Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands,
or your own genuine solitude?
Freedom, or power over an entire nation.
A little while alone in your room
will prove more valuable than anything else
that could ever be given you.
—RUMI, THE ESSENTIAL RUMI
THE LAST PART OF THE BUDDHA’S TEACHINGS EXPRESSED in the Dhammapada verse—avoid what is unskillful, do what is good, purify the mind—points to a vast array of skillful means that purify the mind of qualities that cloud our vision and prevent clear seeing. Within the Theravada tradition there are forty traditional subjects of concentration and more than fifty different ways of practicing insight. In other schools of Buddhism there are even more. How do we find our way through this abundance of possibilities? Trungpa Rinpoche, a brilliant and creative Tibetan master, in reply to a question about finding one’s teacher and path, said, “It’s best, perhaps, to follow the pretense of accident.” We read, explore, stumble upon, try out, are led to, and somehow connect—in ways different for each one of us—with a particular teacher or practice that inspires us.
There is a certain mystery to the process of finding one’s path, although when we look back at our own spiritual journey, it often seems as if there were an underlying order all along. We need to simply trust the integrity of our seeking. Everything follows from that. We’ll know when the connection is there.
When I first went to India in 1967 to look for a teacher, I had been given the names of various people, from Tibetan lamas to Hindu gurus, and many places to go to. After finding myself with a summer sleeping bag in a Himalayan winter (all the lamas having gone south) and carrying bricks on my head in an ashram on the Indian plains, I decided to return to Thailand, where I had been during my time in the Peace Corps. Maybe I would find something there. But just at this point, something quite strange happened. I was in New Delhi, walking down Janpath Lane to the airline office, when some force or energy stopped me in my tracks. I was simply unable to take another step forward. Rather than just stand there, I returned to my hotel wondering about this rather peculiar event. The next day, I decided to go to Benares instead. After a few days of wandering in this Hindu holy city, I resolved to go back to New Delhi and try again. But in a rickshaw going to the train station, the thought of Bodh Gaya unexpectedly popped into my mind. Maybe I would go there, to the place of the Buddha’s enlightenment, and sit myself under the great Bodhi Tree. At the last moment, I changed my plans and traveled the five hours to this unique place.
The train stopped in Gaya, an ancient city in Northern India, where Hindu pilgrims come each year for a festival honoring one’s parents and ancestors. I made my way through the crowd of porters and other travelers to the bicycle rickshaws waiting outside the station and began a journey that would transform my life. After winding through the narrow lanes of the city, the way opened to a pastoral beauty that had probably not changed much in centuries. The road to Bodh Gaya skirted villages, fields, and clusters of huge mango trees along a dry riverbed. People, water buffalo, and vehicles of all kinds and vintages did a roadway dance, somehow managing to avoid collision. As we approached the village, I could just make out the top of the majestic Mahabodhi temple, which stands at the site of the Buddha’s awakening. This was a place that would become a refuge of wakefulness and inspiration for me during the next seven years.
I settled at the Burmese vihara, a rest house at the edge of the village, which had originally been built for Burmese pilgrims. In those years, Burma was closed to most travel, both in and out of the country, so the Burmese vihara became the place of choice for Western dharma seekers. At that time, there were only a few Europeans in residence, and they quickly offered to take me to their teacher, Anagarika Munindra. He had recently returned from nine years of practice and study in Burma to begin teaching in the land of the Buddha’s birth.
One day, as we were sitting in a small group on the open roof of the vihara, Munindraji (“-ji” is a suffix of respect in Hindi) asked each one of us, “Why do you want to practice?”
For me the aspiration was clear: “For liberation.”
He then went on to say something that sealed my decision to stay and practice for as long as I could. “If you want to understand your mind, sit down and observe it.” It was this clear, commonsense, undogmatic approach that so inspired me. There was nothing to join, no rituals to observe, no beliefs to follow. The mysteries of the mind would reveal themselves simply through the power of my own growing awareness.
Mindfulness holds a central place of importance in every Buddhist path. Indeed, it is what makes any spiritual practice possible. Mindfulness is the quality of mind that notices what is present, without judgment, without interference. It is like a mirror that clearly reflects what comes before it. Munindraji summed up this quality with one simple expression: knowing things as they are.
Mindfulness serves many functions and is therefore likened to an executive’s chief of staff (actually, the Pali texts liken it to a king’s minister-of-all-work). If you want something done, that’s the person you need to go to. Mindfulness helps distinguish the good from the bad, the worthy from the unworthy. It keeps different wholesome states of mind in balance, working together in harmony. It also contributes to wise recollection. Without mindfulness, we don’t know what our minds are doing and so are often lost in confusion. The following verses, from a spontaneous dharma song by Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche, proclaim the great virtues of this quality:
Mindfulness is the root of Dharma.
Mindfulness is the body of practice.
Mindfulness is the fortress of the mind.
Mindfulness is the aid to the wisdom of innate wakefulness.
Lack of mindfulness will allow the negative forces to overcome you.
Without mindfulness you will be swept away by laziness.
Lack of mindfulness is the creator of evil deeds.
Without mindfulness and presence of mind, nothing can be accomplished.
Lack of mindfulness piles up lots of shit.
Without mindfulness you sleep in an ocean of piss.
Without mindfulness you are a heartless zombie, a walking corpse.
Dear Dharma friends, please be mindful!
By the aspiration of the holy lamas, Buddhas, bodhisattvas, and lineage masters,
May all vajra [vajrayana; dharma] friends attain stable mindfulness and ascend the throne
Of perfect Awakening.
Different traditions talk of mindfulness in different ways: sometimes as a quality to be cultivated, sometimes as an aspect of the innate wakefulness of mind, often as both. Dzogchen, the Tibetan teaching of the “Natural Great Perfection,” calls these two aspects fabricated and unfabricated mindfulness. Fabricated mindfulness is the conditioned state of mind that makes an effort to stay attentive. Although there is some sense of duality here—someone doing something—we need this kind of mindfulness to bring us back to the moment. On a more subtle level of fabrication, mindfulness is steady, but there is still some sense of a reference point, of an observer. Unfabricated mindfulness is a quality of the Nature of Mind, what Dzogchen calls the original wakefulness of the Natural State. It is called “unfabricated” because, according to Dzogchen teachings, this kind of mindfulness is not something we have created; rather, it is like the capacity of a mirror to reflect what comes before it. That capacity is in the very nature of the mirror itself.
These two types of mindfulness work in harmony. It is the rare person who can simply abide uninterruptedly in unfabricated mindfulness, without the support of appropriate effort. Unfabricated mindfulness itself is effortless, but without training our recognition of it is short-lived. In one way or another, we need to make mindfulness—the quality of being present in the moment, awake to what is happening—the heart of our practice. Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche, a great Dzogchen master of the last century, taught, “There is one thing we always need, and that is the watchman named mindfulness, the guard who is on the lookout for when we get carried away in mindlessness.”
The Buddha first gave the “Discourse on the Four Foundations of Mindfulness,” the Satipatthana Sutta, in the land of the Kurus, a prosperous region in Northern India. The people there were particularly blessed with good health, comfortable conditions, and a love of wisdom that made their minds receptive to this direct teaching on the way to liberation. It is said in the Pali commentaries that the village people there would ask each other, “Which foundation of mindfulness do you practice?” as they gathered by the wells or meeting places. It was to such people that the Buddha taught this precious Sutta.
It is mindfulness that holds the promise of freedom. At the end of the Satipatthana Sutta, the Buddha declares:
Bhikkhus, if anyone should develop these four foundations of mindfulness in such a way for seven years, one of two fruits could be expected for him: either final knowledge here and now, or if there is a trace of clinging left, nonreturn [the penultimate stage of enlightenment].
The Buddha goes on to qualify the length of time, saying that if anyone should develop these foundations of mindfulness for six years, or five years, or any amount of time all the way down to seven days, one of two fruits could be expected—full enlightenment here and now or, if some trace of clinging remains, the next to last stage of awakening.
What, then, are the four foundations of mindfulness? The Sutta describes four comprehensive fields of attention, and then further delineates each of them in some detail. They are mindfulness of the body, mindfulness of feelings, mindfulness of the mind and mental states, and mindfulness of the Dharma. This last category includes some lists of the basic teachings, such as the five hindrances, the seven qualities of enlightenment, the Four Noble Truths, the six sense bases, and so forth.
There are many methods for putting this teaching into practice. Some methods emphasize one of the four fields of mindfulness as the gateway to the others. Some include all four foundations right from the beginning. Altogether, there are more than fifty different practices outlined in this Sutta. The meditations that derive from these foundations of mindfulness are called vipassana (Pali for “insight,” or more literally, “seeing clearly”), and in one form or another—and by whatever name—are found in all the major Buddhist traditions. It is the basic practice of paying attention, of resting in awareness, of listening, which is central to any path of awakening.
How do we begin? The meditation practice presented here comes primarily from the Burmese tradition of Mahasi Sayadaw, although it is flavored by some teachings from other schools. We start with sitting meditation, which can serve as the foundation for mindfulness in all other postures and activities as well. Find a comfortable posture, either sitting cross-legged on a cushion, kneeling on a meditation bench, or sitting in a chair. Keep your back straight, but without strain or tension. Let your hands rest easily on your knees or lap. It may take some time and experimentation to find the posture that is most suitable for you, but as you practice you soon “find your seat.” Gently close your eyes and let your attention settle into the awareness of your body posture. Stay relaxed, simply feeling your body just as it is. You can make a very soft, silent mental note, or label, “Sitting,” to help keep your mind connected with this experience.
As you relax more and more into the awareness of your body, begin to open to the experience of hearing. Notice whatever sounds appear. They may be loud and, at first, disruptive ones. They may be soft background noises. It may be the sound of silence. Simply listen, as if you were hearing your favorite music. Don’t think about what is making the sound or anticipate what might be coming. There is just the vibration of sound, appearing and disappearing, in the open clear space of your awareness. You may begin to notice certain things about this experience. The sounds seem to arise quite spontaneously and, when the mind is undistracted, be heard quite effortlessly. The nature of the mind is awareness. When we’re not lost in thought or daydreams, we hear all the sounds with quite amazing clarity and ease.
Stay grounded in the awareness of your body posture, opening to sounds as they come and go. From this place of open, spacious awareness begin to connect with the feeling of each breath as it enters and leaves the body. Let each breath come in its own time, in its own manner. There is no “right” breath. This is not a breathing exercise; it is an exercise in awareness. Notice how the sensations of the breath appear in just the same way sounds do, spontaneously arising, effortlessly known. Where in the body do you feel the breath most clearly? Is it at the nostrils as the air flows past, or is it in the movement of the chest or the abdomen? Practice keeping the attention steady at the place where the sensations of the breath are generally most predominant. Later on, it’s possible to simply be with each breath wherever it appears.
Using the technique of mental noting with the breath can also help to stabilize the attention. You could use the note “In, out” if you feel the breath at the nose, or “Rise, fall” if you’re sensing the movement of the chest or abdomen. Some of the Thai forest traditions use the word “Buddho” with each breath, one syllable on the in breath, the other on the out. Whatever word you use, it’s important to keep it soft and light, so it doesn’t interfere with the direct experience. You are not controlling the breath with your noting—the noting is simply a tool to maintain awareness of what is happening. As the meditation practice deepens, often the mental label falls away leaving only the bare awareness of the experience; but in the beginning of practice, the noting can be very helpful.
The breath serves as an anchor, a primary object of attention that we can return to again and again. This training of attention is found in most spiritual traditions. St. Francis of Sales, a French Catholic spiritual guide, expressed it very well: “If the heart wanders or is distracted, bring it back to the point quite gently. And even if you did nothing in the whole of your hour but bring your heart back, though it went away every time you brought it back, your hour would be very well employed.”
It’s helpful to remember that our effort is to be aware of just one breath at a time. Or perhaps even just half a breath. In the Buddha’s words, “Breathing in, I know I’m breathing in; breathing out, I know I’m breathing out.” It’s very simple. But we often come to our meditation practice with an expectation that we should be able to be with the breath for most of the sitting. Then, when we find the mind wanders after just a breath or two, we become restless and discouraged. Being aware of just one half breath, though, is within our capacity. As we marshal our energy to be present for just half a breath, and then again, slowly the power of our concentration grows.
After sitting for some time, different sensations begin to arise in the body. At first, they may be uncomfortable feelings like pain, tension, tightness, heat, or pressure. At other times, more neutral or pleasant sensations come as well: vibration, tingling, softness, or lightness. Whenever a sensation becomes more predominant than the breath, let that sensation become the object of meditation, making a soft mental note to help keep the mind receptive and nonreactive. See if you can relax into the experience of it, letting it simply be there in the open space of awareness, in the same way you were with sounds. As you become mindful of this physical sensation, notice what happens to it in the process of observation. Does it grow stronger or weaker? Does it shift position or disappear? When it is no longer predominant, let your attention return to the breath.
Thoughts, images, and emotions also appear during meditation practice. As you are hearing sounds or following the breath, the mind begins to wander, getting lost in thought or fantasy. As soon as you become aware of the wandering mind, make a note of “Wandering” or “Thinking.” What is the difference in your experience between being lost in thought and being aware that you’re thinking? The moment of awakening from being lost should not be overlooked. Notice the clarity of awareness in that moment. If certain thought patterns become repetitive, make a specific note of the type of thought it is: “Judging,” “Planning,” “Remembering.” Or if certain themes continually recur, you might label them “Family Tape,” “Work Tape,” “Vacation Tape,” and so on. These notes help us unhook from the thoughts, so we can see them for what they are—empty phenomena rolling on.
The thought process is quite amazing. The very same phenomena that dominate our lives and actions when we’re unaware of them are seen to be empty and transparent when we are aware. Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche, one of the great Tibetan masters of the twentieth century, wrote, “Once we recognize that thoughts are empty, the mind will no longer have the power to deceive us. But as long as we take our deluded thoughts as real, they will continue to torment us mercilessly, as they have been doing throughout countless past lives.”
For many people, vivid images arise during meditation practice. They may be remembered scenes, geometric forms, or imagined fantasies. In this particular practice of mindful awareness, we simply make the note “Seeing,” and then notice what happens to the image as we observe it. Does it continue, fade, or vanish suddenly? The particular content of the image, although sometimes fascinating, is not important. When the thought or image disappears, we again return to awareness of the body, sounds, or the breath.
Different mind states and emotions also constitute an important part of our practice and of our lives. It is possible to feel them in the open clarity of awareness rather than drown in a sea of attachment to them. A wide range of emotions arise as we sit quietly in meditation: boredom, restlessness, agitation, calm, peace, interest, excitement, anger, irritation, love, compassion, desire, envy, jealousy, rage, depression, elation, kindness, equanimity, happiness. The list goes on and on. All these different mind states parade through our minds like small children coming to our door on Halloween, each in his or her own costume. Do we get taken in by the pirate or ghost or good fairy? Or do we see through the costume to the child underneath?
Our practice is to open to the whole range of moods and mind states, feeling the energy particular to each one, becoming aware of the experience in both body and mind, and letting them wash through, arising and passing like clouds in the sky. When anger arises, or love or joy, it is just anger angering, love loving, joy joying. Different feelings arise and pass, each simply expressing its own nature. Usually, though, we become caught up in the world of emotion, identifying with these feelings, thoughts, and sensations. When this occurs, we turn the flowing stream of impermanence into a rigid sense of separate self.
As an experiment in awareness, the next time you feel identified with a strong emotion or reaction or judgment, leave the story line and trace the physical sensation back to the energetic contraction, often felt at the heart center. It may be a sensation of tightness or pressure in the center of the chest. Then breathe and relax the heart, simply allowing the feelings and sensations to be there.
See if it is possible to be with emotions in the same open relaxed way you are with sounds. You might make a soft mental note of what the emotion is: “Anger,” “Calm,” “Interest,” “Boredom,” and so on, and notice as well the tone of the note. Is the tone itself nonjudgmental or reactive, accepting or rejecting? When we practice being mindful of these different feelings, two levels of understanding emerge. First, we can more easily nourish and cultivate the skillful states and simply let the unskillful ones go; and, second, we begin to see more and more clearly the insubstantial, empty nature of them all.
While we are paying close attention to the workings of our mind, purifying it as we strengthen awareness, another powerful factor to observe is intention. Intention, or volition, energizes the mind to effect an action, and it contains the power to bring about karmic results, much like a seed has the potential to germinate and grow. We often overlook the power of a seed, which seems so small. Yet when the conditions are right, a small acorn can become a huge oak tree. The motivations associated with each intention condition the results of the action that ensues. When kindness, generosity, love, and wisdom motivate our intentions, then happiness follows. When greed, anger, or delusion motivates our intentions to act, the result is suffering. The Buddha expressed this clearly in the famous first two verses of the Dhammapada:
Mind is the forerunner of all things.
If one speaks or acts with an impure mind
Suffering follows, like the wheel that follows the foot of the ox.
Mind is the forerunner of all things.
If one speaks or acts with a pure mind
Happiness follows, like the shadow that never leaves.
Because intention plays such a critical role in the unfolding of our lives, paying attention to it becomes a compelling interest. We begin this practice by noticing those obvious intentions that precede major movements of the body. Before you shift position, can you notice the intention in the mind to move? You may experience this as a particular thought, as some urge or impulse, or even as the simple knowing that you’re about to move. I often refer to intention as the “about to” moment. We know we’re about to do something before we do it. In times of moving more slowly and deliberately, awareness of intention becomes clear. As we become more practiced in this observation, intentions before other kinds of actions also become apparent.
This clarity of mind with respect to our intentions and motivations enables us to bring discriminating wisdom to our choices. When we are unaware, we simply act out the many habits of our conditioning. When we are aware, the same habitual impulses may arise, but we then have the choice to act or not act.
Once when I was on a retreat, a situation arose that reminded me again of the importance of noticing intention and motivation before acting. I was going through the lunch line at the Insight Meditation Society and noticed a sign in front of one of the dishes that said, “Moderation, Please.” It happened that this request had been posted for a food I especially liked—sesame spinach. Just as I was about to take some, a quick thought arose in my mind, “I wonder how much I can have and still be moderate.” I then proceeded to take as much as I felt I could get away with. About thirty seconds later, while still in line, I realized what had just happened—I had been carried away by a thought I hadn’t seen clearly, and then been lost in an action. Although I was able to smile a bit at the workings of my own mind, the heap of spinach was already on my plate, and for the whole rest of the meal I kept looking back, somewhat guiltily, to see if everyone after me had had enough. If I had been a little more mindful of intention, I would have had a much more peaceful meal.
Another good place to practice this awareness is in the realm of speech. See if you can notice the intention to speak before the words actually come out. Just in that moment, can you bring to bear the wisdom of skillful speech and choose appropriately whether or not to voice that particular thought? You may soon find yourself enjoying more times of silence. Although at first this may seem an awkward exercise, with practice our mindfulness of all kinds of intentions becomes a natural part of our meditative life, with tremendous consequences for our happiness and well-being.
All of these instructions apply the perspective of bare attention to whatever experience arises. “Bare” here means simple, direct, noninterfering, and nonjudging. “Attention” refers to mindfulness, awareness, not forgetting. So bare attention is simple, direct, noninterfering awareness. Alert and relaxed, we’re not looking for any experience in particular; we are simply awake to what presents itself. Observing in this way opens up worlds we may never have noticed.
Louis Agassiz was a Swiss-born American naturalist who helped train his students in careful observation. The following is a story told about Samuel Scudder, one of his students:
[Agassiz] intended, he said, to teach the student to see—to observe and compare—and he intended to put the burden of study on them. Probably he never said what he is best known for: “Study nature, not books,” or not in those exact words. But such certainly was the essence of his creed, and for his students the idea was firmly implanted by what they would refer to as “the incident of the fish.”
His initial interview at an end, Agassiz would ask the student when he would like to begin. If the answer was now, the student was immediately presented with a dead fish—usually a very long-dead, pickled, evil-smelling specimen, personally selected by the “master” from one of the wide-mouthed jars that lined his shelves. The fish was placed before the student in a tin pan. He was to look at the fish, the student was told, whereupon Agassiz would leave, not to return until later in the day, if at all.
Samuel Scudder, one of the many from the school who would go on to do important work of their own (his in entomology), described the experience as one of life’s memorable turning points.
In ten minutes, I had seen all that could be seen in that fish…. Half an hour passed—an hour—another hour. The fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around: looked it in the face—ghastly; from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at three-quarters view—just as ghastly. I was in despair.
I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last, a happy thought struck me—I would draw the fish, and now with surprise, I began to discover new features in the creature.
When Agassiz returned later and listened to Scudder recount what he had observed, his only comment was that the young man must look again.
I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched fish! But now I set myself to my task with a will, and discovered one new thing after another…. The afternoon passed quickly and toward its close, the professor inquired: “Do you see it yet?”
“No,” I replied. “I am certain I do not. But I see how little I saw before.”
The day following, having thought of the fish most of the night, Scudder had a brainstorm. The fish, he announced to Agassiz, had symmetrical sides with paired organs.
“Of course, of course,” Agassiz said, obviously pleased. Scudder asked what he might do next, and Agassiz replied, “Oh, look at your fish!”
In Scudder’s case, the lesson lasted a full three days. “Look, look, look,” was the repeated injunction, and the best lesson he ever had, Scudder recalled, “a legacy the professor has left to me, as he has left it to many others, of inestimable value, which we could not buy, with which we cannot part.”
Can we direct that intention, that power of observation, at our own minds? This is our life—can we look at it with that degree of care?
As awareness becomes steadier and concentration stronger, the quality of bare attention begins to reveal deeper insights into the world and into ourselves. We begin to cut through the stories we tell ourselves about experience, living less in thoughts about things and increasingly in the direct experience of the moment. As one example, we see that our experiences of past and future are simply thoughts in the moment, and so we become less caught up in them. St. Augustine once said, “If the past and future really exist, where are they?”
Notice the difference between being lost in some mind drama, and then recognizing it as just a thought. With that recognition, there is an instant sense of release, relaxation, and spaciousness. And instead of judging the fact that we were lost, we can delight in the experience of waking up. Often people misunderstand this point of practice, having the idea that meditation means never having any thoughts. The aim of practice, though, is not that; it is to be aware of thoughts, rather than to be lost in them. One of the founders of Korean Zen, the great master Chinul, said, “Don’t be afraid of thoughts. Only take care lest your awareness of them be tardy.” Of course, one of the consequences of this awareness is that we often see these thoughts quickly dissolve, precisely because we are not lost in them and thus unknowingly feeding them.
Directly understanding this difference between being lost in thoughts and being aware of them has a significant impact in our lives, because we are often not simply lost in thoughts, but also acting them out. So much of the suffering in the world—injustice, war, violence, and exploitation—comes from people acting out thoughts and feelings of greed, hatred, and fear. If we become aware of the greed or hatred or fear that is influencing us, we can then reflect upon that rather than strike out because of it. We need to see this root cause of suffering not only out there in other people’s lives, but also in our own minds, our own lives as well.
Sometimes the simplest things are overlooked precisely because they are so simple. A profound aspect of bare attention is its natural capacity to include everything. When we are just being with what is, nothing falls outside the domain of awareness. A mirror doesn’t choose what to reflect; its nature simply reflects whatever comes before it. Can we practice this same mirrorlike wisdom of mind?
During one of my stays at the monastery in Burma there was a huge amount of noise going on. Loudspeakers from the surrounding villages were playing music, women from neighboring houses were pounding their laundry on washing stones, and construction crews right outside my window were straightening steel rods, metal clanging on metal. There were times I just didn’t believe what was going on. I went to my teacher, Sayadaw U Pandita, and told him about all this, expecting a little sympathy for the difficulty of my practice. All he said was, “Did you note it?” At first, I thought he was just trying to make the best of a bad situation. Later, I realized that he had pointed out a great truth.
In mindfulness practice, it doesn’t matter at all what object arises; we can he as equally mindful and aware of noisy, abrasive sounds as of anything else. The empty, open, vividly clear nature of awareness is not altered by what appears. The recognition of this nature frees the mind from its habits of attachment and aversion.
This doesn’t mean we should go looking for difficult situations or not try to create a quiet and peaceful atmosphere. But when unpleasantness of some kind is the truth of the situation, we can be with it with calm and equanimity. This doesn’t mean becoming resigned to the unpleasantness, for resignation contains an element of aversion; rather, difficult or unpleasant experiences can point us back to the nature of awareness itself. The more we internalize the equality (from the perspective of mindfulness) of all objects, the more deeply we settle back into the Dharma’s natural unfolding.
The teachings are simple, but they are not always easy. We quickly discover that, as with any great endeavor, they require energy, commitment, and perseverance. It’s not the kind of effort that forces or expects things to happen. Rather, it’s the effort to persevere through the innumerable ups and downs of the path. We need to keep going and to continually begin again.
The Pali word viriya is usually translated “effort,” and it is considered the root of all achievement. But in our Western culture we can sometimes get out of balance by making too much effort. We may confuse viriya with ambitious striving or expectation; right effort then becomes overexertion, a straining quality of the mind. The Buddha pointed to this imbalance when he used the example of tuning the strings of a lute. A monk had been doing walking meditation with so much effort that his mind was becoming unsettled and agitated. The Buddha, knowing this monk had been a skilled musician earlier in his life, asked him what happened when the strings on his lute were too tight. The monk replied that the instrument was out of tune. Then the Buddha asked him about the strings being too loose, and he was given the same reply. In just the same way, the Buddha said, your effort “when overstrung, ends in agitation, when overlax, ends in sloth.” The quality of our energy must be neither too tight nor too loose; then it can become the root of all achievement.
A less common translation of viriya, but one that highlights its essence for us in another way, is “courage.” “Courage” comes from the root word for “heart” as being the seat of feeling and thought. It connotes spirit, vital force, and energy. It is the boldness and valor of mind that faces obstacles without shrinking from them. In the Pali texts, viriya is often used in opposition to sloth and torpor, that mind state commonly thought of as sleepiness, but that more deeply signifies retreating or withdrawing from difficulty. In this context too “courage” is an apt translation.
Some years ago, I was facing a situation of immense difficulty in my practice. For weeks, great pain and anguish permeated my experience. At the very lowest time, in a moment of hopeless despair, when any effort at all seemed impossible, the word “courage” suddenly appeared in my mind. It kept repeating, almost like a mantra, and each time the word sounded in my mind I could literally feel my heart grow stronger. With some magic of its own, it unhooked that last deep place of aversion and fear about what was happening that was keeping me separate from the experience. It brought forth the courage of simply being. What had been intolerable a moment before became completely acceptable. Courage is not about changing anything or grasping for some better state. It’s the valor of truly being present.
Courage draws nourishment from patience, one of the perfections of the Buddha. Denis Saleh, a contemporary poet and author writes: “I have been hard at work now longer than I like to remember, on a novel set in Ancient Egypt. I found out how the Pyramids were built: slowly. Almost anything can be done, it seems, if one proceeds slowly enough, but we moderns simply cannot grasp this.” There is tremendous wisdom in this statement: almost anything can be done if one proceeds slowly enough. Often we are discouraged by the enormity of a task or the length of a journey and become impatient with the difficulties we face. We lose faith in ourselves. Patience reminds us that what is in front of us is just this moment, just this step, just this breath. Patience, the Buddha said, leads to Nirvana.
As we deepen our meditation experience through mindfulness, courage, and patience, we begin to recognize the fruits of all our efforts. We are more awake, more alive, more joyful. An engaged interest starts to permeate our lives as we investigate aspects of ourselves that have gone unobserved for so long. What is a thought, that strange, ephemeral phenomenon that can so dominate our experience? What is an emotion, whose power sweeps over our minds and bodies? Who is knowing all of these things? What is the mind itself, this awareness, this power of consciousness? When we look for it, we don’t find anything, and yet it continuously and effortlessly knows. This is a great mystery, which we can intimately touch with our understanding. Mindfulness is the key that unlocks the great dharma gates of all the Buddhist traditions.