The Wellspring of Joy

Envy may seem to be human nature, but deeper still is mudita, the innate delight in the well-being of others.

By Anne Cushman

We've probably all had moments that have shown us that happiness has virtually nothing to do with the external circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the state of our minds and hearts. We can be drinking margaritas on a Caribbean beach, totally miserable; we can be late for work and stuck in freezing sleet in a traffic jam on the George Washington Bridge, overflowing with bliss.

Lately, scientists have shown interest in just these kinds of phenomena, and they have confirmed what yogis have known for centuries: The mind can be systematically trained to generate joyful states. In a New York Times article published early last year, Daniel Goleman reported that people who were taught mindfulness meditation and did it regularly became dramatically happier, more energized, and less anxious than subjects in a control group—a change that was reflected in distinctive patterns of brain activity that were detected through MRIs and EEGs. Each of us seems to have what Goleman calls an emotional "set point"—a distinctive pattern of brain activity (and a corresponding mood) that we chronically tend toward and that is not affected much by external circumstances. Fortunately, science now confirms, regular contemplative practice can shift this emotional set point.

Look for the Good

So how can we use our asana practice to tap into our own wellspring of joy? One simple way is by what yoga teacher John Friend calls "looking for the good"—focusing not on what's wrong in our yoga poses (and our lives) but on what's right. We can let positive, pleasurable sensations move into the foreground of our awareness, allowing ourselves to savor the release in a tight psoas, the tingle in an arching spine, the throb of a sleepy thigh muscle coming to life. We can honor ourselves for our small accomplishments—even for the simple fact that we have shown up on our mats—rather than berating ourselves for the things we can't do.

Looking for the good doesn't mean that we deny an aching back or paste a happy face over a broken heart. Personally, I find I can't cultivate mudita—either on or off the mat—without first softening into a compassionate awareness of what's actually happening on all levels in my body, mind, and heart, including any fog of pain, jealousy, grief, anxiety, or anger. Only then can I invite to the forefront of my awareness the more joyful feelings—which may seem, at first, strangely less compelling than the difficult ones.

As Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh points out, even neutral experiences (the touch of the air on our skin, the fact that we have teeth to chew our food with and do not currently have a toothache) can be transformed into pleasant ones simply through the power of our attention. To encourage this transformation, I often begin my mudita practice by formally "counting my blessings," as my mother used to call it. In a silent inner litany, I say "thank you" for the magnificent gifts of a healthy body: lungs that breathe the cool, foggy air; a nose that smells eucalyptus leaves and banana muffins; eyes that see hummingbirds swooping outside my window; a tongue that has just savored a golden, juicy peach. I express gratitude for my friends, my family, my son riding his tricycle up and down my deck, the doe and fawn that wander through my yard, nibbling on the lower branches of a plum tree. I give thanks that bombs aren’t falling on my city, that tanks aren't smashing through the walls of my house.

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