Loving-kindness meditation
One the most powerful Buddhist meditations is the one called loving-kindness. There are many variations but one that I like involves bringing to mind someone who makes you smile or whom you care about and thinking about the love you have for them and the love you have received from them and given them. The idea is to generate an awareness of this energy we call love, which is always available to us.
Then you say these phrases silently:
May you be happy
May you be peaceful
May you be free
In case the person is suffering perhaps from a physical disease, the loss of a loved one, estrangement from a loved one, the loss of a job, etc. this modification has been found to be helpful by many people:
May you have moments of happiness each day
May you have moments of peace each day
May you have moments of freedom from suffering each day
Difficulties with my father
Because I’ve had a challenging and difficult relationship with my father, who recently died, one year I decided to practice this meditation with him in mind for an entire year.
My father was almost always angry when I was young, and my siblings and I have talked about the physical and verbal abuse. As we got older, we realized that he suffered from PTSD from his many experiences in WW2, and that helped us to develop some compassion and forgiveness towards him.
Even though I knew he loved me and was proud of me, as an adult I received a lot of verbal abuse because he was a very conservative Republican and I was the only liberal among his four children. It infuriated him that I canceled out his vote every election. I learned over time never to bring up politics, though he frequently would.
Loving-kindness meditation for a year
About 10 years ago after one such tirade on the phone, and we had said goodbye, I had reached my limit. I said to my wife "you know I’m not going to share a tear when that son of a bitch dies" My wife simply said, "you might wanna sit with that," meaning bring that hurt and anger into my meditation. So I did. For the next year every time I meditated I included my dad in the loving kindness meditation: Dad, I wish you moments of happiness each day. Dad, I wish you moments of peace each day. Dad, I wish you freedom from suffering.
Of course I never told my dad I was doing this. He was not terribly thrilled that I had converted to Buddhism. However during our occasional phone calls I noticed a shift. I was less reactive and my responses to his outbursts were coming more from a place of compassion and were more measured, like "Dad this is not getting us anywhere. Can we talk about something else?"
More compassion and tenderness
Sometime after this we had a family reunion to celebrate his 90th birthday. He was still pretty angry and abusive. My two sisters and I decided upon an intervention. As my dad and I were casually talking, I was monitoring my breath and reminding myself of my intentions in this conversation. Then I brought up the subject. This is how the conversation went:
"Dad, you’ve been angry and upset a lot and we understand that: you can't golf anymore, you’re going blind and deaf, and you’re living in an assisted living center. That would be hard for any of us.”
He acknowledged this with a nod.
"Dad, what could we do to help?" I asked.
"I don’t know," he stated flatly.
"What if I called you more often?"
"I don’t like to talk on the phone and I don’t like to talk for a long time so I don't think that would work," he responded.
"What if we said that it would only be a half hour? Would you like that?" I offered.
"Yes I would," he said after a moment’s pause.
"How often would you like me to call?" I asked.
"Well not every week," he stated firmly.
I proposed, "how about every other week?"
He paused and said gently that he would like that.
So then instead of calling him only whenever I felt guilty, I began calling him every other week and continued this for the next six years until he died in February. We would talk often about sports and about how my children and his great-granddaughter were doing.
Sometimes he would bring up politics and often start ranting. I would let him rant for a little bit, calm my breath as he was talking, and remind myself of my intention to meet his anger not with my own anger or irritation, but with love and kindness.
A couple years later, my sister who lived close to him was able to persuade him to begin taking an antidepressant. He steadfastly denied that he was depressed, With her doctor's help she said the medication would help take an edge off his anger and anxiety. He agreed.
While I am not a big fan of the pharmaceutical industry, in my dad's case it made a big difference. Over the next several years, our weekly conversations were actually pleasant. He would even catch himself at times in the middle of a rant, and the rants became much less frequent.
When he died, I did shed tears and even wrote an obituary in the local paper. While here were certain arenas we never me on, I am grateful for the work we both put into the relationship that developed and grateful for the practice that enabled me to see him more clearly, more compassionately.