The Inevitability of Unwanted Experiences
Here in Arendelle
The winters can be… well…
Let’s just say it’s not so very good
But even at this latitude
We’ll keep a happy attitude
Until we burn our final piece of wood
See, there’s a word we live by
To keep our feelings great
You don’t have this word in English
But allow me to translate
Hygge!
I suspect that some of you are singing along right now, and the rest of you are just confused.
If you are among the latter, those are opening lines of the second act of the Broadway musical version of Disney’s Frozen. They are sung by the character Oaken, the cheerful and ambiguously Nordic proprietor of Wandering Oaken's Trading Post & Sauna.
As Oaken points out, we don’t have a word in English for the Danish and Norwegian concept of hygge (roughly “HYOO-guh”), and thus he spends the next six minutes and six verses singing about what it is—comfortable, cozy, sitting by the fire with your cheeks all rosy—and what it isn’t—finding a spider in your shoe, having an annoying thing to do.
Lost in Translation
The song, Hygge, is a funny take on a fascinating concept: some things just don’t translate.
That matters, because the language we use not only describes our experiences, it shapes them, it bounds them, and it enables them.
To some extent, we cannot see, feel, or truly understand that which we cannot name, and in this way, people who speak different languages inhabit different realities.
Sometimes that gap results from simply not knowing the right word, and that’s why making your vocabulary bigger and learning new distinctions almost literally makes your world bigger. But sometimes it’s because we just don’t have a word in the first place.
Hygge is one of those, and thus, while I can comprehend every word of Oaken’s musical explanation, I have to accept that I probably don’t really get it.
Now, apply this same idea—that it’s nearly impossible to truly grasp the meaning of concepts that do not directly translate to your native tongue—to ancient languages that no one has spoken for a few centuries.
That is the challenge with a word like dukkha—a concept so central to Buddhist philosophy that misunderstanding it means misunderstanding an entire way of seeing the world.
What Is Dukkha?
Dukkha is Pali, the language from which we derive all our knowledge of Buddhism. I am tempted to say that dukkha is an opposite to hygge, but the truth is, I don’t really know, do I?
Dukkha is typically translated as “suffering.” In Buddhist philosophy, it is the first of the Four Noble Truths, which are the ancient Buddhist’s way of saying, “look, here’s the deal.”
The First Noble Truth: There is dukkha. There is suffering.
Definitely not hygge.
(If you’ve seen the show, you probably have Oaken and the chorus singing those words in your head right now. Sorry.)
But wait. If we can’t really grasp hygge with all of Denmark and Norway right there to explain it to us, what are the odds that we’re really grasping what dead Buddhists meant a couple thousand years ago in a language no one speaks anymore?
Not great. And most scholars agree that “suffering” is an expedient translation, but not a very accurate one.
Can we get closer?
The Inevitability of Unwanted Experiences
I recently heard what feels, to me, like a more fitting definition:
Dukkha is “the inevitability of unwanted experiences.”
Why belabor the semantics of this strange word? It’s not an effort to sell you on Buddhist philosophy. Rather, it is an effort to highlight an idea that shows up throughout history.
Beyond its centrality to Buddhist thought, it aligns with Stoic principles, and it is foundational to modern cognitive behavioral therapy.
When multiple thinkers from multiple cultures keep arriving at the same idea over thousands of years, for me it’s a good sign that they’re onto something important. It’s worth belaboring.
Want to understand something important about life? In their own way, all these diverse thinkers are saying the same thing: unwanted experiences are inevitable. It’s a bumpy road. There’s no way around it.
Sixteen Candles
The fact that something is inevitable does not make it easy, and this big idea of dukkha is on my mind partly because Martha and I are facing a lot of it over these next couple years.
It’s going to be challenging, but before you feel sorry for us, let me explain from the perspective of this new—and I think better—translation.
In our little family of two-legged and four-legged creatures, all birthdays happen in the first hundred days of the new year.
- The older of our two dogs, Ruby, just turned thirteen. And while she is still healthy and active, I know all too well that the decision to bring her into our lives was also a decision to have an inevitable experience that we do not want. If you have loved a pet, you know this.
- Our daughter is about to turn sixteen. This fall, she’ll be driving by herself, and while we are all excited about that, I do not want the experience of worrying about her safety on the road. I do not want the inevitable fear when she is late and doesn’t immediately return a call or text. I do not want to face the reality that I cannot always protect her.
- As she enters the back half of high school, fast-approaching is the day we will drop her off at college and return to an empty house. Just a couple more candles until that day arrives.
It is said that over a lifetime you get nineteen years with your children. On that day the first eighteen will be over. Those words hurt even to write. I do not want that experience.
No, I do not want any of those experiences. Yet it doesn’t feel quite right to call them suffering.
It is just the truth: life includes unwanted experiences, often embedded right there with the good. These were just a few examples. There will be many more.
Inevitably.
Two Arrows
Unwanted experiences impact us all day, every day like arrows loosed from the unpredictable quiver of life. They come in all sizes and the pain they inflict varies accordingly.
Some—the inconvenience of a flat tire—irritate like a splinter, forgotten as soon as it is removed. Others—the grief of a lost loved one—pierce our hearts and leave us struggling to heal.
Dodging all these arrows is impossible, and there is no armor that can protect you.
It is a second arrow, however, that turns the inevitable unwanted experiences that are dukkha into something that is much more akin to our English definition of suffering.
The second arrow is our reaction to being struck by the first.
- The first arrow is the reality that Ruby will not live forever. The second is my resistance to and anxiety regarding that difficult truth.
- The first arrow is the fact that children grow up, learn to drive, and go off into their own lives. The second arrow is my fear, worry, and imagination of the tearful goodbye.
- The first arrow is the critical feedback you received on your work. The second arrow is your downward spiral of self-doubt, and your resentment of your unfair boss.
- The first arrow is your customer’s decision to take the business elsewhere. The second arrow is your anger and sense of injustice at their choice.
That second arrow comes not from life, but from an archer who exists only in our own minds.
Good News / Bad News
In recognizing this, there is both good news and bad.
The bad news is, that inner archer fires those second arrows automatically, unconsciously, and relentlessly, and in truth the second arrow is just the opening volley. An endless barrage is possible.
But the good news is, unlike the inevitable first arrows of life, we have some control over the second (and third, and fourth, and nineteenth). We can learn to notice ourselves drawing the bow, and realize that we don’t have to release the string.
The process is simple (but not easy). When one of life’s inevitable arrows finds its mark:
- Notice the inner archer drawing back the bow. This requires mindfulness.
- Identify the arrow they have nocked. What is it? Anger? Resistance? Injustice? Defensiveness? Fear? Name it. This requires emotional self-awareness.
- Don't fire the second arrow! This requires impulse control.
- Too late? It’s okay. The inner archer is both fast and sneaky. Return to step one. Don’t fire a third. And absolutely don’t let the third arrow be self-judgement at your failure to stop the second. This requires self-regard.
- Practice for as long as life keeps launching its arrows (i.e., forever). This requires optimism and self-actualization.
Why is this sometimes frustrating process worth the effort? (And it IS frustrating—the fingers of my own inner archer’s hand are no doubt calloused from sustained fire.)
If we can learn to hold that second arrow, something else becomes just as inevitable: the experiences we do want.
The pain of the first arrow is inevitable, but the suffering that results from the second is optional.
If we can stop shooting back at ourselves long enough, that pain will fade and make room for the equally inevitable positive experiences of life—love, joy, growth, fulfillment, beauty, meaning, wonder, awe, contribution, friendship, and yes, even hygge (whatever that is).
Until next time,
Greg
