Process Versus Product

Everything is a process, a never-ending process, wherein we often seek the finished product before we allow ourselves to relax and simply be.
At least, I do.

Between my father’s intense philosophical quest for the meaning of life and my mother’s obsession with doing her duty (as she saw it), I grew up without the ability to relax into myself or my environment. I was surrounded by “shoulds” —said or unsaid. The result is that I find it hard just “to be.” I cannot escape the feeling that I ought to be doing something other than what I am currently doing; I ought to be engaged in a more meaningful pursuit or a more fruitful endeavor. Often, I have no clear idea of what that meaningful pursuit is, yet a vague, underlying uneasiness prevents me from letting these intrusive thoughts go.

My mind hums with a sort of hyper-vigilance, trying to see if I have missed something, some essential plan or appointment. I can only allow myself to relax when all of my work is done—or as much as is possible in a day without being completely exhausted!

The dopamine hit of completing a task does not last, however. Before long, the niggling anxiety of accomplishing another task or achieving something else creeps in. I can’t seem to accept that existence is sufficient in itself. Underlying my sense of self is the feeling that a life’s worth is determined by achievements and mastery in some field or endeavor.

Early in my youth, when I was assailed by the ‘noonday demon’ of depression, when my life circumstances seemed unfortunate, dismal, narrow, and small in every way, I would feel my very soul sullied, its value in question. One day, I came across a saying about how a crumpled, soiled currency note was still of value; that a person beaten down by circumstances, internal or external, still retained their inherent worth. The message gave me a modicum of hope. My circumstances didn’t define me, nor did my apparent failure.

Yet...the mind cannot rest in itself without some task to occupy it. It naturally leans forward into the future or backward into the past. In the present, with nothing, there’s boredom, restlessness, and a vague anxiety. It is a seeking of control. Through control, the mind feels safe, valiant, alive. One can see this form of control in actions, feelings, and thoughts. Everything must be just so in the world.

Typically, we try to lighten our burden through control and overcome it through effort. According to Oliver Burkeman in Meditations for Mortals, “The late British Zen master Houn Jiyu-Kennett…said her teaching style was not to lighten the burden of the student, but make it so heavy that he or she would put it down.” When the burden becomes too heavy, we are compelled to surrender, mentally release, and embrace acceptance.

Similarly, Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi used the analogy of a train to illustrate the concept of surrender. He pointed out that just as a passenger does not need to carry their luggage on their head, a person does not need to lift their worries and burdens after surrendering to God. The train symbolizes God or divine power, which bears all the loads; there is no need to burden oneself unnecessarily.

On the other end of this pendulum swing is often the sadness that comes along with the emptiness of letting go. There is an inability to be with what is. The conditioned nature of the mind is to seek control because of fear and to move outward into the world, seeking to satisfy a vague restlessness or unease. The twin afflictions of seeking and control seem to be the lot of most human beings to a greater or lesser degree.

Sri Ramana Maharshi speaks of this nature of the mind. He says that when the mind obtains the object of its desire or has the object it dislikes removed, it turns inward and enjoys a brief period of Self-happiness. But this sensation is temporary. The mind believes that the cause of its happiness is the object and continues seeking outside itself for the happiness that it experienced. It moves without rest, alternately going out of the Self and returning to it. He likens this to a man sitting in the pleasant shade of a tree, who nevertheless keeps venturing out into the scorching sun and returning. If under the tree the shade is pleasant, and outside is the scorching sun, why keep going out into the sun? A wise man will stay in the shade instead of continually going out into the sun and coming back.

Resting in the shade of the Self is precisely what we need for a process-oriented approach. If we can fully establish ourselves in the Self, we will not stray from it but will always be connected to it, regardless of what we are doing. There is no hurry to get anywhere else or finish what we are doing. There is no external goal. As there is no specific aim to achieve or destination to reach, the process becomes the product; thus, the journey itself is the destination.

However, the tendency of the mind is not so easily overcome. By its nature, it gets restless and bored, seeking a variety of experiences outside the Self. Learning to let go of the outcome is a process of continual reminders, of coming back to the present; a process of continual remembering and returning

When you stop worrying about the outcome, you can achieve more because you enjoy the process rather than feeling pressured to finish. Life is inherently messy, yet we continually try to control it to perfection.

Similarly, there is a certain liberation in defeat. When you give up striving for a particular outcome, you realize that you have no control over it. The sigh of defeat, the act of surrendering, can also be a sigh of release. You begin to accept what is, and in that unclenching—acknowledging that it is over and that this is as good as it gets—something magical may happen. Or, it may not, but at least you have relaxed and can sink into your being.

“Our suffering comes from believing there’s a way out,” says Zen teacher Mel Weitsman. “When we accept the worst, we no longer need to brace ourselves to prevent the crash. Instead, we can simply do something in the here and now as a one-off, regardless of whether it’s part of a system, habit, or routine.”

Otherwise, you risk falling into the trap of constantly trying to become “the kind of person who does that sort of thing,” always putting it off for the future.

Philosopher J. Krishnamurti often urges us to step outside of psychological time and warns against the trap of saying, “Tomorrow, I will be less, more, different, or better.”

This is exactly the trap I find hardest to resist. Tomorrow, whatever the task I set myself, seems easier. Being in the present—in the future—will feel less arduous. I will not have similar urges tomorrow; the discomfort will miraculously disappear. In the distance, the fantasy can glimmer with glamour, without the imperfections of the real.

My prayer for myself is this: May I be liberated from the chains of anxiety, fear, guilt, and shame that our conditioning binds us to. May I live freely, joyfully, and creatively, enjoying the process without fixating on the results, and appreciating the journey as much, or more, than the destination.

Discipline comes more easily to me than pleasance, than a devilish forgetfulness of responsibilities. If anything, I’m conscientious to a fault, partly from personality and partly from the circumstance of having these thrust on me at a young age.

While others may struggle with discipline, I have had to learn to let go of the stranglehold of perfectionism and be a little messier, a little less particular; forget a thing or two, let a few things slide. Focus on the journey, moments to be, and trust that tasks will get done.

If not, so what?