When crows find a dying snake,
They behave as if they were eagles.
When I see myself as a victim,
I am hurt by trifling failures.
—Shantideva
LIFE IS NEITHER meaningful nor meaningless. Meaning and its absence are given to life by language and imagination. We are linguistic beings who inhabit a reality in which it makes sense to make sense.
For life to make sense it needs purpose. Even if our aim in life is to be totally in the here and now, free from past conditioning and any idea of a goal to be reached, we still have a clear purpose—without which life would be meaningless. A purpose is formed of words and images. And we can no more step out of language and imagination than we can step out of our bodies.
THE PROBLEM IS not that we lack resolve, but that it so often turns out to be misplaced. The meaning-laden feelings do not last. We resolve to become wealthy and famous, only to discover in the end that such things are incapable of providing that permanent well-being we initially projected onto them. Wealth and success are all very well; but once we have them their allure fades. It is like climbing a mountain. We expend great energy and hope on reaching the top, only to find when we get there that it is dwarfed by another even higher ridge.
In a changing, ambiguous world is anything worthy of total commitment? It is tempting to appeal to a purpose-giving God outside of time and space, a transcendent Absolute in which ultimate meaning is secured. But is this appeal not an urge for the consolation of religion? Is it not falling prey to the bewitchment of language? Dharma practice starts not with belief in a transcendent reality but through embracing the anguish experienced in an uncertain world.
A purpose may be no more than a set of images and words, but we can still be totally committed to it. Such resolve entails aspiration, appreciation, and conviction: I aspire to awaken, I appreciate its value, and I am convinced it is possible. This is a focused act that encompasses the whole person. Aspiration is as much a bodily longing as an intellectual desire; appreciation as much a passion as a preference; conviction as much an intuition as a rational conclusion. Irrespective of the purpose to which we are committed, when such feelings are aroused, life is infused with meaning.
ANGUISH EMERGES FROM craving for life to be other than it is. In the face of a changing world, such craving seeks consolation in something permanent and reliable, in a self that is in control of things, in a God who is in charge of destiny. The irony of this strategy is that it turns out to be the cause of what it seeks to dispel. In yearning for anguish to be assuaged in such ways, we reinforce what creates anguish in the first place: the craving for life to be other than it is. We find ourselves spinning in a vicious circle. The more acute the anguish, the more we want to be rid of it, but the more we want to be rid of it, the more acute it gets.
Such behavior is not just a silly mistake we can shrug off. It is an ingrained habit, an addiction. It persists even when we are aware of its self-destructive nature. To counter it requires resolve of equivalent force to live in another way. This is unlikely, though, to lead to an immediate change in the way we feel. A smoker may fervently resolve to give up cigarettes, but that does not prevent the tug of longing each time he enters a smoke-filled room. What changes is his resolve.
Dharma practice is founded on resolve. This is not an emotional conversion, a devastating realization of the error of our ways, a desperate urge to be good, but an ongoing, heartfelt reflection on priorities, values, and purpose. We need to keep taking stock of our life in an unsentimental, uncompromising way.
SOMEONE MIGHT SAY: “I resolve to awaken, to practice a way of life conducive to that end, and to cultivate friendships that nurture it,” but he may feel exactly the opposite much of the time. We are often content to drift from day to day, follow routines, indulge habits, and hang out, dimly aware of the background echo of our deeper resolve. We know this is insincere, unsatisfying—yet still do it. Even in meditation we may go through the mechanics of practice, lapse into fantasies, get bored. Or become self-righteous and pious.
Awakening is the purpose that enfolds all purposes. Whatever we do is meaningful to the extent that it leads to awakening, meaningless to the extent that it leads away from it. Dharma practice is the process of awakening itself: the thoughts, words, and deeds that weave the unfolding fabric of experience into a coherent whole. And this process is participatory: sustained and matured by communities of friendships.
The process of awakening is like walking on a footpath. When we find such a path after hours of struggling through undergrowth, we know at last that we are heading somewhere. Moreover, we suddenly find that we can move freely without obstruction. We settle into a rhythmic and easy pace. At the same time we are reconnected to others: men, women, and animals who have walked here before us. The path is maintained as a path only because of the tread of feet. Just as others have created this path for us, so by walking on it we maintain it for those who will come after us. What counts is not so much the destination but the resolve to take the next step.
Treading the path of awakening can embrace a range of purposes. At times we may concentrate on the specifics of material existence: creating a livelihood that is in accord with our deepest values and aspirations. At times we may retreat: disentangling ourselves from social and psychological pressures in order to reconsider our life in a quiet and supportive setting. At times we may engage with the world: responding empathetically and creatively to the anguish of others.
There is no hierarchy among these purposes; one is not “better” than the other; we do not “progress” from one to the next. They each have their time and place. If we seek inner detachment and clarity while our outer life is a mess, we may enjoy periodic escapes from turmoil but find no lasting equanimity. If we devote ourselves to the welfare of the world while our inner life is riven by irrational ideals and unresolved compulsions, we can easily undermine our own resolve.
COMMITMENT TO THE most worthy purpose is of little value if we lack confidence in our ability to realize it. We may console ourselves with the idea that at some future time awakening will dawn as a reward for having believed in it long enough. This is to literalize purpose: to confuse a valuable aim with an entity endowed with a shadowy, metaphysical existence. The longing for consolation might run deeper than we like to admit. It enables us to feel good about ourselves without having to do a great deal. But can we afford the luxury of consolation in a world where death is the only certainty, its time utterly uncertain, and the hereafter a hypothesis?
A commitment to dharma practice keeps us on our toes. We can notice when our resolve eases into a complacent routine, and observe how we seek to justify ourselves by seeking approval from others. We can be conscious of how we tend to ignore or escape anguish rather than understand and accept it. We can be aware that even when we gain insight into these things, we rarely behave differently in the future. Despite our overt resolve, we are still creatures of habit.
Resolve is activated by self-confidence, which in turn depends on the kind of self-image we have. If we see ourselves as insignificant, always in the shadow of others, then the slightest hardship will seem daunting. We will be drawn to those who insist that awakening is a distant goal, accessible only to a privileged few. Conversely, if we see ourselves as superior to others, then while outwardly disdainful of hardship, we are tormented by humiliation when it defeats us. We shun the friendship of those who might help dispel the conceit that traps us in yet another cycle of anguish.
Self-confidence is not a form of arrogance. It is trust in our capacity to awaken. It is both the courage to face whatever life throws at us without losing equanimity, and the humility to treat every situation we encounter as one from which we can learn.