A friend recently told me about Maitrī meditation. You focus your benevolent attention and intent toward four individuals: yourself, a loved one, a neutral one, and a hostile one. Immediately, a window of joy and serenity opens up inside me. I can’t wait to send something good to hostile individuals. It seems as though this will loosen many knots internally.
While doing a little bit of research, I discover these words in the Karaniya Mettā Sutta, the hymn of universal love:
“Just as with her own life
A mother shields from hurt
Her own son, her only child.”
How do I keep my shirt on?
Can’t she forget her mother already!
For me, it is not feasible to hear the term “mother” without thinking about my own. Can anyone else, for that matter?
I understand perfectly that some moms protect their children at the risk of their own lives. I’ve even felt that instinct when babysitting.
Nevertheless, like a red flag in my brain, the word “mother” triggers an alarm. A danger warning. I once ran into her on the street during a trip home, and a wedge of fear compressed my lungs.
That word also stirs up a feeling of immense injustice. Of mourning. Of shame, that I deserved such a mother.
Specifically, how could I benefit from the above-mentioned, splendid Maitrī meditation? I come up with the idea of modifying the text slightly. After giving myself permission to do so, I try wolf and wolf cub. Lioness and lion cub. No, that doesn’t work. Bear and bear cub. Yes.
“Just as with her own life
A bear shields from hurt
Her own bear cub, her only cub.”
Then it strikes me that in my mother’s first name, there is bear. In fact, it means “Heart of a Bear.” I think: how interesting. Connections are made within me, strands are rewoven. But when I check the etymology, I realize that I’ve remembered it wrong. It means “Harsh Bear.”
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