EXTRACT
Gates to Buddhist Practice
by Chagdud Tulku
Chapter 5: Daily Life As Spiritual Practice
As a way of introducing the topic of meditation in daily life, I’d like to draw on some of my own experiences and training in Tibet. There, at the age of two, I was recognized as a tulku, one who has directed successive rebirths for the benefit of others. This means that I was expected to turn out rather special. By the age of five, I’d been taught to read and write. I had my own tutor, which in one way was very fortunate, because every day, all day, someone sat in attendance teaching me. On the other hand, whenever I made a mistake or forgot a lesson, I encountered the swing of the stick.
Even as a very young child I found myself exposed to profound spiritual teachings, either in a group or just one-on-one with my tutor. I studied the nature of absolute and relative truth. And it was then that I first received the teaching on impermanence. Once our universe wasn’t here. Slowly it came into being, and over time it will age and at some point dissipate. Even our own body wasn’t here at one time. Each day it ages and some day it will cease to be. Everything in our experience is subject to impermanence. Recognizing this truth is fundamental to developing a spiritual perspective.
When I was introduced to this teaching, I resisted it strongly; I simply didn’t want to hear it. I thought, yes, of course, seasons change, people change, lives change—who cares? I didn’t pay a lot of attention to it. But by the age of nine, after having heard the teaching again and again, I’d begun to contemplate impermanence. By then, I had gained a little realization of its nature.
At first, understanding impermanence didn’t change things drastically for me. I experienced just a little less grasping, desire, and attachment to the things in life we normally become attached to. The change was subtle, based on the realization that things weren’t quite as real as they had previously seemed to be.
That shift in perspective was tremendously helpful at the time my mother died, when I was only eleven years old. It also helped when I was twelve and my brother died, and at thirteen when my very dear guardian and teacher had to leave. Those experiences of death and separation were not easy, but the understanding I had gained from contemplating impermanence made them less unbearable, and helped again later when I had to face the loss of my monastery and country.
I learned that the more attached we are to our possessions and relationships in the world, the more important and necessary we think they are, the more pain we experience when they cease to be. For this reason alone, it is crucial to contemplate impermanence.
It is also very important to understand the good fortune of having a human body. Most of us take human existence lightly, too much for granted; we become callous to the natural joy of having a human form. We may not all have the eye of wisdom, but those who do describe realms of experience other than our own. Still, the greatest opportunity of all is that of a human birth. In another realm we might enjoy a body that is seemingly superior, but we will never be able to accomplish what we can as a human. We simply won’t have the capability.
Sometimes people fail to realize the incomparable opportunity they have, because their lives are disappointing or very trying, and they lose interest in taking advantage of their human capacities. That is a grave mistake. The potential this body provides, right now, is far too great to be overlooked because of disappointment or difficulty.
It’s as if you borrow a boat to cross a river, and instead of using it right away, you take your time, forgetting that it isn’t yours but has only been lent to you. If you don’t take advantage of it while you have it, you’ll never get across the river, for sooner or later the boat will be reclaimed, the opportunity lost.
This human body is a rare vehicle, and we need to use it well without delay. The most exalted purpose of a precious human birth is to advance spiritually. If we are not able to travel far, still we can make some progress; even better, we can help others to progress. At the very least, we mustn’t make other people miserable.
Life is like a Sunday afternoon picnic—it doesn’t last very long. Just to look at the sun, to smell the flowers, to breathe the fresh air is a joy. But if all we do is fight about where to put the blanket, who’s going to sit on which corner, who gets the wing or the drumstick—what a waste! Sooner or later, rain clouds come, dark approaches, and the picnic is over. And all we’ve done is bicker. Think of what we’ve lost.
You might wonder: if everything is impermanent and nothing lasts, how can anyone live happily? It’s true that we can’t really hold on to things, but we can use that realization to look at life differently, as a very brief and precious opportunity. If we bring to our lives the knowledge that everything is impermanent, our experiences will become richer, our relationships more sincere, and our appreciation greater for what we already enjoy.
We will also be more patient. We’ll realize that no matter how bad things might seem now, such unfortunate circumstances cannot last. We’ll feel we can endure them until they pass. And with greater patience, we’ll be gentler with those around us. It’s not so hard to extend a loving gesture once we realize that we may never see a great aunt again. Why not make her happy? Why not take the time to listen to all those old stories?
Coming to an understanding of impermanence and a genuine desire to make others happy in this brief time we have together represents the beginning of true spiritual practice. It is this kind of sincerity that truly catalyzes transformation. We don’t have to shave our heads or wear special robes. We don’t have to leave home or sleep on a bed of stone. Spiritual practice doesn’t require austere conditions, only a good heart and an understanding of impermanence. This will lead to progress.
If we only make a show of spirituality—burning the right incense, sitting the right way, speaking the right words—we’re liable to become prouder, more self-righteous, condescending, and faultfinding. Such false practice won’t help us or others at all. The purpose of spiritual practice is to reduce our faults, not to increase them.
Having heard this once, we may become inspired. It makes us happy to hear such truths. But it’s a bit like patching a hole in a piece of clothing: if we don’t sew the patch on well, pretty soon it will start to slip and the hole will show again.
This brings us to contemplation and meditation. Although we may be inspired and touched by the simplicity and profundity of a spiritual approach to life, our habits are very strong and our difficulties in the world remain. Effective practice requires constant reiteration of what we know to be true.
Meditation is like the process of stitching, of reminding ourselves again and again of the deeper truths—impermanence, loving kindness—until the patch is sewn on so strongly that it becomes a part of the cloth and strengthens the whole garment. Then we’re not shaken by outer circumstances. There is a kind of ease that comes when we understand the illusory nature of reality, when we comprehend the dreamlike quality of life, the impermanence that pervades everything. This doesn’t mean that we deny our involvement with life. Rather, we don’t take it quite so seriously; we approach it with less hope and fear. Then we’re like the adult playing with a child on the beach: we don’t suffer as the child does if the sand castle is washed away, yet compassion arises in us for others’ suffering.
Compassion is natural to every one of us, but because we have deep-seated, self-centered habits, we need to cultivate it by contemplating the suffering of those who invest their dream with solidity. We need to develop a sincere, compassionate desire that their suffering will cease, that they will come to understand the dreamlike quality of life and thus avoid agony over the inevitable loss of things they value.
For twelve years a great Indian scholar and practitioner, Atisha, studied many texts—huge bodies of teachings and commentaries on the doctrine of the Buddha and the realization of great lamas. After his years of study, he came to the conclusion that all of the 84,000 methods that the Buddha taught for achieving the transition from ordinary to extraordinary mind came down to the essential point of good heart.
When we merely talk about purity of heart, it seems simple enough, but in difficult times we find that it is not so easy to maintain. If we are face-to-face with someone who hates us and would hurt us, it is very hard not to become angry and lose our loving kindness.
An effective way to uphold good heart in our daily interactions is to repeatedly remind ourselves that every being has, at some time in our many lifetimes, been our parent. This may prove difficult for some of us to accept. But the Buddha and other beings with omniscience and infallible wisdom have taught that we have all had countless lifetimes. We, on the other hand, don’t know where we were before we were born or what will happen to us after we die. If we think about it, though, we live today as a consequence of having lived yesterday, and today supplies the basis for tomorrow. The sequence of existence is similar. We have this life, which means there was some previous basis for it, while the present itself forms the ground for what will occur next.
If our inherent wisdom were more fully revealed, we would see that all beings—human, animal, or otherwise—at some time throughout countless lifetimes have shown us the kindness of parents: given us a body, protected us, enabled us to survive, provided education, understanding, and some sort of worldly training. It doesn’t matter what their roles are now or how difficult our relationships with them may be. It’s as if we are playing at make-believe. We’re like actors who have come to believe we’re actually the characters we’re portraying.
When we truly understand our connection with every other being, equanimity arises. We regard everyone, friend or foe, with consideration. Even though someone may prove difficult, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been important to us before.
When we see one who was once our parent suffering terribly, our compassion deepens. We think, “How sad—she doesn’t understand. If I understand a little bit more, it’s my responsibility to help her as much as I can.”
A perception like that softens us. So when we’re in a stressful situation, before we react impulsively, we think for a moment, then respond with patience and compassion instead of anger. We try to be kind and helpful, and refrain from hurtful, self-interested, negative actions and faultfinding.
Spiritual practice in daily life begins when you wake up in the morning. Rejoice that you didn’t die in the night, knowing you have one more useful day—you can’t guarantee that you’ll have two. Then remind yourself of correct motivation. Instead of setting out to become rich and famous or to follow your own selfish interests, meet the day with an altruistic intention to help others. And renew your commitment every morning. Tell yourself, “Today I’ll do the best that I can. In the past I’ve done fairly well on some days, terribly on others. But since this day may be my last, I will offer my best; I will do right by other people as much as I am able.”
When you go to bed at night, don’t just hit the pillow and pass out. Instead, review the day. Ask yourself, “How did I do? It was my intention not to hurt anybody—did I accomplish that? I meant to cultivate joy, compassion, love, equanimity—did I do so?” Think not just of this day, but of your life as a whole. “Have I developed positive tendencies? Have I basically been a virtuous person? Or have I spent most of my time acting negatively, engaged in nonvirtuous activities?” Consider these things critically and honestly. How does it come out when you really study the tallies?
If you find that you have fallen short, there is no benefit in feeling guilty or blaming yourself. The point is to observe what you have done, because your harmful actions can be purified. Negativity is not indelibly marked in the ground of the mind. It can be changed. So look back; when you see your faults and downfalls, call upon a wisdom being. You don’t need to go anywhere special, for there is no place where prayer is not heard. It doesn’t matter whether you pray to God, Buddha, or a deity, as long as the object of your supplication is flawless and without limitation. From absolute perfection you receive the blessings of purification. With a wisdom being as your witness, confess with sincere
regret the harm you’ve done, vowing not to repeat it. As you meditate, visualize light radiating from that being, cleansing you and purifying all the mistakes of your day, your life, every life you’ve lived.
When you look back on the day, you may find that you were able to make others happy. You may have given food to a hungry animal or practiced generosity and patience. Rather than becoming self-satisfied, resolve to do even better tomorrow, to be more skillful, more compassionate in your interactions with others. Dedicate the positive energy created by your actions to all beings, whoever they are, whatever condition they’re in, thinking, “May this virtue relieve the suffering of beings; may it cause them short- and long-term happiness.”
During the day, check your mind. How am I behaving? What is my real intention? You can’t really know anybody else’s mind; the only one you truly know is your own. Whenever you can, contemplate the preciousness of human birth, impermanence, karma, and the suffering of others.
In daily meditation practice, we work with two aspects of the mind: its intellectual ability to reason and conceptualize, and the quality that is beyond thought—the pervasive, nonconceptual nature of mind. Using the rational faculty, contemplate; then let the mind rest. Think and then relax; contemplate, then relax. Don’t use one or the other exclusively, but both together, like the two wings of a bird.
This isn’t just something you do while sitting on a cushion. You can meditate this way anywhere—while driving your car or while working. It doesn’t require special props or a special environment. It can be practiced in every situation.
Some people think that if they meditate for fifteen minutes a day, they ought to become enlightened in a week and a half. But it doesn’t work like that. Even if you meditate, pray, and contemplate for an hour each day, that’s one hour you’re meditating and twenty-three you’re not. What are the chances of one person against twenty-three in a tug-of-war? It isn’t possible to change the mind with one hour of daily meditation. You have to pay attention to your spiritual process throughout the day, as you work, play, sleep; the mind always has to be moving toward the ultimate goal of enlightenment.
When you are out and about in the world, stay focused on what you are doing. If you are writing, keep your mind on the stroke of the pen. If you are sewing, focus on the stitch. Don’t get distracted. Don’t think of a hundred things at the same time. Don’t get going on what happened yesterday or what might happen in the future. It doesn’t matter what you are doing as long as you focus the mind one-pointedly. Hold to your task closely, comfortable in what you do, and in that way you will train your mind.
Always check yourself thoroughly: reduce negative thoughts, words, and actions, increase those that are positive, and continually bring your mind back to what you are doing. Meditation involves a constant refocusing. You have to bring pure intention back again and again. Then relax the mind to allow a direct, subtle recognition of that which lies beyond all thought.
If you have a hard time remembering to practice throughout the day, find a method to remind yourself, in the same way that someone might put a string around her finger. You could tell yourself that whenever you walk outside you will give rise to compassion, or that every time you start the car you will pray. In Tibet there was a great lama who devised an effective, if unconventional, reminder for his mother, who had created a lot of nonvirtue in her life. He taught her the mantra Om Mani Padme Hung and encouraged her to recite it as much as possible. Unfortunately, she didn’t show much enthusiasm for mantra repetition, so the lama placed a small bell on her spinning wheel and another in the kitchen, instructing her to recite Om Mani Padme Hung whenever she heard one of them ring. As the old woman spun her wool and went about her work in the kitchen, the bells rang. She loved her son, but she didn’t love the dharma. So every time she heard them, she would sing, “This is my penalty! Om Mani Padme Hung. This is the law! Om Mani Padme Hung. This is my son’s command! Om Mani Padme Hung.” Although her motivation was less than flawless, these constant reminders encouraged her practice of virtue.
There are, of course, established centers where you can hear the Buddha’s teachings, where you are exposed to a different view of reality and can meditate and contemplate in a supportive environment. It’s hard to make progress on your own and to change if you hear the teachings only once. It’s very helpful to visit such centers, but whether you do or not, you need to integrate what you have learned with a care that requires constant attention, listening to and applying the teachings again and again.
It doesn’t happen swiftly, but the mind can change. There was once a man who decided to keep track of his thoughts. This isn’t an easy process, for though one can be determined to watch one’s thoughts, many get away, coming and going without being noticed. Nevertheless, he put down a white stone for every virtuous thought, a black stone for every nonvirtuous one. At first this produced a huge pile of black stones, but as the years went by, the pile of black stones slowly became smaller while the white pile grew. That’s the kind of gradual progress we make with sincere effort. There is nothing flashy about the progress of the mind; it’s very measured and steady, requiring diligence, attentiveness, patience, and enthusiastic perseverance.
There are many profound teachings in the Buddhist tradition, but what we’ve been discussing is the essential, sweet nectar of them all. Cultivating good heart in every aspect of daily life, practicing virtue, compassion, equanimity, love, and joy—this is the way to enlightenment.
Question: You have taught that the difference between practitioners and nonpractitioners is that nonpractitioners perceive the phenomenal world as if looking through a window, whereas practitioners do so as if looking in a mirror. Could you say more about this, since it is so important for our practice?
Response: If we want to help others eliminate flaws and develop positive qualities, we have to ensure that we ourselves have at least purified our own mind enough to benefit others rather than simply criticize them. We need to focus on our own flaws rather than on others’. When we have a negative thought, or even a neutral one, we must try to transform it into a virtuous one. The more we redirect the mind toward virtue the more its outer expression in speech and actions will become virtuous. This will create karma that leads to happiness instead of suffering.
If we repeatedly examine our thoughts, words, and actions and tame our own mind, our shortcomings will begin to diminish and our positive qualities will increase. The more we reduce our flaws, the more those around us will benefit. The more we enhance our positive qualities, the more we will be capable of helping others do so. As we practice in this way, we will begin to see differences in our relationships. We may find ourselves becoming more patient, loving, and kind, less likely to get into arguments, more inclined to find peaceful resolutions to conflict. Close relationships often provide the greatest test of patience. Our interactions with larger groups, at work or in our neighborhood, will also show us how well our practice is working.
Question: How can I bring spirituality into my daily life without neglecting my responsibilities?
Response: Following the spiritual path doesn’t mean neglecting things that need attention. You must continue to earn a living, maintain a home, and feed yourself and your family. But broaden your motivation. Understand that if you eat well and stay healthy, you may live longer, affording more time for practice so that you can increase your ability to benefit others. Expand your commitment to act on behalf of all beings, not just your family and friends.
We needn’t abandon worldly life, yet we must understand its illusory nature. Even as you earn money to support your family, don’t be fooled by the seeming reality of the experience. Remember impermanence. Awareness of the play of change imparts a stability to the mind, an equanimity not disrupted by loss or tragedy. We don’t have to give up working toward goals, and it’s wonderful when we achieve them. But if we can’t, we won’t become upset, because we never believed they were that important to begin with.
When we die, we’ll lose everything anyway. In the meantime, life is like a dance. Phenomena arise and subside; thoughts and emotions arise and subside. Trying neither to stop nor to engage them, we simply observe the illusory quality of the dance.
