CHAPTER TWELVE

Obligation and Loving Kindness

When we come to the moment of our death, it is likely that a few simple questions will arise in our hearts: Did I love well? Was I generous and kind? Did I allow myself to be loved? How did I share that love with others?

Few people facing the end of their lives worry that they didn’t spend enough time at work; not many wonder if they made enough money, or went to enough meetings. Instead, as they prepare themselves for death, they become focused on the deep love they have for their family, their children, and their friends. What could be more important? To hold those we love, to give our love freely, to be open and generous with our care— these are the measures of our life, the priceless rewards of our time on earth.

Perhaps our most painful childhood legacy is that we have few, if any, clear memories of exchanging unconditional, trustworthy care and affection with someone close to us. Many of our families were confused about love; love was neither given nor received with ease, and we were cautious and unsure about how to care for one another. Around tender feelings we were clumsy and awkward. Even when love was intended, it could often be misinterpreted or mistrusted.

To many of us, the idea of “unconditional” love seems abstract, foreign, somehow utopian. Much of the care in our families involved an intricate maze of contracts and conditions: If I do this or that for you, then you will behave in a caring way toward me—or (at the very least) you will not hurt me. Our experience of care was fraught with covert, reciprocal contracts designed to minimize the harm we would bring to one another. In this way, gestures of affection were actually strategic maneuvers calculated to fulfill our obligations to those around us. Caring acts were primarily defensive: If we didn’t hold up our part of the caring bargain, we could be rejected, hurt, or abandoned. So we learned to be attentive, to listen to everyone else’s problems, to try to be helpful when others were in pain. We cultivated an ability to construct the correct phrase, create the proper atmosphere, and generate sufficient support so that anyone in pain would feel better after they had been with us. We used the language of care to buy safety, belonging, and peace, and this was a language we mastered to perfection.

We learned to use care and kindness as a weapon for our defense, manufacturing sympathetic words and caring behaviors for whomever came our way. But this was not true love or generosity; this was a desperate response to a fearful obligation. Even as we perfect our ability to care for others in order to secure a reciprocal kindness from them, our own hearts are often closed, empty, and removed. By all outward appearances, we may seem to be freely giving care to those in need—a beautiful thing to do, and a lovely practice—but in reality, when we care for others as a defense, with no hope of drinking from the fountain of loving kindness ourselves, we set up an imbalanced, resentful, and dishonest situation in which we quickly burn out. Ultimately these seemingly endless demands for care simply drive us deeper into isolation and despair.

When Bill was a child, his mother seemed in constant need of care and attention, and she often came to Bill for advice. Even though he was small, it felt to Bill that his mother wanted him to take care of her, and not the other way around. Since Bill naturally wanted her love, he would always try to help her; maybe if he gave her enough love and attention, she would eventually be strong enough to take care of him. But after repeatedly giving her advice on her life, her friends, her marriage, and her family, Bill felt drained and empty. He eventually decided that his mother would never be able to care for him. Further, he concluded that he would never be loved without first paying a great price. So he gradually stopped looking to his mother for love and affection. Over time, he stopped going to anyone. He had come to see care as a necessary evil: something relentlessly required by the world around him, but something he despaired of ever receiving himself.

We feel obliged to provide care for others in order to earn our place, to placate those around us, to be accepted, and to protect ourselves from harm. Over time, we begin to see care as a substance, something that we “have” that we are required to “give” in order to satisfy the endless demands of a desperate world—and so that we may finally “get” some care ourselves. Like dipping into some secret stash, we have to determine when to give whatever care we have, who needs it most, how to distribute it so that everyone feels satisfied, and how to figure out how much is left at the bottom of the barrel. Then, when we are “empty,” we have to find some way to “get” some more. This forces us to “take care” of ourselves until we are full again, then we resurrect the cycle of “giving” care all over again.

Yet true love, by definition, is unconditional and abundant. It is not gained by contractual arrangements with those around us. When we say, “I will love you if you will love me back,” we are still bargaining in fear. And out of that fear, we place endless demands on those we love: “I will love you as long as you don’t change, as long as you stay the way you are, as long as you behave the way I want.” When these contracts become confused with true love, they actually separate us from one another, as we become objects of one another’s desperation.

When we love, are we really doing anything at all? In fact, we are likely to feel most loved when we simply hold one another. A simple, loving touch, a small gesture of care, a single word of kindness help remind us of a place deep within where we know we are already loved, that we are cared for by God, by the spirit, by the earth itself. A single moment of care can remind us that we are safe and whole. When we touch that place in ourselves, it is a very powerful moment indeed. Our practice is to continually remind one another of this place, to remember with a gentle heart the tremendous care available to each one of us in every step we take.

Even in the most painful situations, we may still experience tremendous love and care. When we encounter someone who is suffering the heartbreak of a divorce or the loss of a family member, when we sit with a friend who is struggling with cancer or AIDS, when we speak with people who were terribly hurt as children—even in the midst of our most poignant losses, we may still feel a loving connection as members of a common family. Here, there is no contract, no obligation; no one “has” the care, no one is giving, no one is taking. As we share the pain of being human, we also share the love that is part of our lives together.

Care and Dishonesty

Regardless of how loving we are, it is impossible to expect that we will have genuine feelings of care for everyone all the time. There will inevitably be moments when we become weary, hurt, or afraid, when we feel vulnerable and in need of care ourselves, and experience a scarcity of loving kindness in our hearts. In these moments, if we continue to feel obliged to manufacture care for others, we quickly learn to equate care with dishonesty. If we were truly honest and said “No, I don’t have time for you today,” or “I am not feeling well,” or “I’m sorry, I am finding your behavior difficult and I don’t enjoy spending time with you,” then we might appear cruel and insensitive. If we spoke what was true, we may hurt someone’s feelings, and they would be angry. They would probably reject us, dislike us, even abandon us, and so we decide that the most expeditious thing we can do is to lie, to shade the truth, to manufacture a facade of care that conceals our true feelings. We become adept at manufacturing a caring and supportive attitude even when we may be feeling no such thing. We learn to justify our emotional dishonesty in the name of kindness.

When Betty was young, her mother would get drunk late at night. She would then wake Betty up and make her sit and talk and keep her company while she drank. Betty, half asleep, would try her best to look interested and attentive so her mother wouldn’t get mad or yell at her. But all the while, as she endured one drunken monologue after another, all Betty ever wanted was to be left alone so she could go back to sleep.

To this day, Betty is known as a person who will sit and listen to anyone’s problems, and people always leave feeling better. But Betty confided to me that she often has no real love for them—in fact, she feels angry and resentful that they take so much of her time. “I can’t believe I let all these jerks just use me up. I keep hoping if I listen to them long enough, they will finally just go away and leave me alone.”

Terri and Jay were seen by everyone in their circle as an ideal couple. She was an artist, he was a musician, and they were both successful and admired for their work. However, after some time Terri realized that even though they shared many interests, she was not really in love with Jay. She enjoyed his company and liked him as a good friend, but she did not feel the deep, passionate love of a wife for her husband. For many years she never spoke to any of her friends about her ambivalent feelings; she feared they would be disappointed if they knew how she really felt. More important, she was afraid that if she said anything about her true feelings, the marriage would instantly come to an end. So Terri decided that keeping the truth to herself was necessary to preserve her marriage. It seemed the kindest thing to do for everyone concerned.

In our families, few people dared to be honest about their thoughts and feelings. No one wanted to be the one to say that our mother was emotionally disturbed, that our father seemed incredibly angry, that our parents were unkind to us, or that we weren’t happy. If we said what was true, people would likely become even more angry and upset. So we equated not telling the truth with being kind, with not causing pain, and with preserving the peace. After a while, we convinced ourselves that dishonesty—while necessary for our survival—was the most expedient form of kindness.

But denying the truth actually served to prolong our family suffering. Indeed, it would have been infinitely kinder if someone in our family had had the courage to clearly name our sorrows, our fears, and our hurts. By not telling the truth about ourselves, we intensified our secret suffering and we made any exchange of authentic love impossible. How could we feel loved when we pretended to be someone else? It is not that we were maliciously dishonest, it was just that hiding the truth had become such a fearful habit, we simply knew of no other way to be kind; kindness and honesty had become seemingly incompatible.

But, as we have seen, telling the truth is often the seed that gives birth to love. When we are able to honestly name our fear, our sadness, and confusion—and when we can meet ourselves, just as we are, with acceptance and compassion—then we cultivate the possibility of an authentic loving kindness toward ourselves. Self-acceptance is impossible if we cannot speak truthfully about ourselves. Without the truth, we may learn to accept who we appear to be, but what we are accepting is a lie. Mindfully naming where we are stuck, frightened, or caught opens the door to genuine self-acceptance and loving kindness toward ourselves and others. Jack Kornfield, a gentle teacher of Buddhist meditation, says that the essence of spiritual practice is self-acceptance:

... It is the ground out of which any other freedom or understanding can come. Our practice is to begin to listen to where we are closed to ourselves, to our bodies, our feelings, our hearts... and out of this can come a very deep opening, and forgiveness, and healing of the heart.

Suffering and Love

In Vietnam there is a traditional folk tale that describes the difference between heaven and hell. In hell, everyone is given an abundance of food, and then given chopsticks that are a yard long. Each person has all the food they need, but because the chopsticks are too long, the food never reaches their mouths.

In heaven, the image is exactly the same: Everyone is given an abundance of food, and their chopsticks are also a yard long. But in heaven, the people use their chopsticks to feed one another.

A single act of compassion can instantly transform hell into heaven. The word compassion comes from the Latin pad, which means “to suffer.” Com-pati means “to suffer with,” to feel the pain of another as it reflects our own. Compassion, then, is not something we give to another; rather, it is something we share through a mutual recognition of our common suffering.

When we share the hell of our hearts in the company of others, we open something deep within us, something warm and alive, a rich sensation of being part of one another. Through the practice of compassion we may love and be loved without holding, without keeping score.

There is a story from the time of the Buddha; Kisa Gotami, a young woman, married a man who loved her very much. In time, she gave birth to a son. She and her husband were exquisitely joyful and together lived quite happily. Sadly, two years after their son was born, the child became ill and died very quickly. Kisa Gotami was devastated; her heart was broken. She was so stricken with grief that she refused to admit that her son had died. She carried his small corpse around, asking everyone she met for medicine to make her boy well again.

Kisa Gotami went to the Buddha and asked him if he could please cure her son. The Buddha looked at Kisa Gotami with deep love. He said, “Yes, I will help you; but first I need a handful of mustard seed.” When the mother in her joy promised to collect the seed immediately, the Buddha added, “But the mustard seed must be taken from a house in which no one has lost a child, husband, wife, parent, or friend. Each seed must come from a house that has not known death.”

Kisa Gotami went from house to house asking for the mustard seed, and always the response was the same: “Yes, we will gladly give you some mustard seed. But alas, the living are few and the dead are many.” Each had lost a father or mother, husband or wife, son or daughter. She visited one home after another, and every home told the same story. By the time she got to the end of the village, her eyes were opened, and she saw the universality of sorrow. Everyone had experienced some great loss, each had felt tremendous grief. Kisa Gotami realized she was not alone in her suffering; her sorrow had given birth to a compassion for the larger human family. Thus, Kisa Gotami was finally able to grieve the death of her son and bury him, and she returned to the Buddha to thank him and receive his teachings.

Many of us have had moments when—sitting at the bedside of someone close to death, surrounded by friends, family, and our community of loved ones—the presence of shared loss has opened everyone’s heart. The sadness, hurt, and grief slowly melted our separateness and we were able to feel tremendous love for the person who was dying, and an abiding compassion for one another. We could each feel how the other was in pain, and simply by holding hands, sitting quietly, even just making tea or preparing a meal together, we were exquisitely conscious of our whole community caring for itself. In a family gathered together by sorrow or death, we felt a tremendous abundance of love available to us all. “Love,” said Teilhard de Chardin, “is capable of uniting living beings in such a way as to complete and fulfill them, for it alone takes them and joins them by what is deepest in themselves.”

The Practice of Loving Kindness

There was once a young rabbi who lived in a small mountain village. He was a clever young man who believed himself to be very wise, and he had a great desire to be recognized for his tremendous gifts. But to his disappointment, the people of the village had never honored or respected him to his satisfaction. This had left him feeling bitter and resentful.

One day an old rabbi, famous for his wisdom, came to the village. The clever young rabbi saw this as a great opportunity; the old master was going to speak before a gathering of the villagers the following morning, and the young rabbi decided to devise a test for him. At the right moment, in the middle of the gathering, the young man would approach the elder rabbi holding a tiny bird in his hand. Then he would ask him the following question: “Rabbi, I have a bird in my hand. Can you please tell me, is the bird alive, or is it dead?” If the rabbi answered, “The bird is alive,” the young man could easily crush the small creature and hold it out for all to see, proving that the old rabbi was wrong. On the other hand, if he replied, “The bird is dead,” the young rabbi would simply let the bird fly away into the sky, clearly demonstrating his superior cleverness and wisdom.

The next day, when the rabbi sat before the assembled villagers, the young man stood up and challenged him with his question. “Rabbi, we all know that you are clever and wise; but please, sir, if you will, can you tell me if the bird I hold in my hand is alive or dead?”

The rabbi was silent for a moment; everyone awaited his response. Then, with eyes of infinite compassion, he looked at the young man and gently replied, “It is up to you, my friend. It is up to you.”

At this point in our lives, we hold the key to our healing in our own hands. The wounds of childhood are long past, and we have thoroughly investigated the lingering scars that color our emotional landscape. We have learned to speak the truth about our sorrows and hurts, and to describe the inner geography of our hearts with clarity and precision. We have also begun to discover that, as children of a larger family, we have available to us a wealth of healing practices bequeathed to us from the spiritual traditions of the world.

Beginning in this moment, starting with this very breath, our healing is up to us. As the rich mixture of sorrow and wisdom that saturates our life becomes more evident, as we mindfully explore the tremendous depth of who we really are, our challenge is to integrate these healing practices into our daily lives. Each emotional wound we have identified, every exercise, meditation, and practice of mindfulness ultimately serves to engender an acknowledgment and trust in a deep spirit of strength, wisdom, and wholeness we carry within ourselves.

The fundamental thread that runs through the fabric of these teachings is the practice of loving kindness. Each childhood wound and every spiritual teaching has been presented to help us cultivate a particular aspect of mercy and compassion toward ourselves. At each juncture we have been confronted with a choice: Do we meet ourselves and our wounds with judgment or with mercy? Do we touch our childhood memories with anger, or soften them with love and forgiveness? Do we recall our violations with shame, or embrace them with genuine acceptance; do we react with fear and isolation, or with faith and courage? Do we add to the violence within ourselves, or do we cultivate unconditional love and kindness for all we have been and all we have become?

Every day we live, each moment, offers a fresh opportunity to be more gently loving with ourselves and others. We begin by learning to belong in the sanctuary of our own breath, to feel more at home in our own bodies, more confident in our rightful place as a member of the human family. This enables us to accept wholeheartedly ourselves and others just as we are, thereby planting the seeds of a genuine, secure experience of belonging.

Second, as we make a forgiving peace with the childhood we were given, we become more able to respond compassionately to those who, intentionally or unintentionally, brought us harm. As we loosen our habitual attachment to the old childhood stories, we begin to cultivate a mindful appreciation of our current gifts and capacities. We are free to be more creative and spontaneous in our generosity with ourselves and others.

In the same way, as we soften the tyranny of our judging mind, and as we let go of an exaggerated sense of our importance, we begin to experience a quality of mercy and inner peace. Through self-acceptance, mercy, and humility, we are set free to care for ourselves and others with less resentment, less anger, and less fear. As we slowly recognize that there may be enough love available for us all, we come to feel that our kindness and affection may be given freely without judgment or fear of depletion.

Finally, our healing is deepened through a mindful cultivation of simplicity, stillness, and nonattachment. These practices enable us to listen more precisely to the voices of our heart and spirit. We learn to name what is most deeply true within ourselves and to embrace what we have been given with gratefulness. As we become quiet and still, we gain access to an abundance of inner resources that give us permission to be kind and generous with ourselves and others.

Every spiritual practice is an act of love. Each act of mindfulness, of meditation, and of compassion helps soften our fearful holding to the past and allows us to speak more clearly and precisely from the heart. Each time we mindfully attend to the present moment, we make space for great healing. Each time we hold the pain with love and mercy, we create one less moment of fear, one less act of judgment, one less instance of bringing harm to ourselves or others. With every gesture of mercy and compassion, we refuse to add to the mountain of suffering we all share. Each moment that we meet ourselves with loving kindness, we perform a revolutionary act. Over time, the potent impact of a thousand loving moments inexorably combines to profoundly alter the basic emotional assumptions that have governed our lives.

Compassion for Ourselves and for the World

For many of us, an authentic love for others has been virtually impossible when we have had so little love for ourselves. Wherever there is judgment, fear, or holding within ourselves, we inevitably encounter a resistance to be free and open with our love for others. If we judge ourselves, we will judge the world; if we are angry and impatient with ourselves, we will be angry and impatient with our friends and family. Peace and healing in the world must begin within ourselves. As Ramana Maharshi, the Indian sage, once said: “As we are, so is the world.”

The Dalai Lama is the exiled spiritual and political leader of Tibet who was granted the Nobel Peace Prize for his nonviolent work on behalf of the oppressed Tibetan people. Speaking of the unending quest for world peace, the Dalai Lama said:

The question of real, lasting world peace concerns human beings, so basic human feelings are also at its roots. Through inner peace, genuine world peace can be achieved. In this the importance of individual responsibility is quite clear; an atmosphere of peace must first be created within ourselves, then gradually expanded to include our families, our communities, and ultimately the whole planet.

In the Judeo-Christian scriptures, sages and prophets had predicted for centuries that a great savior would come who would be the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords. But when Jesus the Savior came, he arrived as a tiny, helpless infant born to poor refugee parents. Everyone had assumed that God would save them, love them, and take care of them. But when Jesus arrived, they unexpectedly found themselves providing nourishment and care for a tiny, divine infant.

We practice truly loving ourselves by learning first to imagine that the God-child is alive and present in the manger of our own heart, within our own body and spirit. Next, we must accept that part of our spiritual practice is to care for that divine child that lives most tangibly within us. If we are gentle, kind, and loving with ourselves, we may begin to see ourselves as God sees us, as a child of light, a child in whom the spirit of God has made its home. As a young child, we may have been hurt badly, our families may have brought us great suffering, and our hearts may have been broken. The practice of loving kindness insists that we meet this wounded child of God with tenderness and mercy; as God’s child, we deserve all the love in the world.

How do we learn to love and honor the God within us? How do we hold the divine spirit that lives within all beings with mercy and loving kindness?

A troubled woman came to the Indian saint Ramakrishna, saying, “Oh, Master, I do not find that I love God.” He asked, “Is there nothing, then, that you love?” To this she answered, “My little nephew.” He replied, “There is your love and service to God, in your love and service to that child.”

We do not find God apart from ourselves, apart from our sisters and brothers. The face of every being that lives is a reflection of the divine, every one of us carries a spark of the spirit of God. When we love anyone, we are loving God. When we care for anyone, we are caring for God. Jesus said that whatever you do for anyone who suffers, you do for Him. When we open our hearts, our homes, or our hands in service to anyone in need, we are making a place for God. Every act of loving kindness toward ourselves or others is an act of love for God.

This kind of love needs no religion, no theology, no church; a simple act of kindness is a precious sacrament and a moment of love is an epiphany. No more is required of us than this: that we love ourselves and one another with gentleness and mercy, for we each carry within us the tender heart of God.

Many people with AIDS have spoken to me of a certain quality of loving attention that they now bring to themselves and others as a result of their illness. “I always had a hard time loving myself,” said Angela, a friend with AIDS. “But since I have been sick I’ve been looking at my life and learning to be kinder and more loving toward myself. It feels good. I am so thankful.”

Growing up with a scarcity of love and care in our families, many of us are reluctant to be too generous or loving with ourselves. To be kind to ourselves seems self-centered and selfish. But love for ourselves and love for others are not mutually exclusive. A compassionate heart makes no distinction: You are a child of God, as I am a child of God, and we both need loving care. True love does not sacrifice others for our own needs— nor does it sacrifice ours for others. Loving kindness does not require that we decide who will be deprived; there is enough care available for everyone. As Jesus said, “Go and learn the meaning of this: I desire mercy, not sacrifice.”

The practice of loving kindness must find its root deep within us. The story is told that Mohandas Gandhi once settled in a village and at once began serving the needs of the villagers who lived there. A friend inquired if Gandhi’s objectives in serving the poor were purely humanitarian. Gandhi replied, “Not at all. I am here to serve no one else but myself, to find my own self-realization through the service of these village folk.”

As Gandhi wisely points out, even as we serve others we are working on ourselves; every act, every word, every gesture of genuine compassion naturally nourishes our own hearts as well. It is not a question of who is healed first. When we attend to ourselves with compassion and mercy, more healing is made available for others. And when we serve others with an open and generous heart, great healing comes to us.

As we investigate the sorrows of childhood and their lingering effects on our minds and hearts, we gradually come to realize that we ultimately share our suffering with all the children of the earth. All beings who are born are given a portion of that pain, and all beings stand in need of deep healing, love, and care. Consequently, our healing is not just for us; the more we feel our place in the human family, the more we undertake our own healing as part of our love for all beings who suffer. As we extend our circle of kindness and compassion to include all living things, the more we engender the possibility of true, lasting peace within ourselves and for all humanity. As Thomas Merton observed, “The whole idea of compassion is based on a keen awareness of the interdependence of all these living beings, which are all part of one another and all involved with one another.”

As we heal the wounds of the past, we carry less pain into the world, less confusion and anger, and we bring more clarity and peace. Here, our work is not simply for personal gain; it becomes our gift, our offering to the human family, to the earth, and to the divine spirit within us all. Albert

Schweitzer, after a lifetime of compassionate service, noted a profound correlation between our own happiness and the happiness of others. “One thing I know,” he said, “the only ones among you who will be really happy are those who have sought and found how to serve.”

The Buddha said, “If you knew what I know about the power of giving, you would not let a single meal pass without sharing it in some way.” Most of us are naturally compassionate, but for some of us, the wounds of childhood have suffocated our natural generosity toward ourselves and others. We often feel sad and troubled because we are unsure how to love, how to be helpful to ourselves and others, how to be most useful to the family of the earth. Our task is not to learn how to be loving; the love within us is already full and alive. Our practice is to melt the fear and armor that imprisons our hearts. Then our impulses to love and our inclinations to be generous and kind blossom easily and surely within us.

These are the fruits of our practice: to become kind and loving with ourselves and others. The painful legacy of our family sorrow turned us fearfully inward, isolating our deepest gifts from ourselves and one another. These practices gently reveal the wealth of courage, wisdom, and loving kindness that has been imprisoned, in exile, hidden away deep within our bodies and hearts for most of our lives.

Mindfulness and Loving Kindness

In Chinese, the words for mind and heart share the same root. So when we use the practice of mindfulness to heal the remaining wounds of childhood, it might be more accurate to say we are cultivating heartfulness, a courageous discipline of attending to ourselves with an open heart. The practices of heartfulness and mindfulness are potent methods that enable us to gently extricate ourselves from the seductive morass of our childhood memories. Mindful loving kindness may be our most powerful healing tool—and it may only be found in the present moment. AU healing is available to us just as we are—not when we are old enough, or more evolved, or free from the difficulties of being human. Healing comes when we are able to meet ourselves and others, just as we are, with unconditional appreciation, gratefulness, and compassion.

Love is not something we can extract from the past. When we look to the past for the love we never received, we remain forever entangled in regretful preoccupations with our childhood disappointments. On the other hand, love is equally impossible in the future. Regardless of how much we plan, scheme, and strategize about how we will arrange to be loved, how often do we feel truly cared for while dreaming of the future? Our dreams of future love are more likely to cause worry and anxiety as we perform our desperate orchestrations, and in spite of our best efforts, we are often left feeling dissatisfied and disappointed.

Our only hope for loving kindness is today, in this moment, this instant; there is no other soil in which love can grow. If the heart is to open, it can only happen in this very breath. What are you waiting for? How can you be kinder or more loving to yourself in this moment? Where will you place your care? What in your body or heart is in need of special attention? Which person or situation in your life would benefit from a moment of loving kindness?

Acts of love are often uncomplicated, small gestures that require little effort: a touch on the shoulder, a word of appreciation, a cup of cocoa, a warm bath, or a note of thanks. It could be so simple, so easy to be more loving in this instant. Loving kindness is the most powerful enzyme of healing and is always available to us in this very moment. How much longer can we afford to wait? And, more important, how can we begin?

Perhaps we may begin with ourselves. You could take just a few moments each day to cultivate a simple practice of loving kindness. It requires such little time. You may even start this moment: Take a minute to arrange yourself in a comfortable position, and slowly let your attention come to rest in your breath. Then, sitting still, slowly begin to recite this prayer of loving kindness:

May I be happy.
May I be peaceful.
May I be free from suffering.
May I be healed...

What happens as you repeat this prayer over and over, quietly within the heart? Do you notice any resistance or hesitation to be gentle and loving with yourself? What thoughts or worries impede your loving in this moment? Observe any tension that arises in the body, any struggle in the mind or heart. As you repeat the prayer, also be aware of softening, of letting go. Observe any sensations of warmth or love that arise within you. How do you feel?

This prayer of loving kindness is called metta, and in Buddhism is considered the heart of spiritual practice. The Buddha taught that all beings require loving kindness, and in this moment, you may begin with yourself. You can recite this prayer of loving kindness to yourself every morning you awake, before you get out of bed. Undertake this loving kindness practice for thirty days, choosing phrases most meaningful to you. (You may wish to add, “May I be filled with compassion,” “May I be soft and open,” “May I be loving.” Use words that feel nourishing and true.) As each day goes by, observe how merciful and accepting you are and how much compassion you have available for yourself.

At the end of the month, you may expand your metta practice to include others, beginning with your family, then your friends, your community, expanding outward to include all beings, even the earth itself. Practicing this loving kindness meditation every day, you may find it easier to care for yourself and others. You may become less inclined to procrastinate before you perform an act of kindness. As it becomes more natural, you will learn, in the words of the Lotus Sutra, to “look at all beings with the eyes of compassion.”

“If you have love,” wrote Thomas Merton, “you will do all things well.” As we reclaim our inner strength, wisdom, and resilience, we take our place of belonging as children of the earth. Through all the practices we have explored—as we cultivate mercy, simplicity, humility, nonattachment, lovingkindness, and all the rest—we begin, each day, in small simple steps, to create a world in which there is more kindness, peace, and love for our children—and for all the children of the earth for generations to come.

The Dalai Lama explains that the core of all healing, the heart of all spiritual teaching, may be found in the practice of loving kindness:

My true religion is kindness. If you practice kindness as you live, no matter if you are learned or not learned, whether you believe in the next life or not, whether you believe in God or Buddha or some other religion, in day-to-day life you have to be a kind person. With this motivation, it doesn’t matter whether you are a practitioner or a lawyer or politician, administrator, worker, or engineer. Whatever your profession or field, you carry your work as a professional. In the meantime, deep down, you are a kind person. This is something useful in daily life.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

—T. S. Eliot, The Four Quartets