After being asked once or twice if a comment I made regarding “awakening through eating an orange”” was in reference to a chapter in Brad Warner’s “Hardcore Zen,” I went out and got the book. I hadn’t read it yet, and figured if folks thought I was quoting it, it must be damn good. (Ha ha.)
It is. I especially like Brad’s take on reincarnation, which is a subject that recently came up in the comments on Rev. Ryuei’s blog. In Brad’s chapter “In My Next Life I Want To Come Back As A Pair Of Lucy Lui’s Panties,” he shares the following:
“A guy walks up to a Zen Master and asks, “Is there life after death?” The Zen Master says, “How should I know?” The guy replies indignantly, “Because you’re a Zen Master!” “Yes,” says the Zen Master, “But not a dead one.”
This sums up everything any of us know about death. We can speculate, hope, and theorize, but we just can’t know. Not that I like that. I can’t stand it. But when it really gets to me, I remind myself of all the wonders of life. The fact that our eyes can see. The fact that oranges exist. The fact that we’re born in the first place. The fact that when I click “send” the email somehow gets to your computer. It’s all so awesome and miraculous and unexplainable that I have to believe – or at least I want to believe -- that death is the same. Awesome and miraculous and unexplainable. It's just so bizarre that we're even born in the first place -- how can we begin to think we know what death may bring?
And then, if that doesn’t work, I remind myself of something a friend said to me a long time ago: “All that is real is right NOW. Everything else is just a thought.” Yes, even “death” is just a thought. The fear of death is just a thought, or maybe a feeling. Sometimes a pretty gripping one, too. But when I can boil it down to “it’s just a thought-or-feeling" and then remember the fleeting nature of such, it’s oh-so-much easier to handle.
But ultimately, the one and only true answer to life and death and reincarnation and everything in between is always one and the same for me. As Ram Dass said, “Be Here Now.”
And as Brad Warner writes, “Right now is what counts. If you want to believe in reincarnation, you have to believe that this life, what you’re living through right now, is the afterlife. You’re missing out on the afterlife you looked forward to in your last existence by worrying about your next life. This is what happens after you die. Take a look.”
Now there’s a concept. What business do we have worrying about eternity when we can’t even get through a single day without whining? I think I'll work on appreciating this life -- day by day, moment by moment -- as if it's all I've got. Just in case it is.
A friend from the SGI recently read FWP and sent me an email. It was a pleasant surprise, as she is a leader and has been involved in the organization for decades and I hadn’t expected such positive feedback. I told her I wanted to share her comments on the site, since the question “Is the SGI changing?” comes up so frequently and her voice was important here.
She also raised a point about meetings being different in other parts of the country. Here in Los Angeles, there’s a huge focus on material gain and career success. The experiences people share are usually about an external success, rather than an inner spiritual breakthrough. I’m not saying our lives are not important and that I don’t want success as much as the next person. I’m just saying I don’t believe that is what “true Buddhism” is about. Material success is a great part of life and I love having money and a nice house and a cell phone and quality medical care. But to call the acquisition of such “Buddhism” is just too much of a stretch even for eclectic old me. Buddhism is a inner practice that certainly does effect the outer world – but the focus should be on the inner and not the end result. At least that’s what I think today. As I always say, check back with me tomorrow because all is subject to change.
I also want to add that unlike my friend, I don’t think the “biggest” problem with the SGI is the focus on material gain. I think the problem is that it’s an organization. Buddhism was never meant to be "owned" or governed by any organization, and certainly not one that professes to have an exclusive on “true” Buddhism and openly expresses hostile attitudes toward those who think differently. But that's another topic, one that's already been talked to death, and something that doesn't really bother me much anyway since I'm really not a group kinda gal...
Now, on to her email.
She wrote:
“I think the biggest problem with the SGI experience format is the “I chanted and got a new job thing.” It makes people like me and you feel like things are topsy turvey-- which they are -- and also that we have no real voice. I'm at the point with my practice now that I can see clearly that the benefit to practicing is not in "getting what you want.” For me, my practice is really about a broader range of appreciation... appreciation of what my life tells
me and really trusting my inner voice... not judging things that I've felt are "bad" or "wrong" with me as necessarily "bad" or "wrong" at all -- really trusting my life and letting those "bad" things serve to benefit me... appreciating my full range of feelings and human emotion--not trying to always push things to a positive side.
Right now, my daimoku is almost exclusively based on self-reflection -- really seeking to see all sides of issues I'm dealing with and then listening to my life for the best action to take, even if it's based on my favorite world -- anger -- and really having faith to see that everything has value when the center of your life is buddhahood...
Any leader who really practices true buddhism will tell you that determinations should always be in the background of buddhahood-- not the reverse... they will also tell you that buddhahood is found in the 9 lower worlds.
I'm really struggling to get away from this "I chanted and got this thing" approach and really deepen our group's understanding of what the practice is actually about. It's next to impossible to have a real dialogue at the meetings when so many members are focused on material goals. I would love to build the group in a way that is authentic versus based on some kind of bizarre marketing message, if you know what I mean. I'd like to build a group that people of similar minds as ours can really enjoy -- we just don't know where they are because they don't come to meetings anymore!!!"
This was sent to me today by Lama Surya Das... I share it here as a reminder that the most important part of our practice is to simply BE HERE NOW...
* * * * * * * * *
Buddha said:
"Do not pursue the past.
Do not lose yourself in the future.
The past no longer is.
The future has not yet come.
Looking deeply at life as it is
in the very here and now,
the practitioner dwells
in stability and freedom."
* * * * * * * * *
I’ve been thinking a lot about why I am turned off by discussions about which Gohonzon is the “real” one, what is the “correct” way to practice, what would Nichiren say about such-and-such. In fact, the more I read this stuff, the more I started questioning Nichiren Buddhism altogether.
Then it hit me. The problem for me isn’t Nichiren Buddhism. The problem is that all these academic musings are about the framework of the practice, not about the practice itself.
Buddhism is beautiful and true because it’s about direct, personal experience, not opinion or dogma or rules or anyone else’s idea of what you should do and how you must do it. And the “direct experience” of Nichiren Buddhism is chanting. I have to believe that if any of us were to meet Nichiren and ask him “What really matters?” he’d say, “Just chant. The rest is detail.”
The truth is, even if this isn’t what Nichiren would say, it’s what works for me. Turning something as precious as Buddhism into an academic subject and arguing the small print is as tiresome to me as having to write a book report on a beloved book. It removes me from the active experience and sucks the life out it. I want to read for the sheer pleasure of reading. I want to practice Buddhism for the sheer experience of practicing. Trying to figure out and bullfight over why we think an author wrote a book, what an artist meant by his painting, or which Gohonzon Nichiren would have endorsed removes us from the direct experience. And besides, trying to second-guess anyone is a total waste of time.
Having said all that, I simply adore reading and writing about Buddhism. But the subject matter needs to be REAL. It needs to be about personal experience. I don’t just mean “I chanted for ten hours and I got a new job” kind of experience. I want to know how Buddhist principles work in YOUR inner life. I want to hear heartfelt, genuine, gutsy, lay-it-out-on-the-table revelations of what Buddhism means to YOU and what YOU bring to the table of this amazing, varied practice.
I want us to share our practices, rather than simply debate the framework of it. Because the framework is just the framework, and personally I could care less which Gohonzon you chant to. Heck, chant to a brick wall or a photo of Mickey Mouse if that’s what works for you. What I want to know is -- What kind of life are YOU creating with your Buddhist practice? What is kind of life is your Buddhist practice creating for YOU?
If I had a spiritual MRI scan, I’d probably be diagnosed with “Chronic Mental Congestion.” In fact, one health care practitioner told me my lifelong neck problem is a case of “stuck chi” or something like that. “The energy whirling around in your mind needs to be released so it can flow through your whole system,” she said.
Indeed, my practice has always been so cerebral -- meditating, chanting, studying, reading and writing – that I’ve often felt like the carved Buddha head on my bookcase. Just the head, and nothing more.
Then I got a dog.
For years my kids begged. For years I resisted. I didn’t want another life form to take care of. Most of all, I didn’t want a pet that needed to be walked.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but the only dog I’d ever fallen for (prior to owning ours) was “Lambsie,” a small, shaggy poodle who’d been disabled by a run-in with a coyote. There he was at the corner pet adoption, with the face and temperament of an angel, and two hind legs that barely functioned. For the first time in my life, I wanted to take home a dog. But the pet adoption ladies didn’t think first-time dog owners were the right match for a “special needs” dog. Wahhh.
Although we weren’t going to be given Lambsie, my heart had opened and my kids smelled opportunity. They began surfing the online pet adoption sites. Before long, my obsession surpassed even theirs. Then, one day, we got a call from Bichons and Buddies Pet Rescue organization. It seemed there was a purebred Bichon Frise named “Buddy” who needed a new home. The dog’s owner, Bob, had gotten Buddy a year ago to keep him company as he recovered from brain surgery. Then Bob had a relapse and passed away. Bob’s wife had to return to work and couldn’t care for the Buddy any longer.
I had one last panic attack, bought a supply of plastic poop disposal bags, and made the family swear up and down that they’d all help with the dog -- especially when it came to the walking.
We got the dog. The family all pitched in. We shared in the walks. For awhile. Then it all changed. No, it wasn’t that the kids flaked on me. It was that I elbowed them out of the job. Because I discovered something truly amazing …
Walking is a good thing.
I lost weight. I built up endurance and got a bit of muscle tone. I met all my neighbors, and their dogs, too. I found that walking is a great way to clear my mind and take a break from my writing and my family several times a day. But best of all I found out --
Walking effortlessly integrates my mind and my body.
When I walk, my entire being automatically shifts into an open, meditative state. I go from being a head full of energy to being an integrated part of the universe. It’s pretty remarkable for someone like me. And it just goes to show…
Be careful what you wish for.
The funny thing is that it turns out Buddy is a breed notorious for housebreaking problems. Bichon Frises need frequent walking. Ha ha! The joke’s on me! I ended up with the exact exact opposite of the handicapped pooch I originally coveted. And it’s wonderful.
This is why it’s risky to chant or pray for specific outcomes. “I want a dog that doesn’t need much walking” would have resulted in my missing out on the best thing that could have happened to me. Much better to ask for “that which is for my highest good and for the highest good of all others” or something along those lines. Keep it open. Because as my 8 year old recently said, “You just never know…”
No one who knows me would have imagined how much I enjoy walking every few hours, seven days a week. I try a different route each time. I take a different approach too. Sometimes I chant. Sometimes I observe my steps or my breath or the greenery around me. Sometimes I imagine I’m matching my awareness and pace to Buddy’s, paying attention to the world as he sees it.
Often I do nothing other than walk. That really is enough. More than enough. In fact, it’s the surest way for me to experience my true nature and the nature of all that surrounds me.
In response to a blog I wrote asking “What is YOUR burning question?” Rev. Ryuei replied: “…I have realized that the meaning of the Lotus Sutra and the Odaimoku is not so much that they are pointing to themselves but that they are pointing us back to ourselves, our own true nature, and that this true nature is not limited to our small, contingent, circumscribed self, but to the true nature of everything whatsoever.”
This is what often happens when I’m walking at night.. Away from the family I am involved in and attached to, away from the call of technology, away from the dishes and laundry, away from the Gohonzon and altar and meditation area, I am no longer attached to all that ties me to who I think I am or anything I feel I have to do. I experience an awareness far greater than my own “small, contingent, circumscribed self.” All the energy usually “whirling in my mind” reaches down to my toes and then back up and beyond – way beyond – until I feel as expansive as the nighttime sky. There is no separation between the flowers, the trees, the spider on the web, the empty can on the ground, and me.
On these moonlit walks I don’t just think about the connection – I feel it. I know it. I experience it in a way I have never been able to touch through any other practice.
It’s a big feeling. It’s a gentle feeling. It’s peaceful and calming and exhilarating, all at once. It’s reassuring, too, as if there’s nowhere to go during or after life, because everything is right here together where it belongs. The other evening it was so overwhelming, I had to sit down on some nearby steps and just breathe in appreciation for life. Buddy sat down next to me. The world was so quiet and full and there we were. It was astounding.
Then I had to pick up Buddy’s poop, and head on home.
All in service of a furry four-legged angel with an occasional bad temper.
I have a painting in my room with the inscription, “Most people don’t know that there are angels whose only job it is to make sure you don’t fall asleep and miss your life.” Buddy sure woke me up to a part of my life that I was missing – my spiritual life from the neck down.
You know, I used to think we rescued Buddy. Now that I write this, I realize that Buddy rescued me.
Thank you, Mardi and Jeannine, at www.BichonsandBuddies.com for bringing Buddy into our lives. (If anyone is looking for a small dog or knows a dog that needs a home, let these beautiful ladies know.) Thank you to my family, for convincing me that we are, indeed, "dog people." And thank you, Lambsie, for opening my heart.
Here's a question for this FWP conglomerate of Nichiren Buddhists and Others. In a nutsell... 25 words or less... can someone summarize the bottomline teaching of Nichiren Daishonin? Not the "SGI" or the "Nichiren Shu" or the "Nichiren Shoshu" or the "Nichiren Nacho" interpretation or practice of it. Just the clean, clear basic essense of what he taught and what he added (or reinterpreted) to what the original Buddha had to say.
This is an article from Shambhala Sun (my fave Buddhist magazine) by Pema Chodron (an amazing teacher). It explains in a very clear way exactly why we do the negative behaviors we do... whether it's overeating or smoking or drinking or shouting or driving too fast or sleeping too late or whining ... I'd love to hear back what you think of the piece. (My youngest daughter sometimes yells "SHENPA!" as a reminder when I'm starting to get caught by my anger or irritation. You'll understand once you read this...)
How we get hooked/how to get unhooked
By Pema Chödrön
You're trying to make a point with a coworker or your partner. At one moment her face is open and she's listening, and at the next, her eyes cloud over or her jaw tenses.
What is it that you're seeing?
Someone criticizes you. They criticize your work or your appearance or your child. At moments like that, what is it you feel? It has a familiar taste in your mouth, it has a familiar smell. Once you begin to notice it, you feel like this experience has been happening forever.
The Tibetan word for this is shenpa. It is usually translated "attachment," but a more descriptive translation might be "hooked." When shenpa hooks us, we're likely to get stuck. We could call shenpa "that sticky feeling." It's an everyday experience. Even a spot on your new sweater can take you there. At the subtlest level, we feel a tightening, a tensing, a sense of closing down. Then we feel a sense of withdrawing, not wanting to be where we are. That's the hooked quality. That tight feeling has the power to hook us into self-denigration, blame, anger, jealousy and other emotions which lead to words and actions that end up poisoning us.
Remember the fairy tale in which toads hop out of the princess's mouth whenever she starts to say mean words? That's how being hooked can feel. Yet we don't stop—we can't stop—because we're in the habit of associating whatever we're doing with relief from our own discomfort. This is the shenpa syndrome. The word "attachment" doesn't quite translate what's happening. It's a quality of experience that's not easy to describe but which everyone knows well.
Shenpa is usually involuntary and it gets right to the root of why we suffer. Someone looks at us in a certain way, or we hear a certain song, we smell a certain smell, we walk into a certain room and boom. The feeling has nothing to do with the present, and nevertheless, there it is. When we were practicing recognizing shenpa at Gampo Abbey, we discovered that some of us could feel it even when a particular person simply sat down next to us at the dining table.
Shenpa thrives on the underlying insecurity of living in a world that is always changing. We experience this insecurity as a background of slight unease or restlessness. We all want some kind of relief from that unease, so we turn to what we enjoy—food, alcohol, drugs, sex, work or shopping. In moderation what we enjoy might be very delightful. We can appreciate its taste and its presence in our life. But when we empower it with the idea that it will bring us comfort, that it will remove our unease, we get hooked.
So we could also call shenpa "the urge"—the urge to smoke that cigarette, to overeat, to have another drink, to indulge our addiction whatever it is. Sometimes shenpa is so strong that we're willing to die getting this short-term symptomatic relief. The momentum behind the urge is so strong that we never pull out of the habitual pattern of turning to poison for comfort. It doesn't necessarily have to involve a substance; it can be saying mean things, or approaching everything with a critical mind. That's a major hook. Something triggers an old pattern we'd rather not feel, and we tighten up and hook into criticizing or complaining. It gives us a puffed-up satisfaction and a feeling of control that provides short-term relief from uneasiness.
Those of us with strong addictions know that working with habitual patterns begins with the willingness to fully acknowledge our urge, and then the willingness not to act on it. This business of not acting out is called refraining. Traditionally it's called renunciation. What we renounce or refrain from isn't food, sex, work or relationships per se. We renounce and refrain from the shenpa. When we talk about refraining from the shenpa, we're not talking about trying to cast it out; we're talking about trying to see the shenpa clearly and experiencing it. If we can see shenpa just as we're starting to close down, when we feel the tightening, there's the possibility of catching the urge to do the habitual thing, and not doing it.
Without meditation practice, this is almost impossible to do. Generally speaking, we don't catch the tightening until we've indulged the urge to scratch our itch in some habitual way. And unless we equate refraining with loving-kindness and friendliness towards ourselves, refraining feels like putting on a straitjacket. We struggle against it. The Tibetan word for renunciation is shenlok, which means turning shenpa upside-down, shaking it up. When we feel the tightening, somehow we have to know how to open up the space without getting hooked into our habitual pattern.
In practicing with shenpa, first we try to recognize it. The best place to do this is on the meditation cushion. Sitting practice teaches us how to open and relax to whatever arises, without picking and choosing. It teaches us to experience the uneasiness and the urge fully, and to interrupt the momentum that usually follows. We do this by not following after the thoughts and learning to come back to the present moment. We learn to stay with the uneasiness, the tightening, the itch of shenpa. We train in sitting still with our desire to scratch. This is how we learn to stop the chain reaction of habitual patterns that otherwise will rule our lives. This is how we weaken the patterns that keep us hooked into discomfort that we mistake as comfort. We label the spinoff "thinking" and return to the present moment. Yet even in meditation, we experience shenpa.
Let's say, for example, that in meditation you felt settled and open. Thoughts came and went, but they didn't hook you. They were like clouds in the sky that dissolved when you acknowledged them. You were able to return to the moment without a sense of struggle. Afterwards, you're hooked on that very pleasant experience: "I did it right, I got it right. That's how it should always be, that's the model." Getting caught like that builds arrogance, and conversely it builds poverty, because your next session is nothing like that. In fact, your "bad" session is even worse now because you're hooked on the "good" one. You sat there and you were discursive: you were obsessing about something at home, at work. You worried and you fretted; you got caught up in fear or anger. At the end of the session, you feel discouraged—it was "bad," and there's only you to blame.
Is there something inherently wrong or right with either meditation experience? Only the shenpa. The shenpa we feel toward "good" meditation hooks us into how it's "supposed" to be, and that sets us up for shenpa towards how it's not "supposed" to be. Yet the meditation is just what it is. We get caught in our idea of it: that's the shenpa. That stickiness is the root shenpa. We call it ego-clinging or self-absorption. When we're hooked on the idea of good experience, self-absorption gets stronger; when we're hooked on the idea of bad experience, self-absorption gets stronger. This is why we, as practitioners, are taught not to judge ourselves, not to get caught in good or bad.
What we really need to do is address things just as they are. Learning to recognize shenpa teaches us the meaning of not being attached to this world. Not being attached has nothing to do with this world. It has to do with shenpa—being hooked by what we associate with comfort. All we're trying to do is not to feel our uneasiness. But when we do this we never get to the root of practice. The root is experiencing the itch as well as the urge to scratch, and then not acting it out.
If we're willing to practice this way over time, prajna begins to kick in. Prajna is clear seeing. It's our innate intelligence, our wisdom. With prajna, we begin to see the whole chain reaction clearly. As we practice, this wisdom becomes a stronger force than shenpa. That in itself has the power to stop the chain reaction.
Prajna isn't ego-involved. It's wisdom found in basic goodness, openness, equanimity—which cuts through self-absorption. With prajna we can see what will open up space. Habituation, which is ego-based, is just the opposite—a compulsion to fill up space in our own particular style. Some of us close space by hammering our point through; others do it by trying to smooth the waters.
We're taught that whatever arises is fresh, the essence of realization. That's the basic view. But how do we see whatever arises as the essence of realization when the fact of the matter is, we have work to do? The key is to look into shenpa. The work we have to do is about coming to know that we're tensing or hooked or "all worked up." That's the essence of realization. The earlier we catch it, the easier shenpa is to work with, but even catching it when we're already all worked up is good. Sometimes we have to go through the whole cycle even though we see what we're doing. The urge is so strong, the hook so sharp, the habitual pattern so sticky, that there are times when we can't do anything about it.
There is something we can do after the fact, however. We can go sit on the meditation cushion and re-run the story. Maybe we start with remembering the all-worked-up feeling and get in touch with that. We look clearly at the shenpa in retrospect; this is very helpful. It's also helpful to see shenpa arising in little ways, where the hook is not so sharp.
Buddhists are talking about shenpa when they say, "Don't get caught in the content: observe the underlying quality—the clinging, the desire, the attachment." Sitting meditation teaches us how to see that tangent before we go off on it. It basically comes down to the instruction, "label it thinking." To train in this on the cushion, where it's relatively easy and pleasant to do, is how we can prepare ourselves to stay when we get all worked up.
Then we can train in seeing shenpa wherever we are. Say something to another person and maybe you'll feel that tensing. Rather than get caught in a story line about how right you are or how wrong you are, take it as an opportunity to be present with the hooked quality. Use it as an opportunity to stay with the tightness without acting upon it. Let that training be your base.
You can also practice recognizing shenpa out in nature. Practice sitting still and catching the moment when you close down. Or practice in a crowd, watching one person at a time. When you're silent, what hooks you is mental dialogue. You talk to yourself about badness or goodness: me-bad or they-bad, this-right or that-wrong. Just to see this is a practice. You'll be intrigued by how you'll involuntarily shut down and get hooked, one way or another. Just keep labeling those thoughts and come back to the immediacy of the feeling. That's how not to follow the chain reaction.
Once we're aware of shenpa, we begin to notice it in other people. We see them shutting down. We see that they've been hooked and that nothing is going to get through to them now. At that moment we have prajna. That basic intelligence comes through when we're not caught up in escaping from our own unease. With prajna we can see what's happening with others; we can see when they've been hooked. Then we can give the situation some space. One way to do that is by opening up the space on the spot, through meditation. Be quiet and place your mind on your breath. Hold your mind in place with great openness and curiosity toward the other person. Asking a question is another way of creating space around that sticky feeling. So is postponing your discussion to another time.
At the Abbey, we're very fortunate that everybody is excited about working with shenpa. So many words I've tried using become ammunition that people use against themselves. But we feel some kind of gladness about working with shenpa, perhaps because the word is unfamiliar. We can acknowledge what's happening with clear seeing, without aiming it at ourselves. Since no one particularly likes to have his shenpa pointed out, people at the Abbey make deals like, "When you see me getting hooked, just pull your earlobe, and if I see you getting hooked, I'll do the same. Or if you see it in yourself, and I'm not picking up on it, at least give some little sign that maybe this isn't the time to continue this discussion." This is how we help each other cultivate prajna, clear seeing.
We could think of this whole process in terms of four R's: recognizing the shenpa, refraining from scratching, relaxing into the underlying urge to scratch and then resolving to continue to interrupt our habitual patterns like this for the rest of our lives. What do you do when you don't do the habitual thing? You're left with your urge. That's how you become more in touch with the craving and the wanting to move away. You learn to relax with it. Then you resolve to keep practicing this way.
Working with shenpa softens us up. Once we see how we get hooked and how we get swept along by the momentum, there's no way to be arrogant. The trick is to keep seeing. Don't let the softening and humility turn into self-denigration. That's just another hook. Because we've been strengthening the whole habituated situation for a long, long time, we can't expect to undo it overnight. It's not a one-shot deal. It takes loving-kindness to recognize; it takes practice to refrain; it takes willingness to relax; it takes determination to keep training this way. It helps to remember that we may experience two billion kinds of itches and seven quadrillion types of scratching, but there is really only one root shenpa—ego-clinging. We experience it as tightening and self-absorption. It has degrees of intensity. The branch shenpas are all our different styles of scratching that itch.
I recently saw a cartoon of three fish swimming around a hook. One fish is saying to the other, "The secret is non-attachment." That's a shenpa cartoon: the secret is—don't bite that hook. If we can catch ourselves at that place where the urge to bite is strong, we can at least get a bigger perspective on what's happening. As we practice this way, we gain confidence in our own wisdom. It begins to guide us toward the fundamental aspect of our being—spaciousness, warmth and spontaneity.
_______________________________________________
Pema Chödrön is a fully-ordained Buddhist nun and the resident teacher at Gampo Abbey in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. She is the author of The Wisdom of No Escape, Start Where You Are, When Things Fall Apart and The Places That Scare You. Her most recent book is Comfortable With Uncertainty, published by Shambhala. ©2003 by Pema Chödrön. All Rights Reserved.
From Shambhala Sun, March 2003.
I don’t profess to be a teacher, an expert, or an authority on anything. Certainly not on Buddhism.
I don’t claim to have any answers, and I don’t want anyone to think I know what I’m talking about. I’m more inclined to ask questions and explore possibilities than I am to proclaim the truth. Any beliefs or realizations I share here are subject to change. In fact, they are guaranteed to change. Because the only thing I know for certain is this:
Things change.
Well, at least a lot of things do. Other things don’t change that much. Human beings are not much different than they were centuries ago. A list of the five greatest human fears, compiled over 2,000 years ago, is no different than anything you’d read in a current issue of “Psychology Today.” Fear of death, fear of public speaking, fear of losing loved ones…they are all the same. Then again, dinosaurs probably weren’t petrified by the idea of giving a speech. And if we blow up our planet and a new life form emerges in ten million years, maybe this new species will fight over who gets to be on the podium first. So let me rephrase that one thing I know for certain:
Things change but not always quickly.
Other than that, I have no idea what’s really going on. Life, the universe, form, emptiness, the workings of fax machines, and everything inbetween ... it’s all a huge mystery to me. And I like it that way. It keeps me awake and on my spiritual toes. As Stephen Batchelor wrote in "Buddhism Without Beliefs," “an agnostic stance is not based on disinterest. It is founded on a passionate recognition that I do not know. It confronts the enormity of having been born instead of reaching for the consolation of a belief. It strips away, layer by layer, the views that conceal the mystery of being…”
At the same time, I have spent the whole of my adult life, and a good part of my teenage years, examining this “mystery of being.” That’s why I’ve long been attracted to Buddhism. Where other religions tell us what to believe and how to live, Buddhism asks us to directly experience the truth for ourselves. Where other religions have us worship another being or person, Buddhism encourages us to examine the nature of our own minds and reality. At least that’s how I understand it today.
Of course, there are many different flavors and brands of Buddhism, each with a slightly or totally different set of practices, interpretations, rituals, teachers, and paraphernalia. There is a even a multitude of variations within each tradition.
I consider myself “eclectic” because I find value it in all. And I like it that way.
For me, the assorted branches of Buddhism are just different parts of the same elephant. With your eyes closed, you may think you’re touching the whole animal. But open your eyes, and you may see that what you’re grasping isn’t the entire story afterall.
From Zen Buddhism I have learned the practice of meditation and had experiences I cannot put into words. From Tibetan Buddhism I have learned about compassion and opened my heart to myself and others. From Nichiren Buddhism I have explored cause and effect, and learned the life-changing power of Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. I am not attached to any certain tradition or teacher. I openly listen and accept the wisdom of each for what it is. I have practiced and studied and integrated all the various types of Buddhism and will probably continue to do so all my life. Each has it's place in the totality of who I am – a part of the whole elephant, so to speak. And each helps me with the one great lesson that each Buddhist tradition has taught me:
Treasure the present moment.
And that's one piece of advice I don't expect to change.
After writing and posting last night's blog on "Spiritual Materialism," I got this very timely email today from the "WEEKLY WORDS OF WISDOM" as chosen by Lama Surya Das. Check it out and see what you think. I thnk it's wonderful.
"There is no other task but to know your own original face.
This is called independence; the spirit is clear and free.
If you say there is some particular doctrine or patriarchy, you’ll be totally cheated. Just look into your heart; there is a transcendental clarity.
Just have no greed and no dependency and you will immediately attain certainty.
~ Yen-t’ou, from Teachings of Zen, edited by Thomas Cleary"
I’ve been reading “Turning the Mind Into An Ally” by Sakyon Mipham, son of the well-known Tibetan teacher, Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche. In the chapter on "Rousing Motivation," Mipham writes:
“Many practitioners in our culture are motivated by worldly concerns and use spirituality to successfully accomplish their wishes. It’s fine to use spiritual practice to get what we want. People have always made offerings to the gods in order to ensure a plentiful harvest. It should be clear, however, that at the heart of this motivation lies the desire to please ourselves. The danger of this motivation is that we can trick ourselves into thinking that we’re becoming less worldly when what we’re really doing is distorting practice to fortify our comfort zone. This is a common pitfall, not a crime.
“My father often taught about “cutting through spiritual materialism.” This means cutting through our attempts to use spirituality to feed our solid self. The Buddha also taught that stability, the peace that comes through meditation, can become just as much of a trap as any old desire. We can create a Goldilocks zone our of our practice and hide there. We can become “spiritual junkies,” motivated only by what makes us feel good. So much of what passes as spirituality these days is really about pleasure-seeking, getting high. This self-absorption disguised as spirituality only leads to more suffering. Real spirituality is about getting grounded. Once we understand who we are, we can realize the needs of others and do something about helping them. Being grounded in who we are is known as basic goodness.”
This is a small portion of a wonderful book (which, by the way, is a national bestseller), but the subject seemed particularly relevant to many of the discussions on the FWP blogs. Spiritual materialism is an easy trap that I believe most of us fall into. And I'm not just talking about falling into it by "chanting for things" or "seeing our earthly desires as a vehicle for enlightenment." Buddhists of all flavors can get bogged down by methods and gadgets and doctrine of others. This Gohonzon or that? Chair or zafu? Mala or juzu? Nam or Namu? Meditation or chanting? China, Japan, Tibet, or India? Even following one teacher or one particular school of thought can be a trap. In my mind, perhaps the biggest trap of all.
If the idea is to perceive the true nature of MY OWN MIND, I have to be careful about putting too much credence in the ways of others and watch out for the outside trappings of it all. In the end, I believe what matters is what you’re doing inside your mind and heart and life, not which Gohonzon you have in your altar.