The Moon Cannot Be Stolen: What therapy can and cannot give us
Author: Scott Gulbransen
In Zen Buddhism, there exists a method of study referred to as a “koan,” which is a kind of story that Zen masters teach their students. Koans are designed to be paradoxical, confusing, and intriguing. These stories are not presented as problems to be solved, but instead as anecdotes designed to force a direct and oftentimes uncomfortable experience of reality. Experiencing reality, even when uncomfortable, is viewed as a necessary step to achieve enlightenment, what Zen Buddhists refer to as “Buddha nature.” In other words, experiencing these stories as they are, without trying to “solve” them or engage in any kind of intellectual struggle against their (often confusing) logic, is what Buddhists think leads one to develop a stronger sense of self. Take, for example, the following koan, written in the 13th century, titled “The Moon Cannot Be Stolen”:
Ryokan, a Zen master, lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening a thief visited the hut only to discover there was nothing to steal. Ryokan returned and caught him. "You have come a long way to visit me," he told the prowler, "and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift."
The thief was bewildered. He took the clothes and slunk away.
Ryokan sat naked, watching the moon. "Poor fellow," he mused, "I wish I could have given him this beautiful moon."
In this koan, Ryokan gives away his clothing—his only possession—as if it is no big deal at all. It is never mentioned as to whether or not the thief needed clothing to begin with, but one can assume the thief was not running around without any clothes. Ryokan proceeds to sit, completely untroubled, watching the beauty of the moon after being robbed. (On a side note: don’t we all wish we could regulate our emotions like that? I know I do.) Not only is this koan brief, funny, and confusing, but, if you are reading this article, you are probably wondering what any of this has to do with psychotherapy.
As a therapist, I like to compare the moon in The Moon Cannot Be Stolen to what clients in therapy are really looking for. For the moon—with its vigorous presence yet intricate grace, its visible beauty yet considerable distance—is what Ryokan actually wanted to share. The moon, however, cannot be stolen; not because it is protected, but because it belongs to no one and therefore to everyone already. In other words, the ability to overcome the natural pain of life and live meaningfully is already within each of us; it is not something that can be given or taken.
This is comparable to the fact that many therapists, myself included, often experience the fierce pull to solve all of a client’s problems for them. “I wish I could have them understand how important it is to show up each week,” we might think about a client with inconsistent attendance, yet who also urgently needs therapy. Better yet, “If only I could hop inside their mind and do the exposure for them, then they would feel safe,” we might think regarding a client with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) who does not want to touch the toilet, leave the house without turning back around, or stand near a subway platform.
With time, most therapists will come to the realization that giving our clients the moon is not what we are here for. And from the client’s perspective (by the way, I am both a therapist and someone who has been in therapy, so this article will pendulate back and forth from one perspective to the other), it is also important to realize that we cannot, and should not want to, steal the moon for ourselves. Sorry to all the fans of Gru from Despicable Me, but I believe that it may be significantly more effective to learn how to live our lives without solving all of our problems.
Like the moon, our therapists cannot give us peace of mind, advice on every single issue, mental clarity, and permanent happiness. Therapists cannot completely remove our traumas or go back in time and intervene while our parents were mistreating us.
The moon does not belong to you, nor does it belong to me, but instead belongs to all of us. It is not possible to be “cured,” or to run out of problems in life altogether. Sometimes, it is actually the client who possesses more readiness for change than the therapist. Take, for example, another koan, this one referred to as “A Buddha”:
In Tokyo in the Meiji era there lived two prominent teachers of opposite characteristics. One, Unsho, an instructor in Shingon, kept Buddha's precepts scrupulously. He never drank intoxicants, nor did he eat after eleven o'clock in the morning.
The other teacher, Tanzan, a professor of philosophy at the Imperial University, never observed the precepts. Whenever he felt like eating, he ate, and when he felt like sleeping in the daytime he slept.
One day Unsho visited Tanzan, who was drinking wine at the time, not even a drop of which is supposed to touch the tongue of a Buddhist.
"Hello, brother," Tanzan greeted him. "Won't you have a drink?"
"I never drink!" exclaimed Unsho solemnly.
"One who does not drink is not even human," said Tanzan.
"Do you mean to call me inhuman just because I do not indulge in intoxicating liquids!" exclaimed Unsho in anger. "Then if I am not human, what am I?"
Tanzan answered, “A Buddha.”
I find this koan to be incredibly inspiring. There is a massive reversal here that is actually pretty easy to miss. Unsho, the “better” Buddhist, is disciplined, sober, and a rule-follower. Tanzan is a philosopher who ignores all of those things. When Unsho states that he never drinks, Tanzan's jab—“one who does not drink is not even human”—is a provocation designed to catch him. And it works: Unsho gets angry, demanding to know what he is, if he is not human. Tanzan remarks, “a Buddha,” and means it sincerely. The point is not to say that rule-following is bad, or that it makes a person any less human. It is that Unsho’s rigid self-identification with his precepts has indeed made him something beyond an ordinary person. Tanzan, on the other hand, is indulging in the human world. The irony is that the “undisciplined” teacher, Tanzan, sees the other man’s purity, Unsho, more clearly than Unsho sees it himself.
Many clients arrive in therapy highly self-disciplined about their suffering. They have done the homework, use skills outside of therapy, and show up each week. Sometimes they do so for months, or even years. But somehow, we may still feel stuck in our pain. The koan suggests our own attachments—whether it be adhering to a rigid lifestyle (i.e., inflexibility), following the rules too closely (i.e., perfectionism), or even mentally giving up on therapy but still physically showing up anyway (i.e., active passivity)—can be where we get stuck. Sometimes it might be the therapist’s job to be a gentle Tanzan, reflecting back, “You’re doing everything right, and that might be part of the problem.”
Sometimes, the therapist is Unsho—so committed to clinical discipline that we miss what the client is actually showing us. The client, like Tanzan, may be living more freely and honestly than we are willing to give them credit for. For example, a client may not be able to confront some of the major stressors they came in originally wanting to address, but if they report that therapy has improved their lives significantly overall, it may be time to let go.
A higher level of inner peace, attained by achieving our goals in therapy, is both ambitious and attainable. And although achieving our goals may be significantly easier said than done, neither the therapist nor the client should work too hard to “fix” everything the client brings into the room. We must also make sure that, from both sides of the couch, we are being as effective as possible. Clients and therapists must make every effort to set their minds on the appropriate targets for treatment, while refraining from attaching themselves too closely to a desired outcome. At the end of the day, we are all as flawed as we are loveable. We are just as resilient as we are shattered. Just as Zen Buddhists are not supposed to solve the riddle within every koan, we are not supposed to fully “fix” ourselves. The problems with which we enter and exit therapy are what make us deeply human. Remember: you cannot steal the moon, because it is already yours.