This has nothing to do with me

Susan Piver joins Cave of the Heart and answers five questions on self trust

In today’s magical interview with Susan Piver, we’ll explore…

• How a quiet life can be both a blessing and a curse

• 3 steps Susan takes to begin writing: ground, path, and fruition

• How to pass on teachings in a way that honors those standing behind you

• Containment as the first rule of magic

• The cross section of “nothing to do with me” and “couldn't happen without me”

… and so much more. You will love it, I’m sure. Watch or read below:

Amanda Hinton

Well, hello, everybody. Welcome to Cave of the Heart, an interview series where writers trust fall into the depths of inner knowing, creativity, and the craft of writing. Today, I have the honor, truly an honor and gift to be speaking with Susan Piver.

Susan is the Buddhist teacher and New York Times bestselling author of many books. And if you were to visit my home, you would see them on my bookshelf back here with my other treasures. Susan is the founder of the Open Heart Project, which is an online meditation community of about more than 20,000 members. It's grown so much since we first connected. I first heard Susan speak rather auspiciously at a marketing conference. You spoke about mindfulness and communication. And as they say, the Dharma found me that day.

It was a very good day for me. There are so many things about the gifts that have come to my life from Susan's teachings and writing. But I want to share briefly before we start our conversation that Susan is quite an innovative and imaginative person whom I enjoy learning from on the sidelines of the gifts that she brings to the world. So I'm hopeful today that our conversation gives everyone watching or who might read the transcript alternatively a glimpse into that imagination. So welcome, Susan. I'm so glad to have you here.

Susan Piver

I am so happy to be here, it's nice to see you again. And what a lovely introduction and everything about it. Thank you. Thank you so much.

Amanda

Well, the way the Cave of the Heart is kind of structured is we've got different themes we like to explore, and a lot of it typically resonates with writers, but I find that the more that we open the invitation, also a lot about creativity. And so I want to open that door to you because—yes, you're a very wonderful writer—but you have this expansive creativeness and creativity as well. So one of the places I love to hear from people and typically have such a lovely time hearing from writers is, I love to find out a little bit about you as a child. Were you a chatterbox, as it were? Were you quiet? Did you keep to yourself? What was that like,  sort of those first inklings of expression? And how did those show up for you?

Susan

It's such a sweet question. I was not a chatterbox. I was like a stone. I was like, what the hell is going on here? I don't know what anyone wants from me. I dunno what you people are talking about. Yeah, I was very, very shy. And very reluctant to say anything. At the same time, I guess I thought I had things to say because I started writing very young. And I remember I was in first grade, but that's really, that’s really little—six, I guess. Maybe seven.

But anyway, we had an assignment to write about something. I cannot remember what it was. And our regular teacher was gone. We had a substitute teacher. And she pulled me aside and said, “This is really good.”

That changed my life. Thank you, Miss Mayon. Oh, that turned out to me. That changed everything. I was like, what? Because I had no sense of being reflected, having anything reflected back to me. And that was great. And then I just wrote things for myself, wrote stories for myself. And I continued to be very, very quiet.

Amanda

Otherwise, do you feel like that helps shape some different way of observing in the world—that quietness or did it feel good to be quiet?

Susan

When you're a kid, you don't know that there's anything different. So to me, it just was like: “This is what life is like.” And in terms of my future creative output, that falling back into being quiet has been a blessing and a curse. So the blessing part is no one's paying attention to you anyway. So I just say whatever I want. No one's gonna listen. So look, I have a whole big open free space for me. No one else is in here with me.

And the curse is no one else is in here with me. Yeah, no, one is really paying attention. So it doesn't really matter. And no matter how much evidence I get to the contrary, including your lovely, thoughtful words. And I believe you, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. There's still a part of me that goes, “I don't know who she's talking about.” So it leaves me in a kind of perpetually unformed state, which has its positives and its negatives. Does that make sense?

Amanda

Yes, I feel it's very resonant. That sometimes it seems there's a voice that says, “It's still just me inside. It's just still me.” And I think that even was part of what planted the seed for this series is I can write and I can give and try to express a self. But where do I find what it is? There's a luminous emptiness that I'm not quite sure I've made friends with yet. I think I am still trying.

Susan

What do you think it would look like if you had made friends?

Amanda

I feel I might write differently. I mean, my writing might become a different kind of tool, perhaps, rather than self-shaping, trying to shape a self that I feel I can offer.

Susan

Well, if I understand correctly, in the Buddhist view, the only thing that's doing the writing is the luminous emptiness. Something to think about anyway.

Amanda

Oh, that really touched me. Sorry guys, I'm already crying.  It's OK ... our readers are great, they'll understand...

Was there a point in your childhood where you felt a sense of audience, where all of a sudden it wasn't just "my writing" inside? Do you have a sense if that happened in your childhood or if it was much later into your adulthood?

Susan

It never happened. As far as I can tell. No, as far that I can tell. It happens for a moment. If I give a talk... I was lucky enough to write a book once that was very successful. All these accolades, you know, not even accolades, but just money and well, this is clearly a conventional success. And I still felt like I don't know what that is. I don't. Yeah… you know conventional success is better than conventional failure, though. Right?

Amanda

Yes. Well, I think holding that, you know, what is it that comes from within, it kind of leads into one of the next questions, which is how do you recognize when something or someone is a positive influence in that process? I feel like sometimes that the word "positive" gets people stuck. And I like to think of it as when a barrier is just removed, and you just feel that openness. What changes inside you? Does that luminous emptiness have a different quality for you?

Susan

That's a great question. I'm thinking, and I have the questions right behind me. So for whatever reason, what comes to mind, as you were asking... is that I write self-helpy books or books about Buddhism, relationships and so on. And so one would think, “Well, these are meant to be helpful to other human beings.” And sure, I really hope they are. But that's not why I do it. And I care, but I don't really care. I mean, I totally care but what I really care about are the people who taught me these things. And now I'm gonna cry.

And how can I honor them?

Because I have been given the most extraordinary gifts of teachings. And I don't know how or why I got to be taught by such great people. But my whole work life as a teacher and a writer is: How do I offer what I've been given? How do I give that to others in a way that honors the people who are standing behind me? And that's the whole gig.

So it's easy to recognize the positive moments and that is a good word for it because certain teachings you get and—you've had this experience too, I'm sure—where you're like, "Wait a minute ... nobody ever said that! Now this whole thing makes sense!” Or “I do not understand at all, but I know it's true.” That's what we look for: this quality of, "I knew that, but I didn't know I knew it." And when you hear the teachings for you, that’s the sense you get. “I already knew it. I didn’t know I knew it. I just didn’t know I knew it.” And then we have something extremely valuable to go from.

Amanda

Do you have any sense that that's happened with the books you've been able to write? That there was just a moment for you of resonance, of knowing that this is what I should set my talents to next? Or is it a little different for teachings?

Susan

Each book is different. And I mean, they have a different personality and a different process and different set of irritations and discoveries. But if I understand the question, the books themselves arise in their own way. And somehow, and I'm sure you and people who are listening or watching know what this means. “OK, that's it. That's the right thing.” I didn't know I was going to say that because you never know what you're going say. And I don't understand how people outline things, and I don’t understand that whole thing. Some people it really serves them for whatever reason and that’s great.

And it's not a chaos thing either. But something starts to form when you write on good days. And the only thing you have to do is start. And that's the hardest part. But sometimes you start, and it goes. And then the next day you may come back and go, “That is really great.” Or you might come back and go, "That's horrible." Next day, you come and think the opposite, but that it is OK. Something living has been generated. It's good.

Amanda

I really relate with the instinct to want to outline, and I've learned over time for me that's how I flush everything out that is not supposed to go in. Because the generative feeling is where something else is coming out, that isn't reliant on me to be the smartest or the most clever or luckiest to have gotten access to resources—it's something from within. I think I jumped a little bit to our next question with that. Is there any more shape you'd like to share around what kind of builds around you when you get an idea for a new essay or project? Or is it mainly that you feel this sort of energy, for lack of a better term, kind, of building on it itself?

Susan

The latter. I feel a kind of energy building it. Sometimes I'm right, sometimes I am wrong. But when it comes to structure as a long-time student of Buddhism, Buddhism itself offers extraordinary structures in terms of learning and creating. For example, if I may, learning is considered to happen according to threefold logic—what it's called in Buddhism—threefold logic, some kinds of Buddhism, [though] not every kind. And threefold logic is ground, path, fruition.

Everything that you want to do: There's a ground. There's a foundation. Where do you start? Then there is a path. What's your next step, and what is the step after that? And then there’s a fruition that you can imagine or hope for or discover.

But when I sit down to write something, I often think, “Well, what is the ground?” Which for me may be, “What do I really want to say? Oh, this helped me with the relationship thing or this. I found this teaching so valuable. I wonder if I know any stories that could illustrate it?”

And then the path would be, “What are those stories? Let me write them down. And let me see: how does that retrofit?” And then the fruition is usually discovered. You know, of course, I want the fruition to be helpful. It's true, it's, you know, honest. But what is the fruition for me? What happened from writing this? And what is the fruition possibly for a reader?

And so ground, path and fruition are always very helpful tools. And anyway, Buddhism is sort of riddled with these lists and structures that can be—that's what I'm looking for—fitted into creative projects, according to me. So I'll take it with a grain of salt.

Amanda

I think I am smiling because I remember a moment—I think I'd been practicing for six or seven years. And I just went, “Oh, it's my mind. My mind is what I'm bringing fully to my writing. And the more that I can work with it and understand its qualities, that comes through.” And I remember feeling very silly, but it had taken, as you said earlier, that quality of “Oh I didn't know that I know. I knew, but I didn’t know. It was just finding its way to whoever could know it.”

Susan

That's great. And it's a great example of the ground, the path and fruition being the same thing. The ground is your mind. The path is your mind. The fruition is your mind. And there's something very harmonious and powerful about that, I posit.

Amanda

I'll join you in that!

Susan

Okay. We'll close it together. Co-positors. Thank you.

Amanda

So, one of the elements that really drove me to want to keep asking people questions about this potential place called the Cave of the Heart is, I feel I need reminders all the time of how to find trust back inside myself. And so I tried not to make every single question about trust and deep diving into trust, but I didn't grow up with that being planted inside me—this idea that you could trust the self.

And I'm smiling because I see where we're going next in our questions and I am wondering if there were any habits or beliefs that you had to let go of or adopt to more deeply trust your own writing process. Sometimes trust in writing feels very loaded to me. But I also feel like if I can't trust what comes on to the page to let it be, not that it's resplendent every time, then what am I doing? I can let it out. So I love to hear from people about what had to go. What took its place?

Susan

Yeah, also a great question. So, I have a two-part answer. One is: It's really helpful to get older. And you give up thinking that there's any other way to do it other than the way you do. I shouldn't have a writing schedule. I should have this. Over time I've been, “Well, I don't… maybe, but that's not gonna work. I can't do it that way.” So I've come to trust (because I don't have a choice) that the way I do it, is the way I'm going to do it. And I have thought countless times over the last 20 years or so: “What the hell am I doing?” I was going around in circles, like, I'm not doing anything. Every day kind of feels like, what? But then I look back and I've written 11 books.

Amanda

Yes, you have.

Susan

I started it in my community. If you said, “How did you do that?” I'd be like, “I don't know.” Hey, I mean, I'm not trying to be a genius or humble even—I just learned to trust that I am not going to go from step one to step two to step three, to get here. I want to go here, I have to go like this. It's going to be circular. So do I trust that? Well, there's nothing else, no other way. Sure. And I also trust, yeah, don't know why it is that way, but whatever. Whatever.

I also trust that feeling in writing when you think simultaneously, this has nothing to do with me. "Whatever I'm writing: I don't know where it came from, it has nothing to do with me, and could not happen without me." There's this little place, little cross section of “nothing to do with me” and “couldn't happen without me” that is so magical. As a teacher and a writer, that's my favorite feeling. This has nothing to do with with me, and I have to be here, it has to, it couldn't happen without me. I'll just say it for a third time. So I've really come to trust that that's kind of the best creative space to in. What do you think?

Amanda

Yes, as you're describing it, I feel that ping of recognition that, “Oh, yes,” and it usually ties back to something maybe I wish hadn't happened in my past, but I realize that it has transformed, too. And it's part of the vessel I create inside myself to let something come through, if something's going to come through. But it also doesn't require me to live and to be accessible to others. And now that you frame it that way, I realize that's how I know to trust it and just play with it some more. I don't think I quite have figured out. I'm building my sandbox every day to play in and so it's very refreshing when you reflect it against more rigid, even highly capitalistic sort of structures, where writers find themselves. Where like "This is now completely on you every day," just as for an example. That "this book must succeed because you are the only person in the whole world who must carry it forever now." And I think that was something that Buddhism gave to me as a gift was “It can be carried.” And when I can feel that “carriedness,” it's easier to play in this sandbox.

Well, as we're wrapping up our time together, I was wondering if there is any surprising or unlikely resource that you turn to, again and again, to bolster your writing life. I think it's nice to test it against what else is in my sandbox. What's in Susan's sandbox that she goes to to play with?

Susan

Well, I find that writing is obviously totally solitary, but other people are required, which is weird. So Julia Cameron, who wrote The Artist's Way and many other wonderful things, once said … I heard it in a talk. I never read it. But I was listening to a cassette. That's how long ago it was ... in my car. I pulled over and wrote it down. It was a cassette of a conversation between her and Natalie Goldberg who wrote Writing Down the Bones 25 years ago or something.

Anyway, she said the first rule of magic is containment.

And writing is a sort of magic because you start with nothing nothing and then hopefully you conjure something. And what did she mean by that? The first rule of magic is you need some kind of a container? So a deadline creates a container. So does sitting in a coffee shop for two hours by yourself writing; it creates a container. I'm gonna sit down, you're not gonna start playing word games on your computer, probably. You can do it. And then I teach meditation and writing retreats, and I have for probably 10 or 12 years. And I do it mostly for myself. Because if there's a container, we're gonna practice meditation from 9 to 10. We're going to have personal creativity time from 10 to 12:30, where you just sit in a room with everybody else, and you do your work, and then I'm going to make you lunch. And then we're going to repeat it.

And all I do, and I've done, like I say, for over a decade, at least so far, words come out. I am not teaching anybody how to write anything. I just say “Start. OK, now stop.” You need that container. So if any writer is like, “Why is it so hard? What do I need?” You know, it's very unlikely that it is a self-discipline problem only. Very likely you don't have the container and therefore you don't have magic.

Amanda

Find a container. That would make a very good essay about freedom to create the container you need, especially for people who maybe have been given that message of "I'm just lazy." Maybe not quite. But the concept of laziness is actually lazy — it's actually very lazy.

Susan

That is a great point. It's mathematically impossible for 90% of people who want to write to be too lazy to do so. But 90 percent of people claim that they are. So another little clue, and I'll keep this short, is once someone asked the great and controversial and amazing meditation master, now deceased, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, "What is our biggest fear?" And without hesitation, I wasn't there, but I heard the story. He said, “Here's a little illustration here: space. This is our big fear. It's space.” And when you sit down to write something, whether it's on the computer screen or notebook, this is what you see, and it sparks something primal in us. That is as likely to be fear as inspiration, let's say, because it opens a door, I don't know. I don’t know, opens the door to not knowing. And that scares us and it also is a great source of inspiration.

Amanda

I'm so grateful for our time and our chat today, Susan. It's occurring to me that I might include some information to the writing retreats you do. I feel like our readers might be interested in learning more about those. So if anybody's watching this, I'll put some links to how you create a meditation and writing retreat. That was great. Your description feels very resonant and reminds me of just some of the comments and discussion we have in our community around full acceptance and also I think I need a little nudge. How do I create that?

Susan

We all do and it's been a delight to talk with you too and your questions are so great. And I hope everyone who's listening, well I know everyone is listening benefits from the questions and hearing various people answer them.

Amanda

So I thank you too very much. All right. Thank you so much, Susan.

You can learn more about Susan’s writing and meditation retreats here. The next retreat will be held Oct. 16 - Oct. 20 in Austin, Texas.