Most mornings for 27 years, I woke up, rolled over and snuggled with my darling wife. Very rarely did I wake up alone. Then she died of cancer.

In the two years between her diagnosis and her death, I did my best to console her every morning. Then, one morning I woke up alone. I realized how much waking up next to her had consoled me.

I now awake every morning with spasms of distress throbbing through my body. After listening to me complain about this, a new age-oriented friend sent me this advice in an article written by Tibetan Buddhist Pema Chodron:

When you wake up in the morning and out of nowhere comes the heartache of alienation and loneliness, could you use that as a golden opportunity? Rather than persecuting yourself or feeling that something terribly wrong is happening, right there in the moment of sadness and longing, could you relax and touch the limitless space of the human heart?

Pema describes the beginning of my morning experience exactly. But no, Pema, I don’t see how I could use this as a golden opportunity. Am I supposed to go: “I’m so lucky my wife died! Now’s my golden chance to feel sadness, longing and limitless space.”?

Of course, this is the kind of overblown claim you can expect from mystical Buddhism. But truthfully, I don’t need anything as cosmic as limitless space. I just need some breathing room so I can go on with my day.

Fortunately, secular Buddhism points to a more fruitful path. And that is away from unskillful reactions that bring more trouble. Trauma can make people act out, indulge addictions, break laws, ruin relationships, abandon critical thinking and join cults.

In my case, the death of my wife as I turned 60 threatened to make me into the bitter old coot who yells at kids to get off the lawn.

While mystical Buddhism hints at transcending trauma, secular Buddhism makes the obvious point: “It’s already bad enough. Don’t pile on more difficulties.”

But there’s more. I don’t have a lawn. If I did, I would be thrilled to see kids playing on it. And this brings up the other benefit secular Buddhism points to for those who experience trauma: post-traumatic growth.

In my experience, post-traumatic growth has enhanced my capacity for mindfulness. I’m often alone, in my body, in the present moment. But it’s far from a blissful-awareness-mindfulness. I feel tension, heat and throbbing — panicky sensations that signal something is very wrong.

When I feel this way, heartbreaking thoughts arise unbidden. They are often the words that were spoken the moment I knew my wife was gone. I said to my son, “She’s not breathing anymore.” Or it could be the words that women I’ve since dated said to break up with me: “I’m going to call it off. I’ve decided to let you go.”

As I feel a spasm of grief building I often repeat to myself: “It’s ok. I don’t know.” It’s not because I’m so adept at peaceful abiding in the Unknown. It’s because I want to divert my mind from manic searching for a solution to a problem that does not have a solution.

It’s far from yogic mind control. Rather, I know if I don’t focus on something that is obviously true in the moment, my mind will race backwards to distressing memories or forward to imagined catastrophes.

Over and over, I pull myself back from dark rumination by asking: “What else is here?” Those cumulus clouds against the blue sky. That seven-year-old wearing wraparound sunglasses. The strength in my legs and the floor under my feet.

I’ve come to believe that “being present” isn’t so exalted. It boils down to regaining balance so as to squeeze the entertainment value out of whatever I’m doing: pulling weeds, painting a window frame, and observing the other passengers on the bus.

While I’ve not become the old coot who yells kids off his lawn, I’ve become another kind of coot. I talk to people I don’t know.

Before my bereavement, social anxiety wouldn’t let me talk to strangers. Now, I ask strangers questions and pay attention as best I as can. Because, for the time being, this stranger is the person in my life.

It’s not because I’m so open and nonjudgmental. It’s because I’m always looking to blunt my isolation. I need to grab whatever bit of human connection I can.

I do the same with my adult kids. It’s not because I have become such a skillful parent. It’s because I know I’m on shaky ground.

As they’ve grown independent, I’ve become more irrelevant. This is as it should be. But the worse thing I can do is be irrelevant and annoying.

Therefore: No nagging. I aim to act in ways that will make them want to spend more time with me.

By any measure, I’m extremely fortunate. I enjoy health, wealth and leisure. Which makes me wonder: How can I have such abundance and still experience such longing? If I feel this bad--living the best life possible--what about the billions worse off?

This has kindled an appreciation for how difficult it is to be human. We are forever vulnerable to physical and emotional pain. Yet, most endure this vulnerability with enormous dignity.

This appreciation is a kind of growth, I guess. But I experience it as a diminishment--as emotional volatility: A baseball star tells how he used to played catch with his dad. I tear up. A friend pats his wife’s knee under the dinner table. I tear up. It doesn’t have to be a poignant family scene. Random snippets of music break me up too: Carlos Santana’s guitar riff on “Migra” and Jimmy Page’s riff on “Ramble On.”

These unpleasant emotional surges erupt and wrench me. “Letting go” is not an option. They arise and hold me in their grip.

I will allow that the death of my wife has resulted in a minuscule upside, which is a kind of growth. But I remain selfish. Screw the growth. Mindfulness, compassion, presence--they are not worth the cost. I’d rather have my darling wife back.

If you are drawn toward secular Buddhism, let me suggest in closing that this approach offers a realistic  opportunity to deal with grief.

All you have to do is stop believing you are missing some fantastic transcendent experience. Set the bar lower. Some growth is on offer. But it’s more limited than the mystical dharma teachers suggest.