Sleeping in Security, Waking in Happiness

images-2 With apologies to Coleridge, behavior analysts are capable of “all things great and small.”  You might recall the story of Skinner covertly conditioning a hand waving response in a Freudian nonbeliever at a meeting in the psychology department at Harvard.  In case you haven’t heard it, Skinner was attending a faculty meeting when a guest psychoanalyst was criticizing behaviorism. Skinner wrote a note to the colleague sitting next to him, saying something like, “watch while I condition a hand-waving response.”  Each time the analyst gesticulated with his hand, Skinner smiled at him.  Sure enough, after a while, the analyst was waving his hands wildly.

If behavior analysts have the skills to covertly condition a hand waving response, teach a child with autism to talk, teach me how to tie my shoes (I need a refresher on this one), and keep people awake at nuclear power plants, then certainly we have the skillset to contribute to making the world a kinder, more peaceful place.

Behavior analysts, and psychologists in general, have often tried to extend their reach and apply their knowledge not only to the lives of one human at a time but to humanity as a whole.

Montrose Wolf, one of the pioneers and creators of the term “applied behavior analysis,” moved to Kansas primarily because it was there that he was given the opportunity to create solutions for problems of segregation and poverty.  Skinner, whose shoulders Wolf and other behavior analysts stood on, wrote “Beyond Freedom and Dignity” (and perhaps “Walden Two”) in order to address societal ills, and psychologists from nearly all disciplines have typically expanded their focus from the individual to society at large, often toward the waning years of their careers.

Not long ago, a conference entitled “Behavior Change for a Sustainable World” took place in Ohio; behavior analysts from around the world met to discuss how they could use their skills and knowledge to combat climate change and other threats to a sustainable world.

Most behavior analysts I know are overwhelmed with the challenges of helping even just a handful of children, as the rest of us are often bogged down daily with the tasks of caring for our families and ourselves.   So it is only for the purpose of inspiration that I present to you these thoughts:

22 years ago, while under house arrest, Myanmar’s democracy icon Aung San Suu Kyi won the Nobel Peace Prize, a prize she could not claim until just a year and a half ago.  When she finally appeared before the peace prize committee, she gave one of her typically extraordinary speeches.  (You can read it in its entirety here.)

When referring to the international plight of refugees, Suu Kyi said the following:

“Ultimately our aim should be to create a world free from the displaced, the homeless and the hopeless, a world in which each and every corner is a true sanctuary where the inhabitants will have the freedom and the capacity to live in peace.  Every thought, every word, and every action that adds to the positive and the wholesome is a contribution to peace… Each and every one of us is capable of making such a contribution.  Let us join our hands to try to create a peaceful world where we can sleep in security and wake in happiness.

Aung San Suu Kyi

Frances’ Mind Meld

Frances as a teenager in front of grandpa's store

Frances as a teenager in front of grandpa’s store

Nearly ten years ago, moments before my mother took her last breath, her eyes looked deeply into mine, we locked gazes, and I felt her passing the contents of her soul from her body to mine.   I did not feel torment, chaos, or even a sense of peace.  It just happened, in the space of a single breath.   It was, perhaps, less of a feeling than a knowing, though no words were spoken.

Perhaps it was just my imagination– some need to feel as though my mother died peacefully, that she could let go because now I could carry whatever weighed her down.   But if it were just imagination, the timing was rather extraordinary.  I felt the knowing, and she was gone.

I don’t talk to too many people about this experience, especially my in-laws in the Midwest, who wouldn’t say it out loud but would think that someone ought to tighten up those loose screws of mine.   It wasn’t until I read about a very similar experience, most likely in a Stephen Levine book, that I learned that what I experienced had a name:  it was called a “phowa moment.”

In some Buddhist traditions, “phowa” is viewed as the “transfer of consciousness at the moment of death.”   The transfer occurs through the top of the head, sometimes helped along by a specially trained assistant, into a “Buddha-field of one’s choice,” according to Wiki.  What exactly constitutes a Buddha-field is beyond me, but I suspect that I am not it. Then again, I always felt a bit like a Buddha in my mother’s eyes, so who knows?

Prior to my arrival at her house, my sister, brother and father lingered by her bedside, lovingly holding her hand, touching her forehead, and trying to console her as her heart gave out, her lungs filled with water, and she slowly drowned to death.  They told me she had been horribly fitful; no surprise there as my mother was a fighter and would not give in to anyone or anything easily.  By the time I arrived hours later she was much calmer, farther gone I suppose, her eyes scanning the room, locking gazes occasionally as she had always done.  She could not speak and was generally unresponsive, so still technically comatose.

I have always been somewhat disappointed by the fact that, although I felt a clear knowing that some sort of transfer occurred, and I do believe that that transfer somehow led to a release on my mother’s part, I never experienced any knowledge of specific content.   I wanted to know what went on inside her head, what her thoughts were, what her torments were.  I wanted her spirit to be free from fear, to take her fears away, just as mothers take on their children’s pain.  I wanted it to be something more familiar to me, something like a Vulcan mind meld, where I could hold inside of me the knowledge of someone else.   But perhaps that is not how the soul works.

Regardless of the words we attach to it, my mother certainly appeared to be at peace when she died, and I will never know if the moment when somehow I felt a passing through of something essential I am calling “soul” played a part in her finding that peace.  What I do know is that science tells us precious little about those moments, so what we are left with is a choice of what to believe.  And there, I am comforted only by the knowledge that her life on earth contained much joy but also a lot of suffering, and I trust that suffering is no longer.