Even with over 20 years of meditation practice, I recently re-discovered just how attached I am to my face. Yes, the pun is that we are all attached to our faces—they are part of our heads. However, what the pun insinuates but doesn't explore is just how emotionally attached I am to my face. Some recent surgery showed me the hidden extent of it.
As I attempt to faithfully see everything as practice, being self reflective, looking over and over at my mind and its habits, I kind of got around seeing this particular fondness for my face as an attachment. I see an aging face for sure—which requires some getting used to—but it has been a surprise to discover what I thought was a simple, unassuming, and perfectly normal preference was underneath a definite attachment in disguise.
This most recent crack in my human veneer came in the form of more surgery (I’ve lived through at least 21 so far), this time in my mouth, which left me at least (hopefully) temporarily, looking like someone else. When a friend suggested it was worse looking to me than anyone else, I laughed (carefully covering my mouth). When someone suggested no one would notice or care, I couldn't help but say that I didn't think they might not feel that way if it were their face!
Almost everyone has a body part or physical area of their body that they like the best—hair, hands, legs—and mine was always my smile. I have one of those big, wide, bright smiles. The unsettling part of liking my teeth and smile is that I’ve long had a fear of falling and breaking my teeth. When I was young, a friend of mine fell while ice-skating and her tooth went through her lip and broke. The thought of that turned my stomach. When I learned to ski I was petrified of falling down the slope at high velocity and landing on my face breaking my teeth. So while I skied a little, I didn’t pursue it with any vigor.
About 10 years ago I had a root canal—this was after having only had a single cavity my whole life. A few weeks before I felt anything erupting, I had a prophetic dream that my tooth was a green mushy aloe plant, which after the pain of the infection, made perfect sense as an image. It was shocking to have work done in my mouth, but at least my smile didn’t suffer.
Fast-forward 12 years. I was in France when the root of the tooth on which I had the root canal snapped. I had taken a bite of celery and pop. A dentist pulled the tooth and put it temporarily back in with a short pin. I could barely breathe thinking it would come out. And, of course it did, after I moved to Paris. And, of course it had to be the one dinner and day of being a tourist with a friend visiting from New York.
I located a dentist who spoke decent English, and had a replacement tooth made. Suffice it to say that it was not comfortable or aesthetically pleasing, but, I rationalized, I was in Paris, didn’t know more than two or three people, so who would care? You know the reputation of the French and their teeth, and I was there to have the experience, and to write, so most of my time was spent writing alone, with a few hours each day going to museums or wandering solitarily around the city.
Even though no one else cared for a moment about my appearance, I continued to examine my feelings about it—what I was willing to expose, what I wanted to be private and secret—and I got to seeing just how attached I was/am to my face. I was living the example of avidya (delusion), thinking I was my face. I was a prime example of raga, having attachment to my looks, and also dvesa, having an aversion to how I looked. I was the walking textbook for what some of the Yoga Sutras cautioned against!
A couple of months later, I moved to London. There I found a cosmetic dentist who had the nicest office I had ever seen, with beautiful young women in white serving tea off of Haviland porcelain teacups with silver spoons on the side. He put an implant in my mouth and I was ecstatic when, after the swelling went down I looked like myself again, finally! I enjoyed London tremendously, especially feeling myself again and being able to speak the language. When it was time to go home, I returned to New York with renewed vigor and the excitement of being back.
Not more than a month later, the implant became infected and had to be extracted. I was devastated. I worked at being with what was—which was anger, sadness, and blame. Although I knew I had a choice as to how I was feeling, I was caught in a tangle and really having difficulty letting go. In Buddhism this is called upadana, which means clinging. I was indeed clinging to how I used to look.
With old age and sickness close on my coat tails, I realized that I had better relax about this a little. I knew that if I didn’t, I would be suffering non-stop from here on out. I really don't want to suffer any more than is absolutely necessary! There's what's called optional suffering in Buddhism, and I saw how I was adding to that pile.
I had a temporary tooth made; it not only looked temporary, but it sang of “being made.” I tried to hide it, and my smile got smaller. Even though I still used my smile, I rarely let the extent of my entire mouth widen in public, and only to a select few friends would I smile normally, or only when it was dark.
I continued to travel and to teach about awareness, about suffering, about meeting what is, and I honestly kept living my messages to the best I was able. I knew in my heart that with time, I would accept what was going on physically more and more, and I did. Slowly.
I moved to California and began to settle in. I was ready to address the possible recovery of my smile with yet another dental surgeon. I developed faith in her, and the time had come to try again, repair the damage, and move on.
The surgery was five hours instead of the planned two, and afterward, I was ill, weakened, swollen, in pain. I hid in my home and read novels, many of them. I took pain meds, slept and barely ate, and didn’t leave my house. This went on for a month. The healing was so slow that my mouth wasn’t ready to accept a (new) temporary tooth—the proteins put into my jaw to re-build bone and the re-arranging of gum left my mouth and face incredibly swollen and painful. Now though, it was show time: I was to go on a retreat and I still had no (front) tooth. I weighed it out, I didn’t want to let anyone I didn’t know see the gap in my mouth, but I also didn’t want to miss the precious opportunity to be on silent retreat, which had always renewed me and has been a refuge.
I went to the retreat. I rarely opened my mouth. There were a couple of times we were asked to speak, and I either didn’t or put my hand over my mouth. During the meditation periods especially, I walked directly into my prideful fire. I was roasting in it; it was burning me and I only had tears to quench the heat. I faced my face and my pride over and over and over again. Sometimes with sorrow, other times with self -pity, and occasionally with anger. But I knew enough about practice to keep doing it no matter what. I didn’t run from my internal pain, even though I metaphorically ran from looking at anyone else to avoid being looked back at. I wanted to disappear physically, but to appear mentally and emotionally.
We all have our little pockets of shadow. Most everyone has a bit of something that hasn't been aired out, and spiritual practice is about finding those crevasses and filling them up with the light of awareness—no matter how slowly, or when, in your lifetime. Working with what is means just that, and life certainly does pitch some fastballs. Not all catches are graceful, but practice shows us that we have a choice about how we feel about things, and that we can pick up and try again.
I don't wish these kinds of lessons on anyone, but for me there have been gems in each one of these small traumas, and at this point I know no matter how difficult something might be, or how much I initially think I can't take it, I do and can, and will. The Yoga Sutras says:
“ II.33 Upon being harassed by negative thoughts, one should cultivate counteracting thoughts.” —translated by Edwin Bryant
(See Cultivating the Opposite for info on pratipaksha bhavanam or cultivating counteracting thoughts.)
And so I re-focus and re-adjust. I'm about to go out now, face forward, smiling inwardly. I've decided that although I still very much care about how I look, it won't prevent me from doing what I want and what is important. This has been about my face, but it is really about what has surfaced in front of my face and facing many unpleasant things. And I've been shown that there is a life that I still want to live in front of me. Optional suffering excluded.
Jill Satterfield is the founder of Vajra Yoga + Meditation, a synthesis of yoga and Buddhism that combines meditation, yoga and contemplative practices. Named “one of the 4 leading yoga and Buddhist teachers in the country” by Shambhala Sun Magazine, Jill has instigated mindful and creative educational programs for over 28 years.
She is also the founder and Director of the School for Compassionate Action: Meditation, Yoga and Educational Support for Communities in Need, a not-for-profit that trains teachers, psychologists and health care providers to integrate mind and body practices into their professions. SCA also provides classes to people in chronic pain, with illness, those suffering from PTSD, and at-risk youth. Jill teaches workshops internationally, is a faculty member of Spirit Rock Meditation Center’s Mindfulness for Yoga Training and the Somatic Training in Marin, California, and is a guest teacher for many other training programs. To find out more about Jill, visit her website vajrayoga.com.
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