Working with Anger

What should we do with our anger? It depends on what we mean when we say “anger.” It’s one of those words that cause a lot of confusion. Are we talking about a feeling? Or are we referring to our expression of that feeling? It helps to know what we’re talking about.

I learned something new about my anger in Portugal. Dee and I were on a cruise on the Douro River in Portugal, tours everyday through the beautiful wine country, learning lots of Portuguese history, all pretty new to me. One day, I managed to get Dee angry at me. I can’t remember now what I did, only that I didn’t think it warranted the anger. I get angry back, meaning I respond in an angry tone of voice.

The next day, waking, I can still feel my anger. It’s still there as I sit down to meditate on makeshift cushions in our tiny stateroom. It’s anger that won’t be ignored. I want to be rid of the feeling. It’s a moment for tonglen, the Tibetan practice which I picked up from a Pema Chodron book: Breathe in the negative, breathe out the positive. It’s a strangely counterintuitive practice: I want to get rid of anger, but I breathe it in. The angry feeling is so strong that I am breathing out anger too. Breathing in anger, breathing out anger. With effort, I make the shift: breathing in anger, breathing out peace. I’m settling down. Can I go a step further, breathing in anger, breathing out love? The anger resists, but I make the shift. I feel the love. I see that Dee’s anger came from a place of pain. I feel so bad that she carries this pain. When her anger pops at me – I know I can be annoying – there’s more. There’s pain, fear, suffering. Why respond with anger to someone I love who’s in pain?

Having seen where Dee’s anger came from, I wonder where did my angry feeling come from? What’s the story on my anger? It takes only a few breaths for me to feel the connection. I’ve been listening for days to tour guides talking about the Portuguese Inquisition – the forced conversion of Jews to Catholicism – and the expulsion of the Jews from Portugal. I’d never before felt my connection to the Inquisition. Had I not been paying attention, or had it been glossed over in my high school history texts? In college too? I knew about the pogroms. They were part of my family’s Ukrainian history. I knew about the holocaust. Although it was never explicit – I don’t remember my parents ever talking about the Inquisition – but Dad was teaching me. From his stories of the antisemitism of his Halifax boyhood, I was learning to resist “convert or die.” If someone hits you, hit back. Hit hard. Let them know that if they pick on you, even if they kick the shit out of you, they will hurt too.

I hadn’t expected our Portugal vacation to stir all this, and I am grateful that it did. I know I have a complicated relationship to my feelings of anger. They have fueled my work to serve and defend some of the most neglected, downtrodden and despised people. But my anger flames whenever I feel wrongly put upon or even put upon more harshly than I deserve.

You never know what you are going to learn when you travel. In Portugal, I marvel at the terraced hills of olive trees, and I see that not every perceived injustice carries the freight of the Inquisition. It helps to know where my anger comes from. Talk about “undeserved.” Dee’s criticism ain’t the Inquisition. It’s good to see the difference.

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