The Second Arrow
Navigating between discomfort and suffering, through the brain fog
In the Buddhist tradition, there’s a parable about two arrows.
The first arrow is pain and discomfort. As the Buddha tells it, this first arrow is inevitable in life. Indeed, from a learning standpoint, this first arrow is a necessary ground for a life of growing insight, kindness, and compassion.
The second arrow is the suffering that comes through our reaction to pain and discomfort. This second arrow compounds the first through the narratives we tell: we identify with the pain, or we push it away, or we cast blame and recrimination, or we try to control events to make the pain stop. How and how much we suffer, how prepared we are to learn from our pain, and how much we spread pain around to others through our reactions—all of these depend on our skill in dealing with discomfort.
Post-COVID brain fog is teaching me this lesson powerfully, in a way I could not have expected.
The first few days of brain fog were, in terms of physical discomfort, the worst by far. The feeling of inflammation in my head—the first arrow—was painful and unlike anything I’d experienced before. Too many auditory stimuli felt like noise, and for the most part, nuanced discursive thought was simply crowded out by the inflammation.
But this relative lack of discursive chatter in my head meant that I wasn’t telling myself stories about my pain. For the most part, I simply experienced it. And when I discovered the power of drones to soothe the edge of that discomfort, I was able to lean into that power and even create a completely-unexpected album of ambient drone music in response to my own brain fog. I didn’t argue with the fog: I moved with it and found freedom within its limits, using the practices still at my disposal.
In contrast, a few days ago, I experienced my greatest suffering with brain fog.
My discomfort that day was significantly less than other days—but I was either angry or regretful most of the day, the second arrow lodged deep in my body. If I stumbled or got lost in doing something, I berated the activity or myself, instead of acknowledging my limits kindly. If my family members talked over one another or got too loud, stirring that sense of uncontrolled noise in my head, I tried to control or shut down their conversations, instead of asking for help and compassion or taking a moment for myself, away from others. I was unpleasant to be around, and it was unpleasant to be around myself.
Thank goodness, then, for mindfulness practice. The next day, I set clear intentions for myself and checked in on them regularly. While putting on my clothes for the day—before the other members of my family were awake, and before preparing breakfast for my loved ones—I spoke a few intentions aloud: to use a soft voice, to be patient, and to be gentle, toward others and myself. I returned to these intentions throughout the day and took time to sit with them.
That second arrow still sank into my body sometimes that day, but it did not rule my day, and when it did strike, I could pull it out. I could acknowledge my unskillfulness, to myself and to my loved ones, and pivot back toward my better intentions.
Brain fog is not fun. I’m happy that it’s getting gradually better. But I’m also deeply grateful for what the brain fog is teaching me: the difference between discomfort and suffering, and the power of practice for navigating this difference with some measure of grace.