness. He felt the longing and struggle of all beings. His meditation had merely been another form of separation and struggle. At that moment, he accepted his anger, jealousy, resistance, and fear. He recognized that he was also precious beyond measure—both wise and foolish, rich and poor. Filled with gratitude, he stood up in the darkness, walked toward the snake, and bowed before falling asleep on the floor. When we allow ourselves to be intimate with fear, to stay present with it rather than running away, something remarkable happens. Our dramatic narratives begin to dissolve, and we connect with the world around us in a fresh way. The key is to approach our fear with gentle attention and curiosity, without trying to make it go away or transform it into something else. The practice of cultivating intimacy with fear isn't about being free from fear but about developing a different relationship with it. When we notice ourselves wanting to escape, we can pause and breathe with our fear. We can acknowledge the physical sensations—perhaps a pounding heart or queasy stomach—without adding stories about what they mean. As we learn to stay with our fear, we discover that it has much to teach us about being human. By embracing our fear rather than struggling against it, we discover an unexpected gateway to courage. As the author's husband once noted, she was brave not because she felt no fear, but because she was a "complete coward" who went ahead and acted anyway. True courage isn't the absence of fear but the willingness to move forward despite it.

Chapter 2: Finding Wisdom When Things Fall Apart

When everything falls apart in our lives, we're presented with a remarkable opportunity. Most of us expend tremendous energy trying to maintain a sense of ground and security. We work diligently to uphold our self-image, believing that if we can just get everything together, life will finally be good. But from the perspective of spiritual awakening, this constant seeking of solid ground is actually a form of death—a way of closing ourselves off from the full range of human experience. The author recounts her experience at Gampo Abbey, a vast seaside monastery where the horizon stretches infinitely. There, with few means of escape, everything in her life fell apart. All her methods of self-protection, all her ways of maintaining her well-polished self-image crumbled. Despite thinking of herself as a flexible, likable person, she discovered this was largely an illusion. Her unfinished business was exposed "vividly and accurately in living Technicolor" not only to herself but to everyone around her. The pain was so intense that she wondered if she would ever feel happy again. During this difficult period, a visiting teacher told her, "When you have made good friends with yourself, your situation will be more friendly too." This wisdom pointed to the essential practice: rather than trying to fix or escape the discomfort, she needed to befriend herself exactly as she was. She recalled a sign she had once pinned to her wall: "Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us." This surrender to groundlessness is the heart of awakening. When we feel our world collapsing, our instinct is to find something to hold onto. But what if instead of struggling against uncertainty, we could learn to relax with it? The Buddhist path invites us to recognize that suffering is not a sign that something is wrong. Relief comes when we allow space for everything to happen: space for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. We can learn to stay with what we see and feel, connecting with our wisdom mind even in the midst of chaos. The author shares how when her marriage ended unexpectedly, she tried desperately to find security and comfort. Fortunately, she couldn't pull it off. Instinctively, she knew that annihilation of her dependent, clinging self was the only way forward. This painful process became her teacher, showing her that the off-center, in-between state—though uncomfortable—offers the perfect opportunity to open our hearts beyond limit. The key practice is to stay with the shakiness of our situation—to remain with a broken heart, a rumbling stomach, feelings of hopelessness—without panic. This willingness to face what is, without grasping or rejecting, is the path of true awakening and the way of the warrior.

Chapter 3: Turning Chaos into a Teacher

The most profound teachings often emerge from our most challenging moments. When we meet our edge—that point where we feel we can't handle what's happening—we discover our greatest opportunity for growth. These moments when we reach our limit aren't punishments but signs of health, indicators that we're approaching truth rather than hiding from it. Trungpa Rinpoche once told a story about encountering a fierce guard dog with huge teeth and red eyes while traveling to an unfamiliar monastery. As they approached the gate, the dog broke free from its chain and charged. While his attendants froze in terror, Rinpoche turned and ran straight at the dog. The dog was so surprised that it tucked its tail between its legs and ran away. This story illustrates an essential point: how we respond when we meet our match determines our path forward. The spiritual journey involves continually moving beyond hope and fear, stepping into unknown territory. When we reach our limit, most of us freeze like Rinpoche's attendants. Our bodies tense and our minds become rigid. But instead of hardening against discomfort, we can allow the energy of emotion to pierce us to the heart. By neither indulging nor repressing difficult feelings, we discover that the very energy we're afraid of can open us. This approach to difficulty is like meditation practice. In formal sitting, we make friends with our hopes and fears, learning not to indulge or repress what arises. This sows seeds for being more awake in everyday chaos. We practice noticing when thoughts arise and then letting them dissolve, returning to the openness of the present moment. Over time, this becomes how we relate to hope and fear in daily life—we stop struggling, relax, and come back to the freshness of now. Working with our edge requires patience and compassion. It's a gradual process of opening further, connecting more deeply with suffering and wisdom, and becoming more loving. The path continues to challenge us—sometimes it's the big catastrophes that wake us up, but often it's the small irritations that catch us off guard. Either way, the practice remains the same: lean toward discomfort and see it clearly rather than protect ourselves from it. The instruction to view "this very moment as the perfect teacher" is profound guidance for navigating life's challenges. By being present with what's happening—without dissociation—we discover that awakeness exists in both pleasure and pain, confusion and clarity. Our weird, unfathomable, ordinary everyday lives become the perfect vehicle for awakening.

Chapter 4: Practicing Non-Aggression and Compassion

The fundamental aggression we inflict upon ourselves is remaining ignorant by lacking the courage and respect to look at ourselves honestly and gently. Not causing harm begins with mindfulness—clear seeing with compassion for what we observe. This practice helps us relate to all aspects of life, especially the difficult ones. It's a lifetime journey to honestly face our experience without judgment. As we become more wholehearted in this journey, we discover the ways we cause harm that were previously invisible to us. Our habitual patterns are so ingrained that we don't notice their impact on others. Mindfulness allows us to see our desires, aggression, jealousy, and ignorance without acting on them. Without mindfulness, these patterns remain hidden, continuing to cause suffering. The path forward involves refraining—not immediately acting on impulses. This might sound repressive, but it's actually the method for becoming a more dharmic person. One instructor asked students to notice their physical movements when feeling uncomfortable. The author observed herself pulling her ear, scratching her head when it didn't itch, or straightening her collar when feeling unsettled. The instruction wasn't to change these behaviors but simply to notice them, becoming aware of how we try to avoid discomfort. This practice helps us recognize the fundamental groundlessness that bubbles beneath our ordinary lives—the restlessness and fear that motivate our habitual reactions. Refraining gives us the opportunity to make friends with ourselves at the most profound level. We learn to relate to what's underneath all our controlling, manipulative behaviors—the soft, tender feeling we experience as fear or edginess. The author shares a powerful story about a young warrior instructed to do battle with fear. Feeling this was too aggressive and unfriendly, she nevertheless followed her teacher's instructions. When the day arrived, the warrior approached fear, prostrated three times, and asked permission to battle. Fear thanked her for the respect. When she asked how to defeat fear, it replied: "My weapons are that I talk fast and get very close to your face. You get completely unnerved and do whatever I say. If you don't do what I tell you, I have no power." Through this, the warrior learned that fear could be respected and heard without being obeyed. The result of not causing harm is experiencing fundamental well-being of body, speech, and mind. The well-being of body is like a mountain—a lot happens on it, but it remains still. The well-being of speech is like a lute without strings—there's no compulsion to fill every silence. The well-being of mind is like a mountain lake without ripples—everything can be seen clearly. As we practice not causing harm, we develop a way of life centered on staying awake, slowing down, and noticing our patterns without judgment.

Chapter 5: Opening to the World Without Resistance

Hopelessness might seem like a strange foundation for spiritual practice, but in the Buddhist tradition, it represents a profound turning point. The Tibetan phrase "ye tang che" describes a state of being "totally tired out" or "completely fed up." This exhaustion with our endless strategies for securing happiness marks the beginning of genuine spiritual transformation. When we finally give up hope that there's somewhere better to be or someone better to be, we can relax with where and who we are. Many of us live with the belief that if we just do the right things, follow the right practices, or please the right people, we'll be taken care of. This theistic mindset assumes there's always a hand to hold, always a babysitter available when needed. Nontheism, by contrast, means relaxing with ambiguity and uncertainty without reaching for protection. It means recognizing that we can't count on anything external to save us. The first noble truth of Buddhism states that suffering is a natural part of life. What a relief to hear this truth! When we feel pain, it doesn't mean we've done something wrong. Yet we typically respond to suffering by trying to fix it, believing we can tone our experience down or liven it up. As long as we're addicted to hope, we'll continue suffering. Hope and fear are two sides of the same coin. Both arise from feeling that we lack something—from a sense of poverty that prevents us from simply relaxing with ourselves. Rather than letting negativity get the better of us, we can acknowledge our difficult feelings without judgment. We might feel like "a piece of shit," but instead of being squeamish, we can take a good look. What is its texture, color, and shape? This compassionate investigation allows us to drop the hope that there's a better "me" who will emerge someday. We learn to work with what is, rather than waiting for things to improve. The author describes a revealing moment on an airplane when a man next to her kept taking tranquilizers. When asked if he was nervous, he replied, "No, not now, but I think when I get home I'm going to be." This illustrates how we grab for comfort when we anticipate discomfort. Hope is the basis for this grabbing, while hopelessness allows the courage to relax with groundlessness. Death anxiety underlies much of our discontent. As Zen master Suzuki Roshi said, "Life is like getting into a boat that's just about to sail out to sea and sink." Yet we resist acknowledging our mortality. We ward off reminders of death, adding our own style to natural occurrences. Some of us sit stoically bleeding, some get hysterical, and others apply designer Band-Aids—but whatever our style, it's not simple. Can we return to the bare bones of experience without resistance? Giving up hope doesn't mean giving up. Rather, it encourages us to stick with ourselves, make friends with ourselves, and not run away. When we totally experience hopelessness—giving up all hope of alternatives to the present moment—we can develop a joyful relationship with our lives that acknowledges the reality of impermanence and death.

Chapter 6: Developing Loving-Kindness Toward Yourself

Maitri—developing loving-kindness and unconditional friendship with ourselves—is at the heart of Buddhist practice. From childhood, we're told something is wrong with us, with the world, with everything. We develop habits of trying to improve things because we perceive problems everywhere. But maitri offers a different approach: instead of trying to solve problems or become better people, we give up control and let our concepts and ideals fall apart. People sometimes confuse this practice with self-improvement or self-aggrandizement. However, maitri isn't about patting ourselves on the back saying "You're the greatest" or "Everything will be fine." It's a process by which self-deception is skillfully and compassionately exposed until no mask can hide us anymore. We're not trying to solve problems or become better—we're giving up control entirely and allowing concepts to dissolve. The author distinguishes between two Tibetan words for mind: sem and rikpa. Sem refers to discursive thoughts, the endless chatter that reinforces our self-image. Rikpa means "intelligence" or "brightness"—the unfabricated wisdom mind that's always present behind our planning and worrying. Whenever we stop talking to ourselves, rikpa is there. Meditation helps us experience the spaciousness of rikpa rather than being consumed by the barking dogs of sem. The author shares the story of a friend who suffered from nightmares about being chased by monsters through a dark building. The friend would wake up screaming after repeatedly trying to escape. When asked what the monsters looked like, she realized she didn't know because she was always running away. In her next nightmare, she summoned the courage to stop running and face them. The demons stopped in front of her, began jumping up and down, and appeared less like monsters and more like cartoon drawings. Gradually, they faded away, ending her nightmares. This story illustrates how facing our personal demons—whether shame, jealousy, abandonment, or rage—can transform our relationship with them. We often escape through acting out or numbing ourselves, but we can learn to meet our fears directly. The author suggests that if life is indeed a dream (as some Buddhist teachings propose), we might as well spend it looking at what scares us rather than running away. The way to dissolve resistance to life is to meet it face-to-face. When we feel resentment because a room is too hot, we can meet the heat and feel its fieriness. When we're cold, we can feel the iciness. When rain makes us want to complain, we can feel its wetness. Cutting our expectations for a cure is a gift we can give ourselves—there is no cure for hot and cold, which will continue forever, like the tides of the sea or day and night. Being preoccupied with self-image is like wearing a black hood in a field of wildflowers or earplugs among singing birds. Practicing loving-kindness toward ourselves illuminates the darkness of difficult times and helps us appreciate the world's richness that has been there all along.

Chapter 7: Working with Difficult Emotions

When strong emotions arise, our instinct is often to fan the flames. Instead of sitting with uncomfortable feelings, we panic. We weave our thoughts into elaborate stories that intensify our emotions. Rather than experiencing the openness that emerges when things fall apart, we enlarge our feelings and "march them down the street with banners" proclaiming how terrible everything is. The traditional Buddhist teaching identifies four maras, or obstacles, that show how we habitually become confused and lose confidence in our basic wisdom. Understanding these patterns can help us transform our relationship with difficult emotions and situations. The first mara, devaputra mara, relates to seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. When we feel embarrassed, awkward, or uncomfortable, we frantically try to escape the sensation. The author likens this to being shot with an arrow and, instead of allowing it to transform into a flower, running away in fear. By recognizing how we try to escape in the face of pain, we can open our hearts and reconnect with our basic wisdom mind. The second mara, skandha mara, describes how we react when the rug is pulled out from under us. When our world shatters and we feel lost, our immediate response is to recreate our solid sense of self as quickly as possible. Trungpa Rinpoche called this "nostalgia for samsara." Instead of allowing ourselves to experience the openness of not knowing, we rush to rebuild our identity, like Michelangelo chiseling ourselves out of marble. The third mara, klesha mara, involves using strong emotions to keep ourselves ignorant. When uncomfortable feelings arise, we often amplify them rather than simply letting them be. What begins as an open space becomes "a forest fire, a world war, a volcano erupting." By understanding how we use emotions to deny uncertainty and regain ground, we can begin to soften toward ourselves and develop compassion for all beings. The fourth mara, yama mara, relates to fear of death. Ironically, what we consider a good life—having everything together, feeling like a good person with good qualities—is actually a form of death from an awakened perspective. Seeking security, comfort, and confirmation closes us off from the freshness of life. To be fully alive means being continually thrown out of the nest, experiencing each moment as completely new. The maras aren't enemies to be conquered but teachers that show us who we are and what is true. They point the way to being completely awake by teaching us to let go, to let ourselves die moment after moment, at the end of each out-breath. When we wake up, we can live fully without seeking pleasure and avoiding pain, without recreating ourselves when we fall apart, and without using emotions as shields against reality. Working with difficult emotions requires us to stop running away from the immediacy of our experience. Rather than treating our emotional challenges as problems to solve, we can view them as opportunities to wake up to the fundamental nature of reality. By acknowledging our reactions to life's arrows and swords, we can transform them into flowers—sources of wisdom and compassion.

Summary

Throughout this exploration of embracing uncertainty, we've discovered that the very moments we habitually avoid—those times of fear, pain, and groundlessness—offer our greatest opportunities for awakening. By learning to stay present with whatever arises, we develop the courage to face life directly and the wisdom to see beyond our habitual patterns. As Pema Chödrön reminds us, "The most heartbreaking thing of all is how we cheat ourselves of the present moment." When we cling to hope of a better future or fear of what might come, we miss the vividness and richness available right now. The practices shared in this book—cultivating intimacy with fear, opening to groundlessness, practicing non-aggression, and developing loving-kindness—provide a complete path for navigating life's challenges with an open heart. Rather than adding more depression, discouragement, or anger to what's already present in the world, we can learn to relate sanely with difficulty. Begin today by identifying one situation where you habitually run away or shut down. Instead of following that pattern, pause and breathe into the discomfort. Notice what happens when you stay present without grasping or rejecting. This simple practice, repeated over time, can transform your relationship with uncertainty and reveal the wisdom that has been there all along.

About Author

Loading...

Pema Chödrön

Read more