Let Go or Be Dragged

A conversation I had today prompted me to reflect back on one of my previous relationships. It was a really short-lived relationship, only a few months in actual "time" (whatever "actual" time is). But it occupied much more space than that in my heart and my mind. When it ended, I found it very difficult to let go. In fact, I didn't let go. I held on to the idea of it inside, even after it was gone, and that was really painful.

"Let go or be dragged." Some poorly informed sources on the Internet and social media have attributed this quote to the Buddha. He didn't say it, but he might as well have. It's very Buddhist in a quippy sort of way. < Oh, snap! >

Attachment is the cause of suffering. When we attach to things in a fixed way, we create suffering for ourselves, because guess what? Things change. When asked to summarize the Buddha's teachings in a single phrase, Zen master Suzuki Roshi simply replied: "Everything changes." 

And so he changed. He announced he was moving to a different state. And, abruptly, any fantasies I was harboring about our future together were suffocated. But because I wasn't willing or able to let go in my heart, I got dragged. And the dragging actually went on for longer than the relationship did. True story!

"You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers," says a pro-gun bumper sticker in some red states like the one where I grew up. For me, just substitute "relationship" for "gun" and the same was true. I wasn't willing to let go of my fixed idea of a relationship that was, in reality, bound to the laws of change.

There's a teaching story in Buddhism about hunters who trap monkeys by hiding a sweet inside an empty shell with a small hole. The monkeys reach inside and grasp the sweet, but then they can't withdraw their clasped fist from the shell. They're not trapped by anyone else. They are trapped by themselves. Because they don't let go.

That relationship was many years ago now, and one of the things that came through to me today when I reflected on it was how perspective changes everything. Looking back now on that relationship, there were so many red flags that I chose to ignore. And I actually can't imagine being attached to that person anymore, or who I thought he was. Hindsight is 20/20.

A certain moment came, as a result of meditation and introspective practices, when I finally (and rather suddenly) let go of any attachment to the ghost of that old relationship. And when I did, I experienced freedom and a renewed lightness of being. But I didn't get that freedom from him. I got it from myself.

I was no longer behaving like the monkey who traps itself by refusing to let go of the sweet.

Nobody else is holding the key to your inner freedom. Only you can hold that key. And only you can unlock the door.

And here's the thing: your capacity for joy and happiness in this life depends on your inner sense of freedom. So what do you want? Do you want to be trapped, or do you want to be free? It's really up to you.

Forgiveness: The F Word (Streaming Audio)

Forgiveness is fundamental to our well-being and our spiritual growth, and is central to the teachings of Jesus, Buddha, and other spiritual figures. So why do we so often forget (or refuse) to put it into practice?

At this time of year we hear a lot of Hallmark card rhetoric about peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. But that very peace and goodwill begins in your own heart, and it expands outward from there. Forgive those who have trespassed against you, just as you would wish to be forgiven for your trespasses. Forgiveness and compassion are the prerequisites to peace on earth. Start where you are. Who can you forgive right now, in this very moment? And how would that change your experience of the world? Holy child, what in the hell are you waiting for? Be the change you want to see in the world.

Join Dennis Hunter for a free 37-minute satsang (dharma talk) exploring the stickiness of resentments, the freedom of letting go, and the vital role of forgiveness in spiritual awakening. Adapted from material presented in Chapter 13 of You Are Buddha: A Guide to Becoming What You Are.

Recorded on Christmas Eve, 2014.

The Great Liberation

Death was a recurrent theme during the two years I lived as a temporary monk at Gampo Abbey. From my circle of friends and acquaintances outside, I received emails telling me of one loss after another. My acquaintance John was horrifically stabbed to death in his apartment by his own lover. My friend Gregg, who suffered from depression and had attempted suicide a few times before, finally succeeded. In the space of a few months, two other acquaintances died by drug overdose. My grandmother died of old age. And finally there was Ani Palmo, a senior nun at the Abbey, who passed away in my presence. As I shared one loss after another with my fellow residents, we contemplated the frequency with which death was visiting my circle of loved ones.

In the Four Reminders, a traditional Tibetan Buddhist teaching, the second reminder urges us to remember how fleeting and fragile life is, like a bubble, and how quickly and unexpectedly the bubble may be ruptured. “Death comes without warning,” it says. “This body will be a corpse. At that time, the Dharma will be my only help. I must practice it with exertion.” In other words, carpe diem: practice like your hair is on fire, for you never know when your time will be up.

“We do not know where death awaits us so let us wait for it everywhere. To practice death is to practice freedom.” – Montaigne

It’s true that death sometimes comes without warning, but at other times it mounts an all-out media blitz to warn people of its coming. It can arrive suddenly in a burst of unthinkable horror, as it did for my friend John; or it can send word discreetly that it is planning to come in the near future. Death can creep in bit by bit over the course of many years, gradually tightening its grip with agonizing slowness, giving you plenty of time to think about it. That’s how it came for Ani Palmo, who had battled first throat cancer and then emphysema for about a decade. She had rehearsed and anticipated and talked about her death for so long that it became a sort of running joke at the Abbey. Ani Palmo was dying, and she had been dying ever since most people could remember; but we wondered if she might end up out-living most of us.

I only got to know Ani Palmo during her last year-and-a-half — but even then, in her diminished capacity, she was a formidable person. As a young child she lived in Poland under Nazi occupation; after the war, she spent five years in an orphanage operated by nuns. A psychologist by profession, she left her first husband and two young children, remarried and emigrated to Canada in the 1970s; but she soon felt lost and confused amidst the drinking and drugging and sexual freedom of the time. After becoming a student of Chogyam Trungpa, she found her way: she divorced her second husband, took life-long vows as a Buddhist nun, and entered a strict three-year retreat with Kalu Rinpoche.
  
In the effusive manner of an old-world Polish grandmother, she was famous for her hospitality, and for the cookies and chocolates and gossip she would offer to visitors at her cabin. But once you were relaxed and comfortable, she would turn her flashing, slightly intimidating blue eyes on you and ask you — in her thick Polish accent — about your meditation practice. Her frivolity was matched by her gravitas as a practitioner. Her students loved her passionately, and had a respect for her that bordered on fear – and for good reason. For all her sweetness, Ani Palmo had sharp edges. She could be severe and demanding, and disarmingly perceptive.

By the time I knew her, Ani Palmo was confined to her cabin, tucked in the woods a short ways from the Abbey, and she breathed with the help of an oxygen machine. I often went into town and did the shopping for Abbey residents, so I was the one who brought Ani Palmo her supplies of cookies and chocolates. Her eyes always lit up when I walked into the room, and she would greet me with a cheerful “Hieeee!” or with my monastic name, “Zopa!” Occasionally, she would ask me to bring her something contraband, such as an “everything” bagel with garlic and onions (both taboo substances in the Buddhist monastic code), and we would share a conspiratorial smile. Then she would invite me to sit down, offer me some of the goodies I had brought for her, and ask for the latest gossip from the Abbey. Often, she would break down in a spell of acute wheezing, unable to catch her breath, the fluids deep in her lungs rattling in a guttural way that alarmed me every time I heard it.

With Ani Palmo there was none of the usual tip-toeing around the subject of death. It was constantly on her mind, and on her tongue. She anticipated death every day, and in fact she wished it would hurry up and come. It was long overdue, as far as she was concerned. Any casual conversation with her was likely to come around to the topic of her death, and she often sent visitors away with some little cherished possession as a parting gift, in case they never met again: a photo, a tchotchke, a Dharma text or practice implement. She seemed to have an endless supply of these objects, so her practice of giving them away was never finished. Again and again, people came to visit her and say their final, emotional farewells, only to return in a year or two or three to find her still alive. At her 76th birthday celebration, she told us that if her birthday wish came true, she would not live to see another one.

Ani Palmo did not fear death; what she feared was the suffering involved in dying. She had seen her mother dying, also from emphysema. She had witnessed the horror and pain of someone slowly drowning in her own internal fluids, so she knew more or less what kind of physical suffering was in store for her. She was already deep in the grips of that suffering, and could only tolerate it with the help of morphine and Dilaudid. Among the team of people at the Abbey who shared the task of giving Ani Palmo her medications, it was joked — but we weren’t sure it was really a joke — that she took enough painkillers every day to kill William S. Burroughs in the prime of his opiate addiction.

Yet, for all that, she was remarkably clear-minded, and surrendered to her situation. She had long ago accepted her illness as her own karma coming to fruition, and she did not seem to have any resentment about it. Since there was no looking away from death, in her case, she chose to fully embrace it. Following the Tibetan tradition, she saw death as the greatest opportunity for liberation and enlightenment — as long as one is properly prepared for it.

When I went to visit Ani Palmo I would sometimes find her listening to a reading of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. This reading had been recorded specifically for her, years before, by Pema Chödrön. The book is a shamanic guide both to dying and to liberation for the consciousness of the dead person in what is called the bardo — the disembodied, confusing state after death but before rebirth. According to tradition, this in-between state is fertile with the potential for full awakening if one is trained to recognize the nature of mind and to rest in it with equanimity. Over the years she spent preparing for death, Ani Palmo must have listened to that recording at least 100 times.

During Ani Palmo’s last stay at the hospital, about an hour's drive away from the Abbey, we set up a team of people to take turns staying with her around the clock. On the day she passed, I went to the hospital for a late-morning shift. Serri, one of the other temporary monks, was there along with Barbara, the director of the Abbey. Ani Palmo was very agitated, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. She was talking very fast in what seemed to be Polish, and struggling to catch her breath in-between phrases.

“Look, Ani Palmo,” said Barbara. “Zopa’s here.” Ani Palmo grew quiet for a moment and opened her eyes wide, making an effort to focus on me; I couldn’t be sure if she still recognized me. Then her eyes went unfocused again and she lapsed back into her Polish monologue. I sat by her bed for a while and stroked her hand and arm. She seemed to want desperately to communicate something, but we had no idea what she was saying.

Then, from somewhere within the stream of incoherent words, a few syllables jumped out at me, and I suddenly recognized them: “...Vajra Guru...” I realized that Ani Palmo wasn’t babbling incoherently — she was reciting the Guru Rinpoche mantra. I began to sing the mantra repeatedly to its familiar melody: Om Ah Hum Vajra Guru Padma Siddhi Hum. Barbara and Serri joined in. Ani Palmo stopped speaking, her eyes still closed, and listened intently for a while as we repeated the mantra, and then she piped up again: “Om Ah Hum!” Those three syllables from the mantra that was sacred to her were her last clearly spoken words.

After a little while Ani Palmo raised her hand and gestured toward the MP3 player that held the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Serri turned on the recording, and we listened to Ani Pema’s voice as she began to guide Ani Palmo, according to tradition, through the stages of the dying process and its immediate aftermath. Since she had listened to the recording so many times before, it was natural to assume that this time might be like all the others.

After Barbara and Serri left to return to the Abbey, I was alone with Ani Palmo and the vivid descriptions, wafting out from the little MP3 player, of what one sees and experiences in the bardo of dying and the bardo of dharmata — the moment when the consciousness of the now-dead person reawakens without a physical body. According to tradition, in the bardo of dharmata the mind’s inherent luminosity and openness shines brilliantly and without obstruction, if only for a moment, before habitual patterns begin to cloud it over again. That moment of clarity is said to be ripe with potential for complete awakening, if one is able to recognize mind’s luminous, empty nature and remain within that experience.

The MP3 player was set on repeat, and Ani Palmo and I must have listened to that forty-minute section of the recording two or three times before it began to dawn on me that this might not simply be another in Ani Palmo's long series of rehearsals for death — that this might be the real thing. At a certain point Ani Palmo’s breathing abruptly shifted and became strangely calm. I called in the nurse to look at her. The nurse checked her IV line and felt her forehead, shrugged her shoulders, and left unfazed. She had seen similar things before.

I ran a washcloth under the tap and wiped Ani Palmo’s forehead with it. She was no longer very responsive to touch, but I could tell she was still listening to Ani Pema’s voice, and following the instructions. Every once in a while when Ani Pema would say her name, she would respond with a non-verbal sound of recognition, just the smallest of grunts — but enough to tell me she was still there, still listening. According to Tibetan Buddhist tradition, the hearing is the last of the senses to go; in fact, hearing is believed to continue functioning even in the bardo after death, which is why the Tibetan Book of the Dead is read aloud to people who have recently died.

Gradually, the spaces between Ani Palmo’s breaths became longer and longer. I began to silently count the time before her next in-breath: three, five, ten, fifteen seconds. At some point I waited for the next breath and counted the seconds, and then just kept counting: one minute, two minutes went by. I kept waiting, but she never took another breath. At the very end, after all those years of battling illness, she slipped across the threshold of death so peacefully that I wasn’t even sure it had happened. I reached out a hand to stroke her forehead and smooth her hair back, and whispered: “Your struggle is over, Ani Palmo. You’re free.”

Death is the greatest uncertainty, and yet nothing could be more certain than the fact that we will die. We don’t know when it will come, or how; and despite what we may believe and what tradition may tell us, we don’t really know what will or won’t happen once we cross that threshold. As with a black hole, we can’t know what lies beyond the event horizon because no light or information escapes the gravitational pull of this greatest of unknowns. But we can choose, to some degree, how we cross into the vast, open space of that question. We can go kicking and screaming with fear and regret, clutching in vain at the shards of the mirror that is shattering before our very eyes; or we can dissolve into that open space and trust that our fractured reflection in the broken mirror of self wasn’t really who we were in the first place.

Ani Palmo became one of my greatest teachers that morning: she showed me what the death of a great Dharma practitioner looks like. To the last moment, her commitment to waking up did not falter. Despite the complete deterioration of her body, the unbelievable amount of medication she was on, and whatever traces of fear and anxiety and attachment she might have felt — with so much stacked against her, she maintained the clarity and strength of mind and singularity of purpose to continue practicing, right up to the threshold of death, like her hair was on fire.

Diligence, Part Three: Put Your Heart into It

This is Part Three of a three-part article, a commentary on the seventh chapter of Shantideva's 8th-century text called the Bodhicharyavatara or Bodhisattvacharyavatara ("The Way of the Bodhisattva"). The seventh chapter deals with the topic of Diligence (or Joyful Exertion) on the spiritual path. Diligence is one of the Six Paramitas (Generosity, Ethical Conduct, Patience, Diligence, Meditation, and Wisdom), which are regarded in the Mahayana school of Buddhism as the six factors that develop the mind of awakening (or Bodhicitta) and ultimately bring it to its fruition of full enlightenment or Buddhahood.

To listen to the original talk in audio format, use the controls embedded below. (If you're reading this via email subscription and the controls do not show up in your email client, click on the title above to view the page online. Or, to download the talk, click here (and pardon the advertising on the download page).





Aspiration: The Power of the Mind

Aspiration has to do with how we hold our minds and where we direct our intentions. The human mind, in its concentrated form, is tremendously powerful, and wherever we direct our minds our actions usually follow, exerting a force that creates positive or negative effects. The root of the power of aspiration is really understanding, at a deep and personal level, how the law of cause and effect -- which we call karma -- really works. In Buddhist terminology, it means knowing what to adopt and what to reject, really understanding what brings happiness and what brings suffering. When we understand this in our bones, then we can put the full force of our minds behind the intention to adopt what is beneficial and to reject what is harmful.

Sometimes cause and effect is difficult to see at work in our own lives, because it's hard for us to be objective about ourselves. If our state of mind is negative and we're suffering, we feel like the victim of circumstances and we tend to look outside ourselves for the reasons why we feel the way we do. But it can be easy, at times, to see the law of karma at work in other people's lives -- we're on the outside looking in, and it's easier to be objective and to see clearly which causes are leading to which effects. Sometimes we look at other people and think, "Well, it's so obvious that what he's doing is causing him to experience this suffering he's experiencing. I wonder why he can't see it. If only he could see what I see, he wouldn't continue doing what he's doing." But we should try to apply the same, objective scrutiny to ourselves and our own actions. Once we really, deeply understand how cause and effect operate in our lives and what leads to happiness, then the strength of Aspiration to practice virtue naturally begins to grow in us. Once we've burned our hands on the stove a few times, we begin to develop strong awareness, and a strong motivation to stop doing that.


Steadfastness: Stand By Your Mind

Once we know what to do and we've made up our minds to do it, then it's a matter of sticking by our intention and not giving up when the first little challenge comes along. Shantideva says that it might be better not to begin, than to begin but give up when we're only halfway through. Doing that only creates the karma of being wishy-washy and half-hearted about the path of awakening, which isn't going to get us there. Before we set out on the road, he says, we should honestly consider our resources and accurately judge what we're capable of doing, and not bite off more than we can chew. Being open-minded but realistic about what we can do helps us develop steadfastness in our practice.

At the point where we've made a realistic assessment of what we can do and we've decided to do it, then we should rouse all our confidence and devote ourselves to it wholeheartedly. With great determination and courage, we should fearlessly meet whatever negativity arises in our minds or in the external situation, and remember that it's workable. Nothing is as solid and monolithic as we think it is.

Being realistic about our limitations sometimes involves an action that many of us on this path seem to find rather difficult, which is saying "No" when it's appropriate. Among aspiring Bodhisattvas I've met in the American Buddhist community, there seems to be an unspoken belief that to train as a Bodhisattva means to say "Yes" to whatever you're asked to do, particularly within the sangha. This can lead to people taking on more responsibility or more roles than they can reasonably handle, and to mental or physical burnout. Sometimes saying "No" is actually more beneficial in the long run; learning when to say "Yes" and when to say "No" is one of the Bodhisattva's skillful means.

Steadfastness also means setting appropriate boundaries for ourselves and others; we should not let ourselves get distracted from our intentions by people who might be pursuing less wholesome ones. Just as a drug addict in recovery cannot reasonably expect to be able to stay clean if he's hanging around with the same old crowd of drug users, so each one of us has certain people who trigger our less wholesome qualities and we can't help getting dragged down into a pit of neurosis. There's a saying in the 12-Step world: "If you hang around the barber shop, sooner or later you're gonna get a haircut." But Shantideva also points out that, while we would do better to avoid those kinds of people, we shouldn't be arrogant or condescending about it; recognizing the equality of self and other, we shouldn't cop an attitude of moral superiority to others just because they're confused and suffering.

Arrogance is a dangerous poison for anyone, but it's especially poisonous for the spiritual practitioner. If we use our practices and our experiences on the spiritual path to inflate our egos or hold ourselves as being superior to those who are not practicing as we do, then we are completely misguided. Chogyam Trungpa was once asked, along with several other Tibetan teachers, how a student could measure the success of his or her own practice. All of the other teachers gave long, somewhat formulaic answers, but Chogyam Trungpa went right to the point: basically, he said, you know your practice is successful if you're becoming less arrogant and less opinionated.


Joy: Put Your Heart into It

We devote ourselves wholeheartedly and joyfully to the acquisition of external things that promise to make us comfortable and happy: money, possessions, relationships, careers, hobbies, and so on. Yet we know how hollow those promises are; we've studied the Buddha's teachings on the suffering of impermanence. So why do we not pursue the causes of true and lasting happiness -- enlightenment itself -- with the same joy and zeal?

Pema Chodron puts it like this: Imagine what might happen if we pursued enlightenment, and engaged in all our spiritual practices, with the same enthusiasm as we feel for, say, going swimming, or for eating popcorn and watching a good movie. We would probably be there already!

The problem is that we apply our joy and enthusiasm to the wrong things. There's nothing wrong with the things themselves, or with having them and enjoying them -- but when we believe that they contain real and lasting happiness and we spend too much of our time and energy in pursuing them, then we have led ourselves astray. We're putting our faith in temporary, fleeting pleasures, and in things that will only abandon us in the long run. Our priorities have become mixed up.

Shantideva says it's like we're licking honey from a razor blade. We're so drawn to the honey because it tastes so good; yet we don't realize that our attachment to the pleasure of tasting the honey is leading us to shred our own tongues on the razor blade.

Once we sort out our confusion and realize where our true priorities lie, we can't help but take great joy in pursuing the ultimate goal, because we know where it will lead us.


Letting Go: Knowing When to Walk Away

The fourth strength that supports our practice of Joyful Exertion is "mukti" (or "moksha"), a loaded word in Sanskrit that is a bit difficult to render in English. It has been translated as "relinquishment" and as "moderation," among other things, and it means releasing or letting go, or a spirit of sacrifice. In ancient India, "mukti" and "moksha" (from the root "muc" meaning "to let loose, let go") also referred to the state of Nirvana or transcendent liberation itself, and a "mukta" was a renunciant, someone who had let go of worldly pursuits in favor of the spiritual life and ultimate freedom.

Shantideva explains the power of letting go in terms of knowing when we need to set aside our work and our practices and simply get some rest, so that we can come back to it refreshed and ready to continue. Knowing when to call it a day and how to avoid burning ourselves out is a skillful means that we sometimes have to learn through trial and error.

Letting go could also mean something like the notion that is often expressed in 12-Step literature, of taking the right action and then letting go of the results. We can simply do what we know is the right thing to do in a situation, then turn over the results to forces that are larger than ourselves. When we take an action but don't let go -- when we continue trying to micro-manage the situation and control the results even after it's out of our hands -- then we are playing God. This usually undermines the beneficial effects of our actions.

Finally, applying the power of letting go could also be knowing when to walk away from a situation altogether -- knowing when remaining in a situation is no longer beneficial to you or to the other person, and will only be harmful. If you're in an abusive relationship, or involved with someone who's stealing from you or manipulating you, or if you're part of a community where one individual consistently causes trouble for the whole community and you know the situation isn't going to improve despite your best efforts to work with it, then the most beneficial thing to do is perhaps to cut your losses and walk away. You can still hold the aspiration that at some point in the future -- in this lifetime or a future one -- circumstances will change enough so that you could once again work with and benefit this person and resolve the negative karma between you, but wisdom in this case means knowing that, right now, that isn't possible.

As the great sage Kenny Rogers put it:

"You gotta know when to hold 'em
Know when to fold 'em
Know when to walk away
And know when to run."

This is another skillful means that is potentially difficult for us to learn, as aspiring Bodhisattvas. We sometimes don't know where to draw healthy boundaries. We might think that our commitment to work with the neurosis of other sentient beings means that we have to just take whatever abuse the other person may inflict upon us. Slogans such as "All victory and gain to others, all loss and defeat to myself" might reinforce this idea. But the Bodhisattva ideal is not about making ourselves into a doormat; if someone is trampling all over us, they're really creating negative karma for themselves, and we're reinforcing the karma of being a doormat -- and to allow that kind of situation to continue past a certain point is what we call "idiot compassion."


Alert! Alert! Yet, relax! Relax!

To close chapter seven, Shantideva presents a series of pith reminders about how to practice Joyful Exertion or Diligence. Like Suzuki Roshi, he reminds us that although what we are doing is very important, we should also not take it -- or ourselves -- too seriously. Our path will be more successful and more enjoyable if we can be a bit more light-hearted about the whole thing and maintain a sense of humor. And when we realize that we've totally lost it, which is inevitable -- when we've dropped our sword in the middle of battle -- the only thing to do is to pick it up as quickly as possible and continue. It's no use (to mix metaphors) crying over spilt milk. When we rise to meet whatever challenges present themselves with this spirit of lightness and joy and delight in virtue, then it's like a cool breeze that enlivens all our actions and makes every situation we encounter much more workable and relaxed.

But not too relaxed! To sustain our path over the long haul, we need to apply constant mindfulness and guard against sneak attacks from the enemy within, who is always waiting in ambush. If we give our lesser nature an opening and allow our kleshas to go unchecked, they will quickly overwhelm us, and even small, petty emotions will get the better of us. Shantideva says that we should watch our minds with the same urgency and one-pointedness as someone would watch a snake that had crawled into their lap. Through maintaining this mindfulness in every situation and never wavering in our commitment to benefit all sentient beings, we can travel the path to enlightenment without unnecessary detours and swiftly arrive at the mind of absolute Bodhicitta -- mind that is absolutely, 100% awakened, fully manifesting all its positive qualities of wisdom and compassion, with no further obscurations to hinder it.

That's what they say, anyway...the ones who've been there. Frankly, it sounds like a better game plan to me than anything I've been able to come up with. What about you?


Dedication of Merit

By whatever boundless merit we have attained
Through hearing, studying and communicating the Dharma,
May beings everywhere who suffer from addiction and attachment
Be liberated into great bliss wisdom.
May beings tormented by anger and aggression
Be liberated through love and equanimity.
May beings trapped in ignorance and denial
Be liberated into transcendent knowledge and see true reality.
And as beings travel the path to enlightenment,
May all forms of laziness be swept away by the great wind of Joyful Exertion.