Category Archives: Compassion

Apr3

What kind of Buddhist am I?

Posted on by
Standard

I’m not sure that I realized until a couple of years ago that there are various sects of Buddhism. It didn’t occur to me that Buddhism wasn’t just a single, undivided religion. My perspective was evidently limited; I mean, I was well aware of the fact that Judaism had multiple branches, so why wouldn’t Buddhism have fractures somewhat in the 2,500 years since the Buddha awoke?

When I first became aware that there was more than one type of Buddhism, it seemed to me that Buddhist sects were as plentiful as the denominations of Christianity. I was mistaken (gasp!) on that point as well. As it turns out, the variety of names used to describe the same schools of Buddhism makes them seem more numerous that they really are. Theravada is the Lesser Vehicle is Hinayana, for instance (though I understand that Hinayana is a pejorative that is little used in common parlance). My limited understanding tells me that there are three schools of Buddhism—Mahayana, Theravada, and Vajrayana—though Vajrayana is really an offshoot of the Mahayana school. Vajrayana is alternatively referred to as Tibetan Buddhism and Tantric Buddhism. And within Vajrayana there are the Kagyu, Gelug, New Kadampa, Nyingma, Sakya… *Sigh* See what I mean?

So why does any of this really matter? After all, it took me years to realize I was a Buddhist in the first place; wouldn’t it have made sense to live with that epiphany for a time before trying to refine myself into a specific kind of Buddhist?

At the same time that I was coming to understand I was a Buddhist, I was feeling a keen need for community. A couple of years of study and meditation solidified my association with the Buddha and rooted my spirituality in the Dharma (truth, in Sanskrit, I believe), the collection of Buddhist teachings. The third of the Three Jewels—the Sangha or community—was absent, however, and the solitary spiritual exploration I had worn for more than two years was beginning to look a bit threadbare. My religion may have changed, but the basic human need to belong, to be with others similarly minded, was not.

Don’t keep us on the edge of our seats, Dean! Tell us what happened next. Okay, you dragged it out of me. I did what any semi-compulsive (semi?) academic researcher would do—I scoured the Internet. Seriously, I googled “Buddhism New York.” Did you know there are, like, a bajillion Buddhist monasteries and centers in New York? Not a million, not a billion—a bajillion. How to sift through the multitudes? The first cut was pragmatic—it needed to be relatively near to my home, so I could actually visit and participate in the community. Otherwise, I could just have affiliated myself with Thich Nhat Hanh’s Plum Village in France. (Turns out, Thây has a center in New York, too—Blue Cliff Monastery—though it’s a bit too far away.)

The next cut turned out to be simpler than expected. My focus centered on Tibetan sects almost exclusively. There’s just something about Tibet, isn’t there? It has drawn me in, tugged at my heart, for decades. The precariousness of the life of occupation, the plight of the exiles, the depth of the people’s spirituality in the face of adversity, the majesty of the Himalayas, the charisma of His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama. All of these things had occupied my mind, commanded my concern, stoked my moral outrage, long before I had an inkling I would be a Buddhist. The depth of the Tibetan people’s spirituality and fortitude in the face of adversity convinced me that they must know something that I should learn.

Compassion is a common foundation of all Buddhism, though I sensed a particularly strong devotion in Tibetan Buddhism to showing compassion to all beings, to seeking enlightenment not out of self-interest but in order to benefit others. Could it be a coincidence that I had been raised to believe that very thing?

From that point on, the results of the search were in the hands of serendipity. Somehow, some way, I settled on Kagyu Thubten Chöling, a monastery in the Karma Kagyu lineage in Wappingers Falls. (Karma Kagyu is but one of several branches of Kagyu. If I had been pressed, I couldn’t have distinguished one from the other.) I became a member and shortly afterwards signed up for KTC’s Dharma Path program to formalize my education in the Dharma. Last weekend, I was fortunate to see KTC’s abbot and guru, Lama Norlha Rinpoche, give a talk. Lama Norlha Rinpoche is getting old and has been ill in recent years, so I am told; he moves slowly, monks and nuns nearby to assist him if needed. Frail though he may be, he radiates peace and holiness, a palpable sense of wisdom, compassion, strength, love. I can honestly say that I would have done anything he asked from the moment I first saw him.

Can’t explain it; don’t need to.

That afternoon, Lama Norlha Rinpoche conducted a Buddha Amitabha empowerment; an empowerment is a ceremony in which the guru initiates his followers into the practice of a given tantric deity. I understood going in that participation in the empowerment required taking refuge. I thought that meant that one had to have taken refuge in the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, which I had. I learned upon arriving that it was more formal, an actual formal offering of refuge by Lama Norlha Rinpoche. He offered to take responsibility for guiding my spiritual growth and protecting me, and I gratefully accepted, along with 20 or so others.

When I boarded the train in Tarrytown that morning to attend the event, I had no clue that the afternoon would end in so moving a fashion. The lightest touch of his fingers on my head left me feeling shaky for a couple of hours, like I had mainlined pure caffeine. Long after my jangling nerves had settled down, through this very moment, I still feel the warmth of realizing my journey toward enlightenment was no longer a solitary trek. I’m in community. The Sangha includes me.

Mar13

Fear of the unknown

Posted on by
Standard

“People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar.” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh

A recent sports story involving Ohio State football coach Jim Tressel intrigues me. The key parts of the story are, as I understand them:

  1. he was notified a year ago that some of his players, including the team’s star quarterback. may have violated NCAA rules by selling their team-related memorabilia
  2. he chose at that time not to report what he had been told or to otherwise act on it, perhaps because he feared the players would be suspended, undermining a season in which many were predicting Ohio State would win the national title
  3. the possible violations were ultimately revealed and the players were suspended for several games, at which time he claimed not to have been previously aware of the situation, and
  4. more recently the whole story came to light, Tressel was fined and suspended by Ohio State, and likely faces additional fines and suspension from the NCAA.

I don’t pretend to understand why Jim Tressel chose not to pass that initial tip along to Ohio State’s compliance officer right away, but the situation has the ring of familiarity. Who knows what the effect on the team’s chances might have been if Tressel had reported what he knew right away? It is certain, however, that the ramifications would have been far less than they will ultimately be—a multi-game suspension and $250,000 fine for Tressel, both of which will likely be augmented by the NCAA, and possibly sanctions for the university itself (voided wins, lost scholarships, and so on). The delusion that this potentially bad situation would simply disappear if he ignored it has already cost Tressel over a quarter of a million dollars of his own money (when you factor in lost salary during the suspension) and his reputation.

How many times do we choose to ignore potentially bad news because we are afraid of what we may find out if we acknowledge it? The simple answer, I think, is “a lot.” Maybe everyday.

Warning signs flash all around us—a rattling in our car, a pain in a limb, constant fatigue, a child’s declining grades. All too often, my inclination is to look away and hope that, when my attention drifts back in that direction, the offending omens will have vanished. But they almost never do. The rattling becomes a seized engine. The pain becomes a heart attack. The fatigue becomes metastatic cancer. The falling grades become an arrest for under-age drinking.

I knew someone who, for years and years, hardly ever went to the doctor. He had a relatively minor ailment that he was scared was something very serious, and refused to discuss it with his doctor. Then he was rushed to the hospital in pain and, in the span of one weekend, he was gone. Turns out, had he received treatment for the ailment any time in the last few years, he would still be alive. He feared that he might be seriously ill, and in fear he tried to hide from his imagined illness.

Worse yet, I think I had an inkling that he was ill, and said nothing. Maybe I was hoping it would just go away, afraid to find out that he might be sick; that if I asked, then he might tell me he was dying.

Pema Chödrön is so wonderfully reassuring on this topic, her most recent book being Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears. As did her teacher, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, Pema speaks of awakening bodhicitta and becoming “warriors of nonaggression who hear the cries of the world.” Bodhicitta (or bodhichitta), as I understand it, is tantamount to our inherent ability to love, our deep-seated need to love in order to realize our Buddha nature, our overpowering compassion for all living beings. Bodhicitta is at the heart of the bodhisattva way of life, a life devoted to achieving enlightenment in order to ease the suffering of others.

In Comfortable with Uncertainty: 108 Teachings on Cultivating Fearlessness and Compassion, Pema writes: “A warrior accepts that we can never know what will happen to us next. We can try to control the uncontrollable by looking for security and predictability, always hoping to be comfortable and safe. But the truth is that we can never avoid uncertainty.”

In other words, hiding is a delusion; it is not actually possible. When we try to hide, we do not manage to avoid contact with illness, accidents, discomfort, painful emotions, or unpleasant situations.

The only things we actually avoid—in the process of trying to hide from our fear—are opportunities to show love and compassion to others, the kind of contact we most desperately need.

Mar6

All gestures great and small

Posted on by
Standard

Who could fail to be impressed by the $10 billion donation made by Bill and Melinda Gates to fund the development of vaccines for AIDS, TB, pneumonia, and other illnesses? Even for someone as wealthy as the Gates, that is an inspiring act of charity and compassion.

You know what inspires me even more?

  • The person who bends over to pick up the umbrella dropped by a frail, elderly woman in the supermarket, handing it to her with a smile that fairly well beamed, “I’d be happy to pick it up again 100 more times.”
  • The person who overhears an offhand remark about some item a coworker needs, leaves the office to obtain the item, and places it on the coworker’s desk without a word and, seemingly, without a second thought as to whether anyone would know what she did or whether she would ever be thanked for it.
  • The person who sits at an empty table in the lunch room, rather than at the last open seat at another table, so that the next person to arrive would not have to sit alone.
  • The person who risks the wrathful horns of the line cars behind her in order to allow pedestrians to cross the street.
  • The man in the business suit who stops to help the stranded driver change a flat tire.

I don’t have any links to offer that lead to CNN coverage of those everyday acts of love. Look around and see them for yourself, taking place right before your eyes, “live on the scene,” so to speak.

This morning in yoga class, I unrolled my mat next to the pole in the middle of the studio. I’ve never seen the 8 am Sunday class so packed, and was grateful for it. The more people following this practice I so love, the happier I am.

Fifteen minutes into the class, though, after repeatedly hitting the pole with my hand, then contorting to avoid hitting said pole at the beginning and end of each sun salutation, my focus was shredding and I momentarily considered rolling up my mat and leaving. Mirijana is one of my favorite yoga teachers (at Club Fit or anywhere else), in no small part because of her gentle attentions and kindnesses as she wanders the studio. (Maybe it’s just me, but I tingle when, deep in a pose, I hear my yoga teacher softly say, “Beautiful.”)

Mirijana quickly noticed my distress and suddenly a fellow practitioner in front of me was offering to switch places. Gratitude welled up at her gesture, and continues to warm my heart and lump my throat at this very moment. I’m unsure of her name (Sue, maybe?), am certain that she does not know mine, and therefore am all the more touched. It was evident after class, as I thanked her repeatedly, that her offer of her uncluttered patch of hardwood in exchange for my metal pole was made without hesitation. I have no doubt that she would have done the same for anyone, perhaps completely unaware of just how loving and compassionate she was being.

Five minutes after changing places, I was in triangle pose, my focus returning, big smile spreading across my face. I can’t imagine I smiled any bigger when I heard about the Gates’ big donation.