Realizing you are a liar is a practice of freedom.
Unveiling our unwillingness to examine what is really true.
When we lie, I believe it is because we are afraid of exposing something about ourselves.
I have a friend who works with a writer who constantly misses deadlines. At first, this wasn’t actually a big deal. My friend knew this about the writer, and course-corrected by giving them deadlines that were weeks prior to when my friend actually needed something turned in.
Yet challenges eventually arose between them. They emerged not because of the writer’s lateness but because the writer could not seem to accept this shortcoming about themselves. Instead of seeing it or acknowledging it, they wrote long emails full of excuses. Because of this, in my friend’s mind, the writer moved from “struggles with timeliness” to “pathological liar.” And, as you might imagine, the repeated problem damaged the relationship. (I wonder how much simpler it would have been if the writer just wrote “I’m late again” and left it at that!)
I do not write this to shame the writer. I am sure we can all empathize. Each of us has shortcomings we would rather not admit to others, unskillful habits we would rather hide from ourselves. But when we do this, our thinking is backward.
Lying comes from all the interferences we create to not actually tell a truth, truths we perceive will make us vulnerable if we name them.
The act of lying is deeply connected with vulnerability. The activist and playwright Eve Ensler framed this wonderfully when she wrote:
“I think the greatest illusion we have is that denial protects us. It’s a weird thing about truth; it actually protects you. What really makes you vulnerable is when you’re lying, because you know you’re going to get caught, even by your own mind. That you know you’re a liar.”
Many years ago I entered into a relationship with a teacher whose intelligence, commitment to the path, and no-nonsense outlook inspired me.
Over many years, we slowly developed an intimate relationship of trust. It was hard won, as there were many moments of distrust and challenge for both of us along the way. Our relationship, for example, seemed to work best when I agreed with whatever my teacher said. I did feel that I was an apprentice, and my role was to learn, so this felt okay at first. I became devoted and did everything I could to support and create a container for my teacher’s vision. I joyfully did anything that was requested or that I could intuit would be helpful. And my teacher often called me “son,” which, in the beginning, felt like a reward, and I enjoyed this familiarity.
I sensed, however, this created a difficult dynamic with my fellow peers; I experienced lots of sibling rivalry for the position of the “number-one son.” After a while, though, feeling prepared with a solid foundation on the path, I started to assert and express my own vision, which in the beginning was, at least on the surface, well received—but I felt there was something deeply displeasing below the surface. The more I developed my voice, the more the tension increased.
This continued for six years. We never spoke about the situation directly, and by not speaking from the heart, this lie of omission formed in the space between us. Our once flowing, meandering conversations and laughter became short and curt, factual conversations, and our eye contact diminished. It seemed the more I became differentiated, the wider and wider the gap became. I do not think either of us knew how to bridge the gap, and distrust grew.
In Japanese culture there is a word, ma, that describes the space between things. It is what makes Japanese art, architecture, and gardens so unique. So much attention is brought to the gap, to the pause, that you can really see the stone, the scroll, the tree, the shape of a branch. Without attention to the space between, there is no true beauty and life. This is what happened between my teacher and I: the ma was neglected through omission.
We had known how to relate to each other earlier, and we did not know how to relate to each other in this new place. We couldn’t adapt, and we couldn’t find a way to meet the space between us. Because of this our relationship, the bond we once had, broke. While this is profoundly sad for me, it does not discount the love, respect, and appreciation I still feel for my former teacher.
Sensei Dorothy Dai En Friedman, says, “It takes everything to be free.” We have to be willing to truly be in all the layers and discomfort together. With shared commitment, it is possible, and preciously rare. Both people need to be fully willing to get into the muck, cross the divides, and learn how to be together. When this happens, my experience is that a deeper intimacy and trust arises.
One person who exemplifies the refusal to lie to himself was the historical Buddha. This is partly what makes his story so inspiring.
I am sure you know people who went into certain careers because their parents wanted them to; “I’m a lawyer because my mom was a lawyer,” and so on and so forth. The Buddha’s dad was like that, too. He wanted his son to be what he (Dad) wanted him to be, instead of what he (Buddha) might want to be. He was a clan leader, which was kind of like a king. When the Buddha was born, his fortune was told. The oracles said that he would either be a great king, like his father, or a great spiritual leader. Well, his dad sure knew which one of those options he preferred, and he took great pains to make sure that his son was always distracted by some luxury or another and didn’t let him leave the walls of the palace, so he could not follow a spiritual path.
Eventually, the Buddha did leave the palace, and what he saw —suffering, frailty, sickness, and death—struck him to the core. It was the Buddha’s “oh, shit” moment. He could have gone back to the palace and lived out the rest of his days in pleasure, but he couldn’t ignore the truth of what he encountered. So, he walked away from the luxury and fantasy of palace life and faced the truth of what he experienced. It is through facing the truth before us that we can begin to develop trust in ourselves.
Let’s practice together.
To learn how to trust ourselves, to be who we are, it is essential to actually listen to what is true. From here, we can practice speaking what is too often concealed but what is actually happening in our lived experience. This is the practice of not-lying. The most challenging lie between people is the lie of omission—what we don’t say. And while we may be more familiar with the space the creates between ourselves and another, if we are not careful we can also lie to ourselves.
Lying can emerge from our unwillingness to examine what is really true. The Zen Peacemakers understand the precept of not-lying as listening and speaking from the heart. It is an invitation to stay connected to what is authentic and true for you, to ask yourself—and to be brave in hearing the answer—what am I concealing? What truth is not being shared?
What do you conceal from yourself about your life? How can you see and act in accordance with what is? How can you be more loving and brave in your relationships?
Spend time considering these questions and carry your reflections with you as you move through your days.
Let’s have a dialogue.
I’m curious.
In what ways have you noticed your relationships change when you became more honest and true to yourself? How did you manage and adjust to the changes that followed?
Please share your experiences and insights with the other readers in the comments below.
May you notice the spaces between and find the joy that comes with being true to who you are.
Koshin.
