Friday, July 22, 2011

Ultimate Bodhicitta And The Practice Of Generosity ~  Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche


The ultimate or absolute bodhichitta principle is based on developing the paramita of generosity, which is symbolized by a wish-fulfilling jewel.
The Tibetan word for generosity, jinpa, means "giving," "opening," or "parting." So the notion of generosity means not holding back but giving constantly. Generosity is self-existing openness, complete openness. You are no longer subject to cultivating your own scheme or project. And the best way to open yourself up is to make friends with yourself and with others.


Traditionally, there are three types of generosity. The first one is ordinary generosity, giving material goods or providing comfortable situations for others. The second one is the gift of fearlessness. You reassure others and teach them that they don't have to feel completely tormented and freaked out about their existence. You help them to see that there is basic goodness and spiritual practice, that there is a way for them to sustain their lives. That is the gift of fearlessness. 


The third type of generosity is the gift of dharma. You show others that there is a path that consists of discipline, meditation, and intellect or knowledge. Through all three types of generosity, you can open up other people's minds. In that way their closedness, wretchedness, and small thinking can be turned into a larger vision.


That is the basic vision of mahayana altogether: to let people think bigger, think greater. We can afford to open ourselves and join the rest of the world with a sense of tremendous generosity, tremendous goodness and tremendous richness. The more we give, the more we gain, although what we might gain should not be our reason for giving. Rather, the more we give, the more we are inspired to give constantly. And the gaining process happens naturally, automatically, always.


The opposite of generosity is stinginess, holding back; having a poverty mentality, basically speaking. The basic principle of the ultimate bodhichitta slogans is to rest in the eighth consciousness, or alaya, and not follow our discursive thoughts. Alaya is a Sanskrit word meaning "basis," or sometimes "abode" or "home," as in Himalaya, "abode of snow." So it has that idea of a vast range. It is the fundamental state of consciousness, before it is divided into "I" and "other," or into the various emotions. It is the basic ground where things are processed, where things exist. In order to rest in the nature of alaya, you need to go beyond your poverty attitude and realize that your alaya is as good as anyone else's alaya. You have a sense of richness and self-sufficiency. You can do it, and you can afford to give out as well.

Extracted from "Training The Mind And Cultivating Loving-Kindness" by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, copyright Shambhala Publications.



Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche was a Buddhist meditation master and holder of both the Kagyu and Nyingma lineages, the eleventh Trungpa tülku, a tertön, supreme abbot of the Surmang monasteries, scholar, teacher, poet, artist, and originator of a radical re-presentation of Shambhala vision.
Recognized both by Tibetan Buddhists and by other spiritual practitioners and scholars as a preeminent teacher of Tibetan Buddhism, he was a major figure in the dissemination of Tibetan Buddhism to the West, founding Vajradhatu and Naropa University and establishing the Shambhala Training method.
Among his contributions are the translation of a large number of Tibetan texts, the introduction of the Vajrayana teachings to the West, and a presentation of the Buddhadharma largely devoid of ethnic trappings. Regarded as a mahasiddha by many senior lamas, he is seen as having embodied the crazy wisdom  tradition of Tibetan Buddhism.


 

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Gratitude To Parents ~ Ajahn Sumedho

In five ways one should minister to one's parents:

Having supported me, I shall support them.
I shall do their duties.
I shall keep up the honour and the traditions of my family.
I shall make myself worthy of my heritage.
I shall make offerings dedicating the goodness of my practice to my parents after their death.

Sigalovada Sutta: Digha Nikaya 31.

These words of the Buddha give expression in terms of observance to the feeling of loyalty and gratitude that a clear-minded person may have with regards to their parents. That this is not necessarily the case is a sad reflection on either the quality of our parents or the attitude of neglect that the society or the individual has towards these powerfully influential people. Even as adults we often respond to situations in ways that are attributable to parental influence - for good or for ill. It is an area to acknowledge and explore.

The following text is edited from a talk given by Ajahn Sumedho at Amaravati in October 1994 on a day that the Sri Lankan community had asked to have dedicated to remembering parents. It deals with cultivating the feeling that backs up the observance.



GRATITUDE TO PARENTS


Even if one should carry about one's mother on one shoulder and one's father on the other, and so doing should live a hundred years.... Moreover, if one should set them up as supreme rulers, having absolute rule over the wide earth abounding in the seven treasures - not even by this could one repay one's parents. And why! Bhikkhus, parents do a lot for their children: they bring them up, provide them with food, introduce them to the world.
Yet, bhikkhus, whoever encourages their faithless parents, and settles and establishes them in faith; or whoever encourages their immoral parents and settles and establishes them in morality, or whoever encourages their stingy parents, and settles and establishes them in generosity, or whoever encourages their foolish parents, and settles and establishes them in wisdom - such a person, in this way repays, more than repays, what is due to their parents.

Anguttara Nikaya: Twos, 32

AMARAVATI again - a special day, an auspicious day. This morning many of you were here for the traditional offering and special dedication for our parents - those who have passed away as well as those who are living. On this day we are considering kataññu kataveti, which is the Pali for gratitude. Gratitude is a positive response to life; in developing kataññu we deliberately bring into our consciousness the good things done to us in our life. So on this day, especially, we remember the goodness of our parents, and we contemplate it. We are not dwelling on what they did wrong; instead, we deliberately choose to remember the goodness. And the kindness that our parents had for us - even though in some cases,
generosity might not have been there at all times. This is one day in the year for remembering our parents with gratitude and recalling all the good things they have done for us.

A life without kataññu is a joyless life. If we don't have anything to be grateful about, our life is a dreary plane. Just contemplate this. If life was just a continuous complaint and moan about the injustices and unfairness we have received and we don't remember anything good ever done to us, and all we do is remember the bad things - that's called depression, and this is not an uncommon problem now. When we fall into depression we cannot remember any good that has happened to us. Something stops in the brain and it is impossible to imagine ever being happy again: we think this misery is forever.

In Sri Lanka, and throughout Asia, kataññu kataveti is a cultural virtue; it is highly regarded and cultivated. Being able to support and look after our parents is considered to be one of the great blessings of a life. This is interesting for those of us who come from a Western cultural background, because Western values are slightly different from this.

Many of us have had fortunate lives, but although we have been born in fortunate places we can tend to take a lot for granted. We have privileges and benefits, and a much better life than a good portion of people in the world can ever hope to expect. There's a lot to be grateful for, a lot to feel kataññu for, when you live in a place like Britain.

I think back to when I was a child, and the way my parents devoted their lives to look after me and my sister. When I was young, I didn't appreciate it at all. As a child in the States, we didn't think about it, we took our mother and father for granted. And we could not realise what they had to sacrifice, what they had to give up in order to take care of us. It's only when we are older and have given up things for the sake of our own children or somebody else that we begin to appreciate and feel kataññu kataveti for our parents.

I think back to my father. He was an aspiring artist before the Depression in 1929. Then in '29 the Crash came and he and my mother lost everything, so he had to take a job selling shoes. My sister and I were born during the Depression, and he had to support us. Then the 2nd World War started, but my father was too old to enlist in the military; he wanted to support the war effort, so he became a ship fitter in New Seattle. He worked in a shipyard. He didn't like that job, but it was the best way he could help in the 2nd World War. Then, after the war he went back to his shoe business and became a manager of a retail store. Talking to him when I grew up, I found that he had never really liked that work either, but he felt he was too old to find another profession. The sacrifice of his own preferences was mainly to support my mother, my sister and myself.

I had a much bigger choice, much better opportunities. My generation had a whole wide range of possibilities available to us when we were young. However my parents did not have such opportunities; their generation had to get on with their lives and start work when they were still quite young. Both my parents were capable but they did not have the opportunity to develop beyond the ordinary way of making a living.

When I was at university in the 1950s, it was fashionable to study psychology. At that time the trend was to blame your mother for everything that went wrong in your life. The focus was on mothers and what they had done to cause ME to suffer now. I didn't realise then that suffering was a natural thing for human beings. Of course my mother was not perfect, she was not a perfectly enlightened being when she had me, so naturally there were things she could have improved on. But generally speaking, the dedication, commitment, love, and care were all there - and directed mainly to making the lives of my father, my sister and myself as good and as happy as could be. It was a dedication - she asked very little for herself. So when I think back like this, kataññu, gratitude, arises in my mind for my mother and father. Now I can hardly think of any of their faults which used to dominate my mind when I was young; they seem so trivial now, I hardly recall any.

However, if we just go on with the force of habit and conditioning we remain more or less stuck with all kinds of things instilled into us - with habits that we acquired when we were young - and these can dominate our conscious life as we get older. But as we mature and grow up, we realise that we can develop skilfulness in the way we think about ourselves, and in the way we think about others. The Buddha encouraged us to think of the good things done for us by our parents, by our teachers, friends, whoever; and to do this intentionally - to cultivate it, to bring it into consciousness quite deliberately - rather than just letting it happen accidentally.

When I became a Buddhist monk in Thailand I was very fortunate to meet a teacher, Luang Por Chah, who became the catalyst for the kataññu in my life. At that time I was 33 or 34 years old and I must say, kataññu was not yet part of my life's experience. I was still very much obsessed with myself, what I wanted, what I thought. However after training as a Buddhist monk for some years, in about the sixth year of monastic life I had a heart-opening experience which was very much the experience of kataññu kataveti.

I had been a Buddhist for many years before I met Luang Por Chah. I was attracted to Buddhism about the age of 21, and so I had tremendous interest and faith in Buddhism, as well as an eagerness to study and practise it. But it was still coming from the sense of me doing it, me studying it, me trying to practise it. When I became a monk there was still this dominant interest in my mind: 'I want to get rid of suffering, I want to be enlightened.' I was not much concerned about other people, about my parents, or even about Luang Por Chah with whom I was living at the time. It was very nice that he was helpful to me (and 'thank you'), but it was not a deep gratitude.

There was a conceit, an unpleasant kind of conceit: I had the idea that life owed all this to me. When we are brought up in my kind of middle-class situation, we take so much for granted. My parents worked hard to make my life comfortable, but I thought they should have worked harder, I deserved more than what they gave me. Even though this was not a conscious thought, there was the underlying attitude that I deserved all I had; it was right to get all this, people should give me these things, my parents should make my life as good as possible, as I wanted it to be. So from that viewpoint, it was Ajahn Chah's duty to teach and guide me!

Sometimes I had the conceit that my presence was a great blessing and asset to the monastery. It was not all that conscious, but when I began to contemplate things in my mind I could see this conceit, and became aware of this insensitivity. We can take so much for granted and complain that life is not as good, as abundant, as privileged as we could imagine it; or else we think that others are much better off than ourselves.

In Thailand, I practised with diligence and was determined in my monastic life. After five vassas [see note 1] a monk is no longer considered to be a novice and can get away on his own. I felt that being with a teacher was fine but I wanted to go away on my own, so I went away to Central Thailand from North-East Thailand. Then after the vassa I went on a pilgrimage to India. This was in about 1974, and I decided to go as a tudong [see note 2] - bhikkhu - that is to walk from place to place as part of my practice as a monk. Somebody provided me with a ticket from Bangkok to Calcutta, and I found myself in Calcutta with my alms bowl, my robe and - because I do not carry money - no pennies. In Thailand it had been easy but, in India, it seemed that wandering around with an alms bowl and no money would be quite frightening. As it happened, the five months I spent in India were quite an adventure and I have very pleasant memories of that time. The life of an alms mendicant worked in India. Of all countries, it should work there, as that's where the Buddha lived and taught.

It was about this time that I began to think of Luang Por Chah. My mind began to recognise the kindness he had extended to me. He had accepted me as his disciple, looked after me, taken an interest, given me the teachings and helped me in almost every way. And there was his own example. If you wanted to be a monk, you wanted to be like him. He was a full human being, a man who inspired me, someone I wanted to emulate - and I must say there weren't so many men that I had had that feeling towards. In the States, the role models for men were not very attractive to me; John Wayne or President Eisenhower or Richard Nixon were not men I wanted to emulate. Film stars and athletes were given great importance, but none of them inspired me.

But then in Thailand, I found this monk. He was very small; I towered above him. When we were together sometimes that surprised me, because he had such an enormous presence. Despite his size he seemed always much bigger than I was. It was interesting, the power, the aura of this little man - I didn't really think of him as a little man, I thought of him as a huge man, and this was because of the metta (kindness) in his life. He was a man of enormous metta. There was this feeling about him that attracted people to him, he was like a magnet and you wanted to be close to him. So I found myself going over to see him in his kuti in the evenings, or whenever it was possible; I wanted to take every opportunity I had to hang around. And I found that that was the way most people tended to behave towards him. He had an enormous following in Thailand, both Thai and Westerners, because of his metta practice. I asked him once what it was in him that drew people to him and he said, 'I call it my magnet' He was a very charming person; he had an ebullience, a radiant quality, so people flocked around. And he used his magnet to attract people so that he could teach them the Dhamma. This is how he used the charismatic quality he had: not for his ego, but to help people.

I felt a great sense of gratitude that he should do this - that he would spend his life taking on lay people and difficult monks like myself, having to put up with all of us endlessly creating problems; we were so obsessed with ourselves, with our desires, our doubts, our opinions, our views. To be surrounded day and night by people who are endlessly irritating takes real metta, and he would do it. He could have just gone off to a nice place and led a quiet life. That's what I wanted to do at the time. I wanted to get enlightened so that I could just live a nice peaceful life in a happy way in a pleasant peaceful place. I wanted everyone in the monastery to be harmonious, to have the right chemistry, and to harmonise with me so there would be no conflict or friction. But in a Thai monastery there are always a lot of problems and difficulties. The Vinaya Pitaka (the Books of the Discipline that the Lord Buddha established for the bhikkhus) has all the background stories of what the monks used to do that caused the Buddha to establish these disciplinary guidelines. Some of the rules deal with horrible things that the monks would do. Some of those bhikkhus around the Lord Buddha were abominable.

The Lord Buddha, after his enlightenment, at first thought that the Dhamma was too subtle, that no one would understand it so there was no point in teaching it. Then, according to the legend, one of the gods came forth and said, 'Please Lord, for the welfare of those who have little dust in their eyes, teach the Dhamma.' The Buddha then contemplated with his powerful mind who might understand the Dhamma teaching. He remembered his early teachers but through his powers realised that both of them had died. Then he remembered his five friends who had been practising with him before, and who had deserted him. Out of compassion he went off to find these five friends, and expounded his brilliant teaching on the Four Noble Truths. So this made me feel kataññu kataveti to the Lord Buddha. It's marvellous: here I am - this guy, here, in this century - having an opportunity to listen to the Dhamma, and to have this pure teaching still available.

Also, having a living teacher like Ajahn Chah was not like worshipping a prophet who lived 2500 years ago, but actually inheriting the lineage of the Lord Buddha himself. Perhaps because of visiting the Buddhist holy places, kataññu kataveti began to become very strong in me in India. Seeing this, and then thinking of Luang Por Chah in Thailand, I remembered how I had thought: 'I've done my five years, now I'm going to leave. I'm going to have a few adventures, do what I want to do, be out from under the eye of the old man.' I realised then that I had actually run away. At that time there were many Westerners coming to our monastery in Thailand, and I did not want to be bothered with them. I did not want to have to teach them and translate for them, I just wanted to have my own life and not be pestered by these people. So there was a very selfish motivation in me to leave; on top of which I had left Luang Por Chah with all these Westerners who didn't speak Thai. At that time, I was the only one who could translate for the Westerners as Luang Por Chah could not speak English.

When I felt this kataññu kataveti, all I wanted to do was get back to Thailand and offer myself to Ajahn Chah. How can you repay a teacher like that?... I did not have any money, and that was not what he was interested in anyway. Then I thought that the only way I could make him happy was to be a good Buddhist monk and to go back and help him out; whatever he wanted me to do, I would do it. With that intention, I went back after five months in India and gave myself to the teacher. It was a joyful offering, not a begrudging one, because it came out of this kataññu, this gratitude for the good things I had received.

From that time on, I found that my meditation practice began to improve. That hard selfishness cracked in me: Me trying to get something, my desire for harmony, me and my desire to practise and to have a peaceful life, me not wanting to be responsible for anything but just to do my own thing. When I gave up all that, things seemed to fall into place. What used to be difficult, like concentrating the mind, became easier, and I found that life became joyful to me. I began to enjoy monastic life. I wasn't just sitting around thinking, 'You are disturbing my peace, I don't like this monastery - I want to go to another one,' as I used to do. Nor did I feel as resentful as I had before: 'This monk is disturbing my practice, I can't live here,' and so on. This grumbling used to be an obstruction to my practice, but now suddenly these things, and the things that happened in the monastery were no longer important issues.

In fact I had thought that when I went back, I would ask Ajahn Chah to send me to a monastery to which no monk wanted to go, like a certain branch monastery on the Cambodian border. It was called Wat Bahn Suan Kluey, 'The Banana Garden Village Monastery.' It was in the backwoods, it had no good roads, and it was in a very undeveloped part of Thailand where the people were very poor. It was very hot there and all the trees were shorter than myself, although I didn't see very many bananas around! It would have been like being exiled to Siberia. So when I returned, I suggested to Ajahn Chah that he send me there.

He didn't; but he did encourage me to go to Bahn Bung Wai, which was a village about 6 kilometres from the main monastery. So then in 1975 we established Wat Pah Nanachat, 'The International Forest Monastery' near this village. Before we went there, the place had been a charnel ground, a cremation area for the village, and it was believed that the forest was filled with ghosts. So the villagers would come and ask, 'Is it all right?' At first we didn't realise what the place meant to the villagers. Then I became aware that I was staying at the spot where the most fiendish ghost in the forest was supposed to live, so the village headman used to come and ask, 'You sleep all right? Seen anything interesting?' I didn't see anything at all, the ghosts didn't bother me. But that experience actually helped me to prove my life as a monk, and that was due to kataññu.

So, too, was coming here to England in 1977. When Luang Por Chah asked me to come here I was determined to stick it out, not just to follow my own particular feelings and moods - because that first year I felt pretty awful, and I was ready to go back to Thailand. But because of this sense of gratitude, I wasn't going to follow a personal whim, it gave me a tremendous sense of duty, of service, but not in a heavy way. kataññu meant that I did not stay here out of a sense of duty - which makes life unpleasant - but out of a willingness to sacrifice and to serve. This is a joyful thing to do. So we can feel kataññu 'for our teachers like Luang Por Chah.

This reminds me of an interesting story. The monk who took me to see Luang Por Chah was the same age as I was; he had been in the Thai Navy, and I had been in the American Navy during the Korean War. He could speak Pidgin English, and had been on tudong - wandering from Ubon province, where Ajahn Chah lived, to Nong Khai where I was. It was my first year as a novice monk and he was the first Thai monk I had met who could speak English, so I was delighted to have somebody to talk to. He was also a very strict monk, adhering to every rule in the Vinaya. He would eat from his alms bowl and wore dark brown forest robes, whereas in the monastery where I lived, the monks wore orange-coloured robes; he really impressed me as an exemplary monk. He told me that I should go and stay with Ajahn Chah. So after I received bhikkhu ordination, my preceptor agreed that I could go with this monk to stay with Luang Por Chah. But on the way I began to get fed up with this monk - who turned out to be a pain in the neck. He was forever fussing about things and condemning the other monks, saying that we were the very best. I could not take this incredible arrogance and conceit, and I hoped that Ajahn Chah would not be like him. I wondered what I was getting myself into.

When we arrived at Wat Pah Pong, I was relieved to find that Ajahn Chah was not like that. The following year the monk, whose name was Sommai, disrobed and he became an alcoholic. The only thing that had kept him off alcohol had been the monastic life, so then he fell into alcoholism and became a really degenerate man with a terrible reputation in the province of Ubon. He became a tramp, a really pathetic case, and I felt a sense of disgust and aversion towards him. Talking to Ajahn Chah one evening about it, he told me: 'You must always have kataññu towards Sommai, because he brought you here. No matter how badly he behaves or degenerate he becomes, you must always treat him like a wise teacher and express your gratitude. You are probably one of the really good things that has happened to him in his life, something he can be proud of; if you keep reminding him of this - in a good way, not in an intimidating way - then eventually he might want to change his ways.' So Luang Por Chah encouraged me to seek out Sommai, talk to him in a friendly way and express my gratitude to him for taking me to Ajahn Chah. It really was a beautiful thing to do. It would have been easy to look down on him and say, 'You really disappoint me. You used to be so critical of others and think you were such a good monk, and look at you now.' We can feel indignant and disappointed at somebody for not living up to our expectations. But what Luang Por Chah was saying was: 'Don't be like that, it's a waste of time and harmful, but do what's really beautiful out of compassion.' I saw Sommai in the early part of this year, degenerate as ever; I could not see any change in him. Yet whenever he sees me, it seems to have a good effect on him. He remembers that he was the one responsible for me coming to stay with Luang Por Chah - and that's a source of a few happy moments in his life. One feels quite glad to offer a few happy moments to a very unhappy person.

Similarly, I think of teachers I did not know personally, like, for example, Alan Watts, whose book, 'The Way of Zen,' was one of the books on Buddhism I had read earlier on. It impressed me greatly. To have anything to read on Buddhism in those days was a real treat, and I used to read that book over and over again. But later, I learnt that he had become degenerate. I did see him, when I attended some of his lectures in San Francisco but, although he was a good speaker, by then I was in my critical phase, and he wasn't good enough for me.

So now I look back, and feel kataññu for people like Alan Watts, writers and teachers who have been responsible for encouraging me and helping me when I needed it. What they have done since then, or whether they have lived up to my expectations is not the point. Having metta and kataññu is about not being critical, or vindictive, or dwelling on the bad things people have done; it is the ability to select and remember the good they have done.

Having a day like this, when we deliberately think of parents with gratitude, is a way of bringing joy and positive feelings into our lives. This morning, taking the Five Precepts and offering the food to the Sangha as a way of remembering our parents with gratitude was a beautiful gesture. At a time like this, we should also consider expressing kataññu to the country we live in, because usually we take this for granted. But we can remember the benefits, the good things made available to us by the state and society, rather than just emphasizing what's wrong or what we do not like. kataññu allows us to bring into consciousness all the positive things concerned with living in Britain. We should develop kataññu, even though modern thinking does not encourage us to do so. This is not blind patriotism or national arrogance, but an appreciation and expression of gratitude for the opportunities and the good we derive from living in this society. This way of thinking then adds a joyous quality to life instead of thinking that this nation and society owe us everything: 'I deserve more than this. They didn't do enough for me.' That way of thinking comes from a welfare mind, doesn't it? Although grateful to the Welfare State, we also recognise that it can breed complaining minds, minds that take things for granted.

I first noticed this when I was in the American Navy in a supply ship that went to military bases between Japan and the Philippines. I liked sea duty, being out at sea, and so I quite enjoyed that part of it. I was also very fascinated by Asia and I had a chance to go to Japan, Hong Kong and the Philippines. I remember the first time going to Hong Kong in 1955, sailing into the harbour and being very excited about visiting the city. I tried to get someone to go with me but all he could say was, 'Uh, I don't like Hong Kong.' Here was I so enthusiastic, and I could not find anyone to come with me. The only ones who went out went to the brothels and to the bars - that's all they saw in Hong Kong. Now isn't this a negative mind state? The American military in those days was not very bright. If it wasn't like Des Moines, Iowa, it wasn't any good. They did not see beauty in exotic places, they just saw that it wasn't like Des Moines, Iowa, or Birmingham, Alabama.

I spent four years in the Navy, and during that time there was this incessant complaining. Griping, they called it - and they used other words as well, which I won't use! We griped about everything. Actually, we had all kinds of advantages in those days in the military - like educational opportunities. I had four years of university scholarships through having been in the military, as well as many other things that I am quite grateful for now. And yet the attitude was to try to get as much as possible out of the system, to use it for one's own benefit; complain about everything and see what one could get away with. Even if what one was doing was immoral, illegal, that was OK - as long as you did not get caught. And this was in a society where everything was provided for you! Life was very secure, but the attitude was: 'Give me, give me, give me. What can I get out of this?' The result was that it became a very negative society, with everybody griping and complaining endlessly.

So today is a day to develop kataññu. Do not think it is just a day to be sentimental. kataññu is a practice to develop in our daily life, because it opens the heart and brings joy to our human experience. And we need that joy, it's something that nurtures us and it is essential for our spiritual development. Joy is one of the factors of enlightenment. Life without joy is a dreary one - grey, dull, and depressing. So today is a day for joyous recollections.



Questions 1

Question: How do people who have a lot of anger towards their parents develop gratitude towards them?
Ajahn Sumedho: This is not an uncommon problem, because I know that teaching metta on too sentimental a basis can actually increase anger. I remember a woman on one of our retreats who, whenever it came to spreading metta to her parents, would go into a rage. Then she felt very guilty about it, as she was not able to forgive and develop loving-kindness to her mother. Every time she thought about her mother, she only felt this rage. This was because she only used her intellect; she wanted to do this practice of metta, but emotionally felt anything but that.

It's important to see this conflict between the intellect and the emotional life. We know in our mind that we should be able to forgive our enemies and love our parents, but in the heart we feel, 'I can never forgive them for what they've done.' So then we either feel anger and resentment, or we go into rationalisations: 'Because my parents were so bad, so unloving, so unkind, they made me suffer so much that I can't forgive or forget,' or: 'There's something wrong with me, I'm a terrible person because I can't forgive. If I were a good person I would be able to forgive, therefore I must be a bad person.' These are the conflicts that we have between the intellect and the emotions. When we don't understand this conflict, we are confused; we know how we should feel but we don't actually feel that way.

With the intellect we can figure it out ideally; we can create marvellous images and perceptions in the mind. But the emotional nature is not rational. It's a feeling nature, it is not going to go along with what is reasonable, logical, sensible - so on the emotional level we have to understand how we actually feel. I've found it helped to have metta for my own feeling. So when we feel that our parents were unkind and unloving to us we can have metta towards the feeling we have in the heart; not being judgmental, but having patience with that feeling - to see that this is how it feels, and then to accept that feeling. Then it is possible to resolve that feeling. But when we get stuck in a battle between our logical perceptions and our emotional responses, it gets very confusing.

Once I began to accept my negativity rather than suppress it, I could resolve it. When we resolve something with mindfulness, then we can let it go and free ourself from the power of that particular thing - not through denial or rejection, but through understanding and accepting that particular negative feeling. The resolution of such a conflict leads us to contemplate what life is about.

My father died about six years ago. He was then 90 years old, and he had never shown love or positive feelings towards me. So from early childhood I had this feeling that he did not like me. I carried this feeling through most of my life; I never had any kind of love, any kind of warm relationship with my father. It was always a perfunctory: 'Hello son, good to see you.' And he seemed to feel threatened by me. I remember whenever I came home as a Buddhist monk he would say, 'Remember, this is my house, you've got to do as I say.' This was his greeting - and I was almost 50 years old at the time! I don't know what he thought I was going to do!

In the last decade of his life, he was quite miserable and became very resentful. He had terrible arthritis and was in constant pain, and he had Parkinson's disease and everything was going wrong. Eventually he had to be put in a nursing home. He was completely paralysed. He could move his eyes and talk, but the rest of his body was rigid, totally still. He hated this. He was resentful of what had happened to him because before he had been a strong, independent, virile man. He had been able to control and manage everything in his life. So he hated and resented having to depend on nurses to feed him and so on.

My first year here I remember discussing my parents with my sister. She pointed out to me that my father was a very considerate man. He was very considerate and thoughtful towards my mother. He was always eager to help her when she was tired or unwell - a very supportive husband. Because I came from a family where it was normal for a man to be like that, I had never recognised those qualities. My sister pointed out that it is not often that a husband is supportive or helpful to his wife. For my father's generation, women's rights and feminism were not the issue. 'I bring in the money, and you do the cooking and washing,' was the attitude then. I realise then that I had not only completely overlooked these good qualities, I had not even noticed them.

The last time I went to see him, I decided that I would try to get some kind of warmth going between us before he died. It was quite difficult to even think this, because I had gone through life feeling that he didn't like me. It is very hard to break through that kind of thing. Anyway, his body needed to be stimulated, so I said, 'Let me massage your leg.' And he said, 'No, no, you don't need to do that.' And I said, 'You'll get bedsores, because you really have to have your skin massaged.' And he still said, 'No, you don't have to do it.' Then I said, 'I would really like to do it.' And he said, 'You don't have to do it.' But I could tell that he was considering it. Then I said, 'I think it'll be a good thing and I'd really like to do it,' and he said, 'So you'd really like to do it?' and I said, 'Yes.'

I started massaging his feet, his legs, his neck and shoulders, his hands and his face, and he really enjoyed the physical contact. It was the first time he had been touched like that. I think elderly people really like being touched, because physical contact is quite meaningful, it's an expression of feeling. And I began to realise that my father really loved me, but didn't know how to say it because of his upbringing. He'd been brought up in an Edwardian time in a very formal environment. His had been a 'don't touch, don't get emotional' sort of a family. They had no great emotional explosions, feelings were always controlled. Now I realised that my father was quite a loving sort of man, but he could not express his feelings because of his background. And I had this great sense of relief. I couldn't understand him when I was young, because I did not understand his upbringing and what he had been through. It was only when I grew older that I began to understand the consequences of having such an upbringing; once you are conditioned in that way, it is difficult to break out of it. I could see when I looked back that behind the behaviour of my father there was love, but it always came out in a commanding or demanding way, because that is the only way he knew how to talk. Like the way he said, 'Remember, this is my house, and you have to do what I say.' If I was going to be offended by that, I would have had a miserable time. But I decided not to pay any attention to that statement and not make a problem of it. I saw him as an old man losing his control, and maybe he saw me as a threat. He probably thought, 'He's going to think I am a hopeless old man, but I'm going to show him.'

Those who have taken care of paraplegics or quadriplegics know that sometimes they get very cantankerous. We can think we are doing them a favour, but they can be quite demanding because when people are helpless like that they become very sensitive to the patronising way of healthy people towards the sick: 'Let me help you - you're an invalid.' This type of thing is also seen when young people care for the elderly.

Eight years ago, we had a man who wanted to come and die in the monastery. He was 80 years old, an Englishman who had been a Buddhist since 1937. He was a very nice man, and he had terminal cancer. So he stayed here at Amaravati and people from a Buddhist group in Harlow that he had founded and inspired would come to look after him; sometimes when they couldn't come the monks would look after him. I had noticed that some of the monks were getting patronising about him. But this man would not take any of it: 'I might be dying and all, but I'm not stupid,' he'd say, and he made it very clear that he was not going to put up with such behaviour. So we have to be aware when we look after the elderly or the sick, we have to watch our reactions.

When we look at life from a historical point of view we see that it has always been difficult for people. When you visit a graveyard and read the gravestones here in England, you can find many of them are for young women - 25 years old or so - who died in childbirth; or for babies. That was very common in England just 100 years ago. Women could not necessarily expect to survive childbirth. Now, when someone dies in childbirth we are surprised and upset by it. We think life should not be like this, life should be fair. Our expectations are very high, and we can be very critical because we think that life should only get better and better. Yet even if we have everything, we can still live a joyless life. So it's how we relate to life, and how we develop our minds that counts - it's nothing to do with wealth and status, or even good health.

Life is a difficult experience, and it is an on-going one. You keep learning until you die. Life is difficult but you keep thinking it should not be so, that it should be easy. Now, I think that life should be difficult, because that's the way we learn.




Luang Por Ajahn Sumedho is the senior Western representative of the Thai forest tradition of Theravada Buddhism. Until recently, he has been abbot of Amaravati Buddhist Monastery just north of London since its consecration in 1984. Luang Por means Venerable Father, an honorific and term of affection in keeping with Thai custom; Ajahn means teacher. A bhikkhu for 43 years, Sumedho is considered a seminal figure in the transmission of the Buddha's teachings to the West.

On Generosity ~ from The Bodhisattva's Four Methods of Guidance

A talk by Alan Block


Generosity is something we all experience all the time. Helping people and being helped by others is as basic as human life.  There is no other way to live. You have shown me the kindness of generosity in coming here tonight and I have shown you the generosity of preparing a talk and arriving to give it to you. Generosity is the first paramita of manifesting our way. It is seen as the first door to enlightened living.

But let's get a few things straight. Generosity takes on many forms. We have all known generosity that appears under the guise that says, "I gave it to you, and now you owe me." That's no fun but it happens all the time.

Generosity is not specifically about material things even though it can include material things. As discussed by Dogen in this essay, generosity is much larger than material exchanges-it includes as well the symbolism of the gift, the deeper meaning that may not be stated but is nonetheless present.

The following story illustrates this point: In the early days of Tassajara, the author Herb Gold came to visit. After a talk with Suzuki Roshi he decided to give him the shiny Jaguar car he was driving. I think he said that Roshi was more deserving of this fine car than he was so of course he should give it to him. Years later I asked Herb Gold about this event and he replied, "doesn't everyone do that?"

The gift was the car but the statement was more like, you are an honored teacher of a deep teaching and I wish to generously honor you by making a gift of this car. The car was just the surface manifestation of a much deeper gift of respect and honor. Roshi accepted the car and promptly traded it in on a green Dodge truck.

Another aspect of the giving of material things that I was hearing in last week's discussion was giving linked to self-sacrifice. Sort of like, if we have so much, we should be generous and give some to the less fortunate. That is a great idea but also not quite what Dogen is trying to get at.

Now that you know that Dogen probably wouldn't remember or care to deliver or receive a birthday gift, I will discuss what I think he is saying in Shisho-Ho.

He is addressing each of you directly because you are a bodhisattva. Maybe if you are here for the first time you can escape that title but for the rest of us it is probably too late. If we were Theravada Buddhists we would only be concerned with our own awakening but because we are Mahayana Buddhists it is our vow to help others reach the other shore together with us. Hence we chant: "Beings are numberless, I vow to save them." So, the generosity of your way-seeking mind has been aroused and it is probably too late to go back.

Dogen's view of life is expansive. He believes that we are all potentially awakened beings--all we have to do to become awakened is to reach out and practice the qualities of awakened beings. Generosity, it turns out, is the first door to awakening.

For Dogen, it is critical to go beyond words--towards actions, attitudes and relations with others. Dogen's view of generosity is something different than we are used to and he is encouraging us to focus on it in a larger way that we haven't considered before. He is concerned with how we approach the big issue of our own realization and how we can develop our generosity as part of that bigger picture. This is expressed in everything he writes. To see our selves and the world of everyday human interactions in a larger context is Dogen's inspiration.

One of my favorite stories illustrates this point well. It concerns the first entry gate to Eihiji, the monastery that Dogen founded in Echizen Province in 1244. At the entrance to Eihiji there are two stone pillars that mark the gate. The pillars are called the "dipper gate" as they mark the place that Dogen preached a sermon to a drop of water in the bottom of the dipper before he released the water back to the stream. The poem on the stone pillars says:

              One drop of water in the bottom of the dipper

            One hundred billion people dip into the stream

What I like so much about this poem and why I think it represents so well the perspective that Dogen is offering us in Shisho-Ho is that it shows a very big appreciation of our connection to all people but it begins with something very small-a drop of water. It links the smallest act with the effect that act has on the universe.  To believe this link exists is inspiring. Dogen's perspective beautifully ties together our deepest intention with benefit to the whole world. That is his genius.

To return to the text, Dogen's intent is to get us to think about generosity in a way that is both easily touchable by each of us but at the same time world-wide in its proportions. He is attempting to develop our view of ourselves in the world and to cultivate our presence in relation to others.

He says to us that giving is as natural and as common as breathing. We can't avoid giving to others and being given to by others so we might as well realize that reality of life and change our assumptions about how life works. He writes in the Bendowa, "We open our hand and it is filled."

He says we can give away unneeded belongings or flowers blooming on a distant mountain. We can give away things we don't even own. The value of the gift doesn't interest him; just if there is merit, which goes to the attitude underlying the gift which is what this essay is about.

So if we are already doing it all the time, why even bother to talk about it? Because he wants to make sure that we are aware of our interdependence with all people and show us the way by relating our smallest act of good intention to the universe.  If we can understand and appreciate the place of giving in our lives we can realize how we are aligned with all beings.

Getting us to be more generous, though a worthy endeavor, is not his foremost concern. More importantly, he wants us to realize we are already generous all the time. By recognizing this we can cultivate and grow the generosity we already possess. We don't have to invent it; it is already ours.

So what are the conditions we can use to cultivate generosity? In practical Buddhist terms, we can become more aware of what is happening in our lives so that we can have a more conscious hand in developing generosity in ourselves. We call this mindfulness.

So, we now understand that the gift itself is not the most important thing but rather, whether there is an attitude of generosity underlying the giving of the gift which he refers to as merit. To understand how merit occurs we must look more closely at the act of giving. The generous act has three elements: giver, receiver and gift. When these elements come together we are turning the wheel of the dharma. Realizing that we are turning the wheel is how we practice. Dogen would probably say that we are always turning the wheel of the dharma but we just don't know it. If it is only a blade of grass or even a good wish for someone's welfare-it is the attitude of generosity that matters.

The attitude of generosity amazingly even applies to giving to ourselves.  Dogen talks about "giving yourself to yourself and others to others." In a 21st century interpretation of this 13th century I think he means that we become more ourselves in the process of being generous. Dogen writes that "causal relationships are immediately formed," meaning that our turning of the wheel of dharma affects all levels of being over all of time. "And the truth turns into valuables," he continues, "...because the giver is willing."

Giving to yourself: this is an example of Dogen turning things on their heads to make a point. Had someone introduced the notion of giving to yourself in the Boy Scout troop I belonged to as a kid, they would have been accused of boy scout treason or of being a disciple of Boss Tweed of Tammany Hall where graft was the norm. But giving to our selves has, in fact, a major place in this discussion.

It is an idea I was first introduced to by Reb Anderson thirty some years ago. At first it seemed foreign and a bit suspicious to me. Yet, the idea that in order to help others involved creating balance in one's own life made sense. If you are leaning way over to help someone else you can easily tip over. Working to achieve stability and sanity in our own lives benefits everyone we come into contact with.

Dogen is gentle with us in this essay. He never confronts but leaves us with the thought that "things given are beyond measure. In giving the mind transforms the gift and the gift transforms the mind." The wheel of the dharma is turning right now in this room as we study this essay. We give to our selves and to each other by expanding our awareness of what we are trying to do as practitioners of the Way. We are moved along the road from ignorance toward illumination.

Thinking about the Shisho-Ho has been a rewarding experience for me. I believe it has enlarged my personal view and feeling of generosity. Dogen has helped me to do that and as a result I have become a more generous person. Thank you for the opportunity to turn the wheel of the dharma together.

Alan Block is a student of Western Zen master Zoketsu Norman Fischer and a senior teacher in his Everyday Zen Sangha. Alan kindly allowed us to reproduce this talk here.
For more go to: www.everydayzen.org

Friday, July 8, 2011

"Non-sectarian prayer" - H.H. Dalai Lama

A Prayer for the Flourishing of the Non-Sectarian Teachings of the Buddha



by His Holiness the Dalai Lama

Embodiment of the four kayas, omniscient Lord Buddha ‘Kinsman of the Sun,’
Amitayus, Amitabha, supreme and noble Avalokiteshvara,
Manjughosha, Vajrapani the Lord of Secrets, and Tara who wears a wrathful frown,
The victorious buddhas and all their bodhisattva heirs,

Seven Great Patriarchs, Six Ornaments and Two Supreme Ones,
Eighty Mahasiddhas and Sixteen Arhats
All of you who seek only to benefit the teachings and beings,
All you great beings without exception, turn your attention towards us!

The supreme sage Shakyamuni spent countless aeons
Completing the two accumulations of merit and wisdom,
To attain perfect wisdom, love and capacity. Through the power of this truth,
Long may the complete teachings of the Buddha continue to flourish!

Khenpo Shantarakshita, Guru Padmasambhava and the Dharma King Trisong Deutsen,
Were the first to open up the land of snowy mountains to the light of Buddha’s teachings.
Through the power of their aspirations and those of all the translators, panditas, vidyadharas and disciples,
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

In the treasure-palace that is the Buddha’s extensive teachings,
The profound class of sadhanas are like great Dharma treasures,
And the profound and vast teachings of Nyingtik sparkle with brilliant light.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

Within the vast expanse of primordial purity and the essence of luminosity,
All the phenomena of samsara and nirvana are perfectly complete—this pinnacle vehicle
Is the method for reaching the primordial stronghold of Samantabhadra.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

The two major lineages—profound view and vast conduct—
Are both complete within the treasury of instructions mastered by Atisha,
The tradition of practical instructions passed on by Dromtön Gyalwé Jungné.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

The Words of the Buddha gathered in the three scriptural collections were
Wonderfully arranged into instructions for beings of the three levels of spiritual capacity,
As the golden rosary of Kadampa teachings, with their four deities and three sets of texts.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

The jewel treasury of the Kagyü teachings is a source of inspiration and blessings,
Coming from the translator Marpa, Milarepa Shepé Dorje and the rest,
A marvellous system of instruction from an unrivalled succession of masters.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

All the phenomena of samsara and nirvana are the radiance of the natural mind,
And mind itself, free from complexity, is realized as the essence of the dharmakaya.
This is the great seal, Mahamudra, pervading all that appears and exists throughout samsara and nirvana.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

Learned masters who guard the Buddha’s teachings through explanation, debate and composition,
On the key instructions of hundreds of texts for the outer and inner sciences, sutra and mantra,
This is the Sakyapa tradition of the great compassionate teachers from the divine family of Khön.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

The extremely profound and crucial points of the practice of Lamdré, the path and its fruit,
With its four criteria of validity, have been passed on in a whispered aural lineage,
The tradition of special instructions coming from Virupa, the powerful lord of yogins.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

Teachings of the victorious Lobzang Drakpa, skilfully combining the profound and the clear,
By perfectly uniting the profound view of the Middle Way
And the two-phase approach of the great and secret Vajra vehicle.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

This is the supreme and noble tradition for practising,
Without mistake, the essence and gradual stages of the path,
Which incorporates all three pitakas and all four classes of tantra,
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

The combined traditions of Butön and Jonang, the transmission of instruction and realization,
For the outer, inner and alternative cycles of the Kalachakra Tantra,
Including unique explanations, not to be found in any other sutra or tantra.
Long may these teachings of the Buddha flourish in the Land of Snows!

In short, may all the teachings of the Buddha in the Land of Snows
Flourish long into the future— the ten great pillars of the study lineage,
And the chariots of the practice lineage, such as Shijé (‘Pacifying’) and the rest,
All of them rich with their essential instructions combining sutra and mantra.

May the lives of the masters who uphold these teachings be secure and harmonious!
May the sangha preserve these teachings through their study, meditation and activity!
May the world be filled with faithful individuals intent on following these teachings!
And long may the non-sectarian teachings of the Buddha continue to flourish!

Throughout all the worlds, may war, conflict, famine and evil thoughts or actions
Be eradicated entirely, so that even their names are no longer heard!
May the minds of beings be infused with love! May signs of virtue increase throughout the environment and beings!
And may an ocean of happiness and wellbeing pervade throughout the whole of space!

From this moment on, may I follow the complete path of the teachings,
Arouse the vast motivation of bodhichitta, and exert myself
In study, reflection and meditation upon the profound view,
So that I swiftly reach the ground of temporary and ultimate happiness!

For the sake of all sentient beings, who are as infinite as space,
May I engage in the activity of the buddhas and bodhisattvas,
Without ever feeling discouraged or falling prey to laziness,
Always remaining joyful, with confidence and enthusiasm!

May my body, my possessions and all my merits,
Contribute towards the happiness of beings—my very own mothers,
And may whatever sufferings they are forced to undergo,
All ripen directly upon me!

May all who see me, hear my voice, think of me or put their trust in me,
Experience the most glorious happiness and virtue!
And may even those who insult, punish, strike or disparage me,
Gain the good fortune to set out upon the path to awakening!

In short, for as long as space endures,
And for as long as there is suffering among beings,
May I too remain, to bring them benefit and happiness,
In all ways, directly and also indirectly!


The enlightened activity of the transcendent and victorious Buddha—our teacher who embodies immeasurable compassion, and has seen the nature and the multiplicity of all illusory phenomena—radiates everywhere, as far as space itself. His complete teachings of the Hinayana, Mahayana and Secret Mantra have become the most beloved treasures of Tibetan practitioners. The various traditions have developed their own specific names and terminology, according to how they have been preserved and spread by various great masters and holders of the teachings who made powerful aspirations for the preservation of the Buddhadharma. This is a prayer for these precious non-sectarian teachings of the Buddha to remain without declining in the Land of Snows, and spread widely even in this final age, as a glorious expression of the merit of beings. For a while now, I myself have thought that there should be an aspiration prayer such as this, and then I was also requested to compose one by Bardrok Chuzang Trinley Gyatso, the incarnation of Phadampa Sangye, and by several others with faithful aspirations. In particular, I received a request from Dzarong Zhadeu Trulshik Ngawang Chökyi Lodrö Rinpoche, the great upholder of the Vinaya, who maintains and furthers the transmission of vows for the Lower Vinaya (Medül) lineage coming from Lachen Gongpa Rabsel, and who clarifies the Ngagyur Nyingma teachings and enthusiastically takes the non-sectarian buddhist teachings to heart. So, as someone who has developed faith through learning something of the Dharma taught by the Buddha, and who has devotion and pure perception towards all the non-sectarian teachings of the victorious one, I, the buddhist monk Tenzin Gyatso, who diligently pursues study, reflection and meditation, wrote this prayer 2543 years after the Buddha’s parinirvana, in the Tibetan year 2126, on the thirteenth day of the first month of the Earth Hare year in the seventeenth calendrical cycle (28th February 1999), at Thekchen Chöling Monastery, Dharamsala in the Kangra district of the state of Himachal Pradesh in the noble land of India.

May the buddhas and bodhisattvas grant their blessings so that this prayer may be fulfilled! And may virtue and goodness increase!


| Translated by Adam Pearcey, 2005. 

Thursday, July 7, 2011

"The Precept of Generosity" - Thich Nhat Hanh

THE SECOND PRECEPT: GENEROSITY

A commentary on one of the traditional 5 Buddhist precepts ("not stealing") as interpreted by
Thich Nhat Hanh

"Aware of the suffering caused by exploitation, social injustice, stealing, and oppression, I undertake to cultivate loving kindness and learn ways to work for the well-being of people, animals, plants, and minerals. I undertake to practice generosity by sharing my time, energy, and material resources with those who are in real need. I am determined not to steal and not to possess anything that should belong to others. I will respect the property of others, but I will prevent others from profiting from human suffering or the suffering of other species on Earth."
Exploitation, social injustice, and stealing come in many forms. Oppression is one form of stealing that causes much suffering both here and in the Third World. The moment we undertake to cultivate loving kindness, loving kindness is born in us, and we make every effort to stop exploitation, social injustice, stealing, and oppression.

In the First Precept, we found the word "compassion." Here, we find the words "loving kindness." Compassion and loving kindness are the two aspects of love taught by the Buddha. Compassion, karuna in Sanskrit and Pali, is the intention and capacity to relieve the suffering of another person or living being. Loving kindness, maitri in Sanskrit, metta in Pali, is the intention and capacity to bring joy and happiness to another person or living being. It was predicted by Shakyamuni Buddha that the next Buddha will bear the name Maitreya, the Buddha of Love.

"Aware of the suffering caused by exploitation, social injustice, stealing, and oppression, I undertake to cultivate loving kindness and learn ways to work for the well-being of people, animals, plants and minerals." Even with maitri as a source of energy in ourselves, we still need to learn to look deeply in order to find ways to express it. We do it as individuals, and we learn ways to do it as a nation. To promote the well-being of people, animals, plants, and minerals, we have to come together as a community and examine our situation, exercising our intelligence and our ability to look deeply so that we can discover appropriate ways to express our maitri in the midst of real problems.

Suppose you want to help those who are suffering under a dictatorship. In the past you may have tried sending in troops to overthrow their government, but you have learned that when doing that, you cause the deaths of many innocent people, and even then, you might not overthrow the dictator. If you practice looking more deeply, with loving kindness, to find a better way to help these people without causing suffering, you may realize that the best time to help is before the country falls into the hands of a dictator. If you offer the young people of that country the opportunity to learn your democratic ways of governing by giving them scholarships to come to your country, that would be a good investment for peace in the future. If you had done that thirty years ago, the other country might be democratic now, and you would not have to bomb them or send in troops to "liberate" them. This is just one example of how looking deeply and learning can help us find ways to do things that are more in line with loving kindness. If we wait until the situation gets bad, it may be too late. If we practice the precepts together with politicians, soldiers, businessmen, lawyers, legislators, artists, writers, and teachers, we can find the best ways to practice compassion, loving kindness, and understanding.

It requires time to practice generosity. We may want to help those who are hungry, but we are caught in the problems of our own daily lives. Sometimes, one pill or a little rice could save the life of a child, but we do not take the time to help, because we think we do not have the time. In Ho Chi Minh City, for example, there are street children who call themselves "the dust of life." They are homeless, and they wander the streets by day and sleep under trees at night. They scavenge in garbage heaps to find things like plastic bags they can sell for one or two cents per pound. The nuns and monks in Ho Chi Minh City have opened their temples to these children, and if the children agree to stay four hours in the morning -- learning to read and write and playing with the monks and nuns -- they are offered a vegetarian lunch. Then they can go to the Buddha hall for a nap. (In Vietnam, we always take naps after lunch; it is so hot. When the Americans came, they brought their practice of working eight hours, from nine to five. Many of us tried, but we could not do it. We desperately need our naps after lunch.)

Then at two o'clock, there is more teaching and playing with the children, and the children who stay for the afternoon receive dinner. The temple does not have a place for them to sleep overnight. In our community in France, we have been supporting these nuns and monks. It costs only twenty cents for a child to have both lunch and dinner, and it will keep him from being out on the streets, where he might steal cigarettes, smoke, use delinquent language, and learn the worst behavior. By encouraging the children to go to the temple, we help prevent them from becoming delinquent and entering prison later on. It takes time to help these children, not much money. There are so many simple things like this we can do to help people, but because we cannot free ourselves from our situation and our lifestyle, we do nothing at all. We need to come together as a community, and, looking deeply, find ways to free ourselves so we can practice the Second Precept.

"I undertake to practice generosity by sharing my time, energy, and material resources with those who are in real need." This sentence is clear. The feeling of generosity and the capacity for being generous are not enough. We also need to express our generosity. We may feel that we don't have the time to make people happy - we say, "Time is money," but time is more than money. Life is for more than using time to make money. Time is for being alive, for sharing joy and happiness with others. The wealthy are often the least able to make others happy. Only those with time can do so.

I know a man named Bac Sieu in Thua Thien Province in Vietnam, who has been practicing generosity for fifty years; he is a living bodhisattva. With only a bicycle, he visits villages of thirteen provinces, bringing something for this family and something for that family. When I met him in 1965, I was a little too proud of our School of Youth for Social Service. We had begun to train three hundred workers, including monks and nuns, to go out to rural villages to help people rebuild homes and modernize local economies, health-care systems, and education. Eventually we had ten thousand workers throughout the country. As I was telling Bac Sieu about our projects, I was looking at his bicycle and thinking that with a bicycle he could help only a few people. But when the communists took over and closed our School, Bac Sieu continued, because his way of working was formless. Our orphanages, dispensaries, schools, and resettlement centers were all shut down or taken by the government. Thousands of our workers had to stop their work and hide. But Bac Sieu had nothing to take. He was a truly a bodhisattva, working for the well-being of others. I feel more humble now concerning the ways of practicing generosity.

The war created many thousands of orphans. Instead of raising money to build orphanages, we sought people in the West to sponsor a child. We found families in the villages to each take care of one orphan, then we sent $6 every month to that family to feed the child and send him or her to school. Whenever possible, we tried to place the child in the family of an aunt, an uncle, or a grandparent. With just $6, the child was fed and sent to school, and the rest of the children in the family were also helped. Children benefit from growing up in a family. Being in an orphanage can be like being in the army -- children do not grow up naturally. If we look for and learn ways to practice generosity, we will improve all the time.

"I am determined not to steal and not to possess anything that should belong to others. I will respect the property of others, but I will prevent others from profiting from human suffering or the suffering of other species on Earth." When you practice one precept deeply, you will discover that you are practicing all five. The First Precept is about taking life, which is a form of stealing -- stealing the most precious thing someone has, his or her life. When we meditate on the Second Precept, we see that stealing, in the forms of exploitation, social injustice, and oppression, are acts of killing -- killing slowly by exploitation, by maintaining social injustice, and by political and economic oppression. Therefore, the Second Precept has much to do with the precept of not killing. We see the "interbeing" nature of the first two precepts. This is true of all Five Precepts. Some people formally receive just one or two precepts. I didn't mind, because if you practice one or two precepts deeply, all Five Precepts will be observed.

The Second Precept is not to steal. Instead of stealing, exploiting, or oppressing, we practice generosity. In Buddhism, we say there are three kinds of gifts. The first is the gift of material resources. The second is to help people rely on themselves, to offer them the technology and know-how to stand on their own feet. Helping people with the Dharma so they can transform their fear, anger, and depression belongs to the second kind of gift. The third is the gift of non-fear. We are afraid of many things. We feel insecure, afraid of being alone, afraid of sickness and dying. To help people not be destroyed by their fears, we practice the third kind of gift-giving.

The Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara is someone who practices this extremely well. In the Heart Sutra, he teaches us the way to transform and transcend fear and ride on the waves of birth and death, smiling. He says that there is no production, no destruction, no being, no nonbeing, no increasing, and no decreasing. Hearing this helps us look deeply into the nature of reality to see that birth and death, being and nonbeing, coming and going, increasing and decreasing are all just ideas that we ascribe to reality, while reality transcends all concepts. When we realize the interbeing nature of all things -- that even birth and death are just concepts -- we transcend fear.

In 1991, I visited a friend in New York who was dying, Alfred Hassler. We had worked together in the peace movement for almost thirty years. Alfred looked as though he had been waiting for me to come before dying, and he died only a few hours after our visit. I went with my closest colleague, Sister Chan Khong (True Emptiness).

Alfred was not awake when we arrived. His daughter Laura tried to wake him up, but she couldn't. So I asked Sister Chan Khong to sing Alfred the Song of No Coming and No Going: "These eyes are not me, I am not caught by these eyes. This body is not me, I am not caught by this body. I am life without boundaries. I have never been born, I will never die." The idea is taken from the Samyutta Nikaya. She sang so beautifully, and I saw streams of tears running down the faces of Alfred's wife and children. They were tears of understanding, and they were very healing.

Suddenly, Alfred came back to himself. Sister Chan Khong began to practice what she had learned from studying the sutra The Teaching Given to the Sick. She said, "Alfred, do you remember the times we worked together?" She evoked many happy memories we had shared together, and Alfred was able to remember each of them. Although he was obviously in pain, he smiled. This practice brought results right away. When a person is suffering from so much physical pain, we sometimes can alleviate his suffering by watering the seeds of happiness that are in him. A kind of balance is restored, and he will feel less pain.

All the while, I was practicing massage on his feet, and I asked him whether he felt my hand on his body. When you are dying, areas of your body become numb, and you feel as if you have lost those parts of your body. Doing massage in mindfulness, gently, gives the dying person the feeling that he is alive and being cared for. He knows that love is there. Alfred nodded, and his eyes seemed to say, "Yes, I feel your hands. I know my foot is there."

Sister Chan Khong asked, "Do you know we learned a lot from you when we lived and worked together? The work you began, many of us are continuing to do. Please don't worry about anything." She told him many things like that, and he seemed to suffer less. At one point, he opened his mouth and said, "Wonderful, wonderful." Then, he sank back to sleep.

Before we left, we encouraged the family to continue these practices. The next day I learned that Alfred passed away just five hours after our visit. This was a kind of gift that belongs to the third category. If you can help people feel safe, less afraid of life, people, and death, you are practicing the third kind of gift.

During my meditation, I had a wonderful image -- the shape of a wave, its beginning and its end. When conditions are sufficient, we perceive the wave, and when conditions are no longer sufficient, we do not perceive the wave. Waves are only made of water. We cannot label the wave as existing or nonexisting. After what we call the death of the wave, nothing is gone, nothing is lost. The wave has been absorbed into other waves, and somehow, time will bring the wave back again. There is no increasing, decreasing, birth, or death. When we are dying, if we think that everyone else is alive and we are the only person dying, our feeling of loneliness may be unbearable. But if we are able to visualize hundreds of thousands of people dying with us, our dying may become serene and even joyful. "I am dying in community. Millions of living beings are also dying in this very moment. I see myself together with millions of other living beings; we die in the Sangha. At the same time, millions of beings are coming to life. All of us are doing this together. I have been born, I am dying. We participate in the whole event as a Sangha." That is what I saw in my meditation. In the Heart Sutra, Avalokitesvara shares this kind of insight and helps us transcend fear, sorrow, and pain. The gift of non-fear brings about a transformation in us.

The Second Precept is a deep practice. We speak of time, energy, and material resources, but time is not only for energy and material resources. Time is for being with others -- being with a dying person or with someone who is suffering. Being really present for even five minutes can be a very important gift. Time is not just to make money. It is to produce the gift of Dharma and the gift of non-fear.

Reproduced from For a Future to Be Possible: Commentaries on the Five Wonderful Precepts (1993) by Thich Nhat Hanh. Copyright 1993, Parallax Press.



THICH NHAT HANH
is a Zen Buddhist monk, peace activist, scholar, and poet. He is the founder of the Van Hanh Buddhist University in Saigon, has taught at Columbia University and the Sorbonne, and now lives in southern France, where he gardens, works to help those in need, and travels internationally teaching ``the art of mindful living.'' Martin Luther King, Jr., nominated him for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1967, saying, ``I do not personally know of anyone more worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize than this gentle monk from Vietnam.''