Applying the Teachings

Pema Chodron: What would you say, in a nutshell, that we should do about the confusion?

Dzigar Kontrul: Listen to the teachings, study them, and contemplate them. Then, allow the teachings to illuminate your experience, rather than trying to bring your experience in line with the teachings. It’s important first to have the teachings illuminate your experience, so you can see what’s happening clearly before you actually try to put them into practice.
—from the Shambala Sun interview, January 2006

Here Pema Chodron is asking about the universal confusion experienced by all of us regarding our true nature. It’s the confusion that causes us to constantly feel alienated and unfulfilled. It’s our habitual pattern of judging all our experiences as good, bad, or indifferent, and the accompanying suffering that unfolds as a result.

I love Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche’s response. He takes it for granted that we know what the teachings on liberation say and how to access them. The power in his answer is that he warns us not to use them as a yardstick to judge ourselves, which would just be an extension of our confusion. I appreciate this, because self-judgment is a major afflictive emotion for me, and I often get frustrated with spiritual practice because I judge myself unsuccessful at living out the teachings that I know can set me free.

What I hear Rinpoche saying is that we should just look at our minds, and calmly watch the patterns of experience unfolding in our minds, and see how those experiences compare to the teachings. Do the patterns in my mind confirm what the sages of old have been saying down through the centuries? When I experience moments of clarity, what are the causes and conditions that give rise to the clarity? In this simple approach to practice, we become scientists dispassionately observing our subject, watching its behavior, drawing conclusions and learning from the present moment as each moment unfolds. There is no struggle; just continuous learning.

God himself is born!

And so we see, God is not

until he is born.

And also we see

there is no end to the birth of God.

--D.H. Lawrence

The Birth of Something Different

Into this world
this demented inn,
in which there is no room
for Him at all,
Christ has come uninvited.

But because He cannot
be at home in it, because He is
out of place in it,
His place is with those
who do not belong,
who are rejected
by power because
they are regarded as weak,
those who are discredited,
who are denied
the status of person,
tortured and exterminated.

With those for whom
there is no room,
Christ is present in this world.

He is mysteriously present
in those for whom
there seems to be nothing
but the world at its worst.
--Thomas Merton

Some people professing to follow Christ have made a big deal out of people saying "Happy Holidays" this year instead of "Merry Christmas." These folks would do well to read Thomas Merton's poem and be reminded of what following Christ really entails.

What is Heaven?

I knew it would be frustrating, but nevertheless I felt a compulsion to watch Barbara Walter's television special on Heaven the other night. The draw for me, of course, was that she planned to interview His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, exiled leader of Tibetan Buddhism.

Walters actually did a pretty good job of having a lot of different religious viewpoints represented, but I was frustrated that the messages we heard from so many of the clergy, whether Jewish, Christian or Muslim, was that our popular images of heaven ought to be taken literally. They didn't say this specifically, but it was clear that they did indeed take all the typical images of the afterlife at face value. I was disappointed that no contemplative perspectives were offered which would say, "Perhaps these images that we have inherited from previous generations who have speculated on the afterlife are far too limited to really convey the reality of what lies beyond this life?" Maybe we talk about streets of gold, or heavenly mansions, or being reunited with our loved ones, because these are the best images we can come up with using our limited human minds to describe an experience beyond words and description?

For example, many of those interviewed expressed their belief or desire to be reunited with their loved ones after death. I long for that as much as anybody, but perhaps that reunion is far vaster than what we typically imagine. What if there will be a time when we can know our loved ones far more intimately than we have ever known them here, when all of the barriers, whether physical, psychological or spiritual, will be broken down, and we can see each other the way God sees us? And better: what if we can see every other being who has ever lived at this same intimate level? What if we could experience the love of every being at a level exponentially greater than anything we've ever experienced on earth? Basically, we would experience the vast interconnectedness of all life without the barriers of "self." We would not just "see" each other in heaven, we would know all others on a level beyond anything before, so that we experience only Knowing and Being?

In Walters' interview, the Dalai Lama expressed the traditional Tibetan belief that "heaven" is actually part of the six different realms of existence, and that it is a place of peace and comfort similar to what the theistic traditions describe. However, he was careful to point out that "reaching" heaven just means we can continue our spiritual journey with fewer of the hindrances and obstacles of this realm. The point is not being someplace, but being a particular way. Again, the point is the experience of interconnection, compassion and understanding. This will of necessity require us to let go of all images, concepts and ideas that we have clung to, including our ideas of heaven.

winter solstice --
the pear tree
finally shakes its leaves

Monastic Humor

“There was a man in our [monastic] community who was always prompt, studious, generally serious, and obviously destined for a role among the hierarchy. He was a perfect target for monastic humor.

One night he arrived at his room to find life-sized statues of a male and female saint lying next to each other in his bed. On another occasion, just to add a spice of humility to his habit of promptness, some of his more thoughtful confreres unscrewed the handles on his door, so that when the bell for vespers rang, no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get the door open.

What is the humor within the joke here? Don’t saints sleep together? Don’t we know from Pygmalion that statues have their own private lies? Aren’t we always locked in when we have important things to do elsewhere?”
—Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

We want our lives to be so neat and tidy. We want everything to fit, and nothing to be ambiguous, messy and certainly not flawed. But enlightened living is not having it all together. It’s seeing that it’s all a big mess, and being able to embrace the mess with humor and with love.

Sacred Time

"In monastic life time is not measured by a clock. The day may be set out according to the parts of the Divine Office, a set of psalms and songs chosen according to the remembrance of the day--a saint, a liturgical season, a holy event...Qualities of time are also evoked by chants...We all have music that is tied to special times, and is therefore a means for celebrating the seasons of the soul. We could all learn from monks to disregard our watches and find other more imaginative, creative ways to mark time."
--Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

Perhaps the most unique and fascinating alternative to our normal way of marking time that I've ever encountered is the ECOlogical calendar, which was developed by artist Chris Hardman. Reflecting the theory of All Time, the ECOlogical calendar is a colorful, poetic and extremely naturalistic tool for marking our place in the history of the universe. On the ECOlogical Calendar, years are marked since the dawn of the universe approximately 13.7 billion years ago (that will put things into perspective). Names of the months and days of the year are given poetic names that reflect the astrological, geological and ecological phenomena that are nature's holistic signposts marking the changes of the seasons. My birthday, for example, which is on Jan. 4 on the Gregorian calendar, occurs in the month Celeste and is called "Sunclosest" in the ECOlogical calendar, reflecting the ironic phenomena that though the Northern hemisphere is cold and dark this time of year, the Earth's actual proximity to the sun is relatively close (it's the tilt of the Earth that creates the seasons; in that sense, I guess the ECOlogical calendar does reflect a Northern hemisphere bias!).

At any rate, tools like the ECOlogical calendar are useful for reframing our normal way of viewing time and nature, and help correct centuries of anti-environmental sentiment that the world's religions have unfortunately reinforced. With their emphasis on the impermanence of the physical world and the afterlife, the great religions have often left believers with a sense that nature is unimportant, even fallen or corrupt. The Franciscans offer a long-standing alternative to this anti-nature attitude, emphasizing the sacredness and sacramentality of the physical world. Such a perspective will be essential if Christian practitioners hope to maintain a relevant place in this rapidly-changing environmental context, and a relevant and centered view of humanity's place in universal time.

Bells of Mindfulness

“Mundane withdrawal from the busyness of an active life can create a spirituality-without-walls, a spiritual practice that is not explicitly connected to a church or a tradition. I have never forgotten Joseph Campbell’s response when he was asked about his daily yoga practice: laps in a pool and a drink once a day. Anything is material for retreat—cleaning out a closet, giving away some books, taking a walk around the block, clearing your desk, turning off the television set, saying no to an invitation to do anything.

At the sight of nothing, the soul rejoices.”
—Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

Perhaps the greatest modern saint of simple, mindful living is Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist monk who was nominated by Martin Luther King, Jr., for the Nobel Peace Prize. Since the end of the Vietnam conflict, Thay, as he is called by his students, has written dozens of books and become the world’s ambassador for mindfulness.

Thay recommends very simple practices for waking up the present moment. One of his easiest strategies is to try to utilize normal, everyday sounds as “bells of mindfulness.” When we hear these sounds, we are encouraged to stop whatever we are doing, take a moment to smile and breath, and absorb whatever is going on around and within us. The ringing of the telephone, for example, instead of sending us scrambling to respond to yet another demand, can become our bell of awakening, and we can momentarily resist the urge to answer, collect ourselves back into the present moment, and then pick up the phone with compassion, wisdom and understanding.

There is a doorbell at my place of work that automatically rings when visitors enter the building to alert the staff that someone has arrived. It rings several dozen times a day. Thich Nhat Hanh would probably point out the reliability of this bell of mindfulness, and encourage me to use it for mini, instant retreats whenever I need to return to the present moment.

The Soul at Work

“Monastic buildings show us how an intense interior life may generate an outward form of art, craft, and the care of things. Out of a simple life has come an extraordinary heritage of books, illuminated pages, sculpture, architecture, and music. The cultivation of the inner life overflows in outward displays of beauty and richness.

Maybe it’s a mistake to think of the monastic life as a withdrawal from the active world. We might see it more as an alternative to the hyperactivity that is characteristic of modern life. Traditionally, the monk is extremely active, and on many fronts: actively engaged in nurturing the inner life, actively committed to a communal style of living, and actively producing words, images, and sounds of extraordinary meaningfulness and beauty.”
—Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

It seems such a stretch for me to imagine cultivating more awareness, more soulfulness, and more meaning out of my work life. My work environment seems the antithesis of monastic thoughtfulness and care. Home life, on the other hand, seems richly soulful to me. It is here at home that I am surrounded by the symbols that give my life meaning, by relationships that nourish and recreate me, where I can nurture little rituals of mindfulness, gratitude and joy.

It’s no wonder we feel so alienated and disconnected every day, when such a wide gulf exists between work and home. Is it just me? Does everyone feel this chasm? I think many do, and it accounts for the fragmentation and unease we experience regarding our work lives.

This is a challenge we must take up. We must find intentional ways to bring soulfulness and meaning back into our vocations and our workplaces. But I hardly know where to begin. To even use this kind of language at work seems slightly embarrassing. What will others think of me? Will they think I’m some kind of religious kook? What kind of strange looks and comments would I get if I closed my door every day and hung a sign that said, “Please do not disturb; meditation in progress”? And the truth is, in my work environment, which is so crisis-oriented, I fear I could not respect my own commitment to “soul time” even if others did. I’m lucky to even have a door to close. In many workplaces you’d have to go to the bathroom to get a minute’s worth of solitude.

I don’t know the answers, for myself or others. But I do know that we need to ask this question in an intentional, deliberate, and thoughtful way. Work is killing us, when it should be cultivating great joy and meaning in our lives. Perhaps today I will start with a tiny little experiment, one I’ve tried in the past with some success, when I can remember to do it. Today I will endeavor to slow down my pace (the speed of my physical activity as well as my thoughts) a mere ten percent. Reducing the pace ten percent actually takes far greater mindfulness than reducing it by half or coming to a complete stop. What I sometimes find is that in doing so, I can increase my productivity by more than ten percent, although that’s not the point. We’re not trying to become more productive; we’re trying to become happier, more holistic human beings.

Tending the Culture of Emptiness

“Early Christian monks went out to live in the desert in order to find emptiness. Modern life is becoming so full that we need our own ways of going to the desert to be relieved of our plenty. Our heads are crammed with information, our lives busy with activities, our cities stuffed with automobiles, our imaginations bloated on pictures and images, our relationships heavy with advice, our jobs burdened with endless new skills, our homes cluttered with gadgets and conveniences. We honor productivity to such an extent that the unproductive person or day seems a failure.

Monks are experts at doing nothing and tending the culture of that emptiness.”
—Thomas Moore, Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life

I don’t remember when I first became enamored with monks and the monastic life. It must have been in college, because I had no personal or cultural reference point earlier than that. When I became interested in Thomas Merton and in Buddhism, I quickly sought out monks and monasteries to see for myself what that life was all about.

Perhaps what has fascinated me the most over the years about the monastics I’ve come to know is how wonderfully human they are. Like me or you in every other way. What makes them different is their deep intentional commitment to live out of that space of emptiness within, to honor silence and solitude as the ground of a healthy, spirit-filled life.

Thomas Moore is best known for his many books on caring for the soul, but this little volume, Meditations on the Monk Who Dwells in Daily Life, is without question my favorite. In it, Moore reflects on the twelve years he himself lived as a monk, and the way in which his daily life is still shaped by that experience of “doing nothing.”

My prayer today, for you and for me, is that with grace, nothing will happen.

The Pillar of Cloud

“An elder said: The monk’s cell is that furnace of Babylon in which the three children found the Son of God; but it is also the pillar of cloud, out of which God spoke to Moses.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

A wonderful little teaching here on what the contemplative life is all about. Being a contemplative is not about being morally perfect, doing good deeds, austerities of the mind and body, etc. It is about using daily life as the stage for a direct encounter with the Ultimate Reality. The monk’s cell is the fire of Babylon and it’s the pillar of cloud.

We may not be monks, but some of us are surely called to be contemplatives, and therefore we could easily transpose the words “your bedroom,” “your office,” “your car” for the words “The monk’s cell.” We, too, are to enter the pillar of cloud.

Nearly a millennium after the Desert Fathers, the anonymous author of the Cloud of Unknowing used the same imagery to describe the deepest states of meditative prayer. When we sit in quiet, compassionate acceptance of whatever arises and falls in our minds and hearts (which is the essence of meditation), we can after a while discern a vast, open ground from whence all the thoughts come and to which they return.

It’s as if you can watch your thoughts and feelings arise and fall in the mind and then, without ignoring them, direct your inner gaze just behind or beneath them. The author of the Cloud describes it as “looking over the shoulder” of the thought, feeling or idea. What you see beyond them is…nothing. This nothingness is variously describing as a dark cloud, or a deep pool, or even a blinding light. But the great mystics, who have persisted with their prayer until they are existentially immersed into that cloud, have testified that it is in fact the heart of God (another metaphor). Words can’t describe it, but the experience of entering the cloud is to transform one’s understanding of who and what we are. It is to see the whole world as the furnace of Babylon and the pillar of cloud.

The Hundred-Year Perspective

“It was said of Abbot Agatho that for three years he carried a stone in his mouth until he learned to be silent.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

There is a terrific scene in the Bernardo Bertolucci film Little Buddha in which a child asks a Tibetan lama the meaning of impermanence. “See all these people,” the lama said, “and all the people everywhere in the world today. In a hundred years, we’ll all be dead. That’s impermanence.”

For some reason I awoke in the middle of the night last evening with a vivid sense of my own mortality. This was not particularly unusual or disturbing. This happens to me from time to time, and I usually see this kind of mindfulness as a gift. I feel fortunate to be reminded that I am often focused on the wrong things.

All the people with whom we have conflict and with whom we play out our human drama, and all the sources of our stress and difficulty, are just as impermanent as we are. All the things that cause us mental suffering and anguish are fading phenomena. One hundred years from now, very little of the specifics of what we do will matter at all. That we were stuck in a traffic jam, that we had the flu this week, that we had some problem at work, none of this will matter in a hundred years. For that matter, where we worked will probably not matter in a hundred years.

But this shouldn’t be interpreted with nihilistic despair. To the contrary, there are indeed many things we do which will matter a hundred years from now. The peace and justice we create in the world, the legacy of compassion and understanding that we demonstrate toward others, will create a ripple effect that will bear fruit for centuries to come. Perhaps we could say that what we do matters less than how we do it. Or, put another way, perhaps we should view our daily activities from this hundred-year perspective, and look for those small deeds that will in fact last that long, and not worry so much about the things that will be forgotten tomorrow—or even five minutes from now.

Abbot Agatho’s practice of silence is a wonderful example. Clearly, he did speak occasionally (we have the great legacy of his simple teachings in books like Wisdom of the Desert). But by practicing silence most of the time, he learned to make his words count when he did speak, and didn’t waste his breath or time on making noise that would quickly be swallowed up in the abyss of impermanence. And here are the words that were left, still counting nearly two millennia later.

Forever Beginners

“They said of Abbot Pambo that in the very hour when he departed this life he said to the holy men who stood by him: From the time I came to this place in the desert, and built me a cell, and dwelt here, I do not remember eating bread that was not earned by the work of my own hands, nor do I remember saying anything for which I was sorry even until this hour. And thus I go to the Lord as one who has not even made a beginning in the service of God.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

What a tremendous desert koan! And I can’t begin to fathom what it means.

Perhaps Abbot Pambo is saying that renunciation and silence—essential though they may be—are incomplete without compassion and service toward others. Contemplation must be responded to with action in the world? Or looked at another way, perhaps his efforts to be self-sufficient and independent of the world of “men” reinforced his ego (false self) on some level? Perhaps receiving from others’ hands and saying things for which we are sorry are necessary parts of our spiritual growth.

But maybe this saying is a revelation of Pambo’s great humility, and his recognition that grace is a gift freely given, that we ultimately cannot accumulate enough tally marks of good works and holy words to get credit for our service to God and others. Even after a life of solitude and silence, Pambo knew he was still a complete novice in work of the spirit, as we all are. And the miracle of grace is that we are loved and embraced though we remain forever beginners on the path.

Three Marks of Understanding

“Abbot Joseph of Thebes said: There are three kinds of people who find honor in the sight of God: First, those who, when they are ill and tempted, accept all these things with thanksgiving. The second, those who do all their works clean in the sight of God, in no way merely seeking to please others. The third, those who sit in subjection to the command of a spiritual [director] and renounce all their own desires.”
—Wisdom of the Desert

It is interesting that Abbot Joseph did not put any of these spiritual paths in rank order. Gratitude, good works (compassion), and renunciation (wisdom) are all presented as equal means to living an enlightened life. Perhaps these three gifts are all separate manifestations of the same experience? All three reveal the fundamental interconnectedness of reality.

We are not separate entities, though our existential loneliness and fear reinforce the illusion that we are (they are actually a by-product of this illusory thinking—the lack of “right views” and “right understanding,” as the Buddhists would say). From the contemplative perspective, all reality interpenetrates every particular phenomenon. This is the “true self” in contemplative terms. When the false self is abandoned and the true self is revealed, the resulting experience is marked by vast gratitude, compassion and wisdom. These three marks are the signs of real understanding.