Peace on Earth and Good Will (Metta) to All

As we enter the holiday season, we will hear the traditional words from Luke 2:14, in which the shepherds abiding in the fields heard the heavenly host of angels saying, "Peace on Earth, and good will to all men." Regardless of whether one comes from this Christian tradition or not, or whether you find it easier to believe in miracles such as virgin birth or that such stories were grafted on to the historical Jesus to make it more palatable for Greek culture that has a long tradition of gods, er, "collaborating" with humans, there are some remarkable aspects of this story. 

First, in the same Gospel that discusses lofty individuals such as Caesar Augustus and Governor Cyrenius, it is remarkable that the message of good will came to shepherds.  Shepherds were not considered to be of high social standing, yet this message was given directly to them, and not to more "important" people, to CNN, or to government officials who could spread it more easily.  Perhaps this demonstrates that peace is something that can only be found and supported by individuals.  I cannot grant you peace, but I can try to maintain good will toward you which may help support your attainment of peace.  It is a grass-roots message, rather than top-down.

Second, I am struck by the discussion of good will to all mankind.  This is similar to Thanissaro Bhikku's definition of metta. I quote (from this excellent article):

"Metta" is usually translated as loving-kindness, but often it is more helpful to think of it as goodwill....Goodwill is often a more skillful attitude than overt expressions of love, and for three reasons.  The first is that goodwill is an attitude you can express for everyone without fear of being hypocritical or unrealistic.  If the people around you haven't been acting lovably, it's good to remind yourself that although you don't condone your behavior --you don't even have to like them--you still wish them well.

The second reason is that goodwill is a more skillful feeling to have toward those who would react unskillfully to your love.  There are probably people you've harmed in the past who would rather not have anything to do with you ever again, so the intimacy of love would actually be a source of pain for them, rather than joy. There are also people who, when they see that you want to express love, would be quick to take advantage of it.  In these cases, a more distant sense of goodwill--that you promise yourself never to harm those people or those beings--would be better for everyone involved.

The third reason is that goodwill acts as a check on your behavior toward those you love to keep it from becoming oppressive.  It reminds you that people ultimately will become truly happy not as a result of your caring for them but as a result of their own skillful actions, and that the happiness of self-reliance is greater than any happiness coming from dependency.  If you truly feel goodwill for yourself and others, you won't let your desire for intimacy render you insensitive to what would actually be the most skillful way to promote true happiness for all.

Many of us will come together this season with friends and family members with whom we have complicated feelings.  Neither we nor they may be ready to enter into full intimate and vulnerable lovingkindness.  Cultivating good will toward all, however, may be easier on both us and them, allowing space for all the complicated feelings.

As Thanissaro Bhikku notes, "there's a passage in which the Buddha taught the monks a chant for spreading goodwill to all snakes and other things...Strikingly, the chant concludes with the sentence, 'May the beings depart.'  This reflects the truth that living together is often difficult..."  

Good will can offer the space that we may find lacking when we come back together and are confronted with old patterns and difficult feelings.  Perhaps Luke wrote them backwards: Good will to all is what can create peace on Earth.

Image sources: Here and here

The Golden Rule Makes Us Golden Fools?

There is a Chinese proverb:

Once, when a seabird landed outside the capital, the Marquis of Lu escorted it to his ancestral temple, had the music of the Ninefold Splendors performed, poured out a cup of old wine, and spread before it a feast of beef and pork.  But the bird became dazed, and it pined away, refusing to taste meat or wine.  In three days it was dead.

This was treating the bird as the marquis would have liked to be treated, not as the bird would have liked to be treated.  Had he done so, he would have let it roost in the deep forests, play among the islands, swim in the rivers and lakes, feed on mudfish and minnows, fly with the rest of the flock, and live any way it chose to. (Translation by Stephen Mitchell)

We have all been taught the "Golden Rule," that we should do unto others as we would have done unto us.  This is a valuable basic teaching when we are immature, but by adulthood we should get past it.  By trying to treat others as we would be treated, we are not actually being mindful of them or their wishes.  The problem is that it works well a lot of the time, because many of the basics are generally true - we do want to be listened to, to be accepted, to be treated with respect.  But the devil is always in the details, and these are rarely the same for two people.

For example, I was in a relationship with a woman who liked to be left alone when she was ill.  So when I got sick, she would leave me alone all day.  The problem is, I really like to be babied when I'm sick.  So when she got sick, I would make a fuss over her and try to take as much care of her as I could.  Needless to say, we both always felt unappreciated, no matter which role we were playing.  I was treating her as I would like to be treated, and was annoyed that she didn't appreciate it, while she was annoyed that I wasn't leaving her alone.  When I was sick, I felt abandoned and neglected because she was treating me as kindly as she could (from her assumption that she should treat me how she would like to be treated).  We were both being so kind to each other and couldn't see how following the golden rule just made us golden fools.  

Needless to say, the relationship ended badly.

Recall that the Buddha is said to have taught many different teachings to different groups, based on their level of spiritual development.  It is likely that Jesus did too.  His teaching that we should do to others what we would like done to us (Matthew 7:12) seems to be an entry-level teaching - it's a great place to start.  But it sets us on a path where our assumptions and past knowledge dictate our behaviors, rather than being open to the unfolding new situation with a person who isn't you.  

Image sources: Here and here.

Letting Go is Not Giving Up

At my meditation group last night, we discussed “letting go” in the context of painful memories, anger, disappointment, frustration, and injury.  I found myself intrigued by what seem to be two different meanings – a conventional cultural one and the Buddhist one.

I’m sure most of us have had the experience of being told by well-meaning friends and family that we should just “let go” of our feelings about some injury or heartbreak we have suffered.  In fact, we’ve probably said the same thing to ourselves (or to other people) once we feel that the suffering has gone on long enough.  Letting go seems from this perspective to have a meaning of getting beyond the feelings, forgetting them, or giving them up.   This seems to be a very difficult thing to do, at least in the short term.

In contrast, I take a Buddhist perspective on letting go to mean something much simpler and more possible in the short term.  By bringing mindfulness to the situation at hand, we may be able to recognize that there is nothing to be done at this moment about our anger, frustration, etc.  Therefore, we can let go of the need to ruminate at that moment.  This approach recognizes that the painful feelings are honest – it validates the fact that we still feel them – but it also recognizes that the situation does not require action from us.  If the situation does require action at that moment, we would hopefully recognize it and take the needed action.  In my experience, however, most of the time I’m feeling some angst, it’s me telling myself a story from the past or about the future.  The feeling may be honest, but worrying about it at that moment isn’t helping me – it’s usually hindering my ability to be fully functional in my life.  Therefore, letting go is very useful.  I know the feelings may come back, but hopefully at a time when I can use them skillfully.

This approach is summed up nicely thus: “Letting go is not a one-time decision. It’s something we may need to do repeatedly. But the more we practice, the easier it becomes to come back to the present moment.” [Editor's note: I have finally tracked down the author of this quote - Lori Deschene, founder of TinyBuddha.com, from her e-book on Letting Go of Difficult Emotions]

Many teachers emphasize that this is one major goal of basic breath meditation – to teach us to recognize when we are not present and to let go of whatever thought or feeling took us away.  Practicing this little letting go on the cushion can help us to do it with larger feelings when we’re off the cushion.

I would be interested to hear whether people have found this to be true in their experience.

Sources: Quote, photo, photo. This was originally posted on the Interdependence Project blog.

Mudita and the Angry Itch

It's a real burden to want to be happy all the time.  In fact, it's such a burden that we often think others should help us to shoulder it - we look to others to "make" us happy, which is a Sisyphean task (at best). Not only that, but it's a thankless task, because we feel so entitled to be happy that when others "make" us happy, we take it for granted.  It can easily be the case that we only tell others about it when they're not making us happy - this is our angry itch.

With this mindset of expecting others to make us happy and punishing them when we're unhappy, it's no surprise that it's such a burden and that repeated scratching doesn't really ease the itch.  We become the cruel taskmasters of others' impossible tasks.

The real shame is that others can make us happy easily, without our micro-management or prodding.  All we need to do is cultivate mudita, sometimes translated as empathetic joy.  It is the opposite of schadenfreude (taking pleasure in others' suffering).  Instead, we take pleasure in others' successes, happiness, good fortune, and enjoyment.  

Parents may understand this perhaps more easily than non-parents, because we have so many opportunities to witness our child's joy in something in a way that cuts through our frustrations.  I may want to leave the park and get on with what I think I should be doing, but seeing my daughter's delight at finding a rock in the sand cuts through my preoccupations and shows me the joy in each moment.

It is significant that the four divine abodes (lovingkindness, compassion, empathetic joy, and equanimity) are considered to be antidotes to three poisons (plus one).  Cultivating lovingkindness toward others counteracts irritation and aggression. Cultivating compassion toward others counteracts indifference.  Cultivating empathetic joy counteracts greediness and jealousy.  Cultivating equanimity counteracts worry about the past and future.

At some points in our path, we can have a very selfish attitude toward the four divine abodes.  "Why should I spend so much energy trying to feel good about others when I have so much work to do on myself first?"   This attitude is misplaced selfishness - it's trying to scratch the angry itch that we can't really reach.  If we truly wanted to be successfully selfish, meditating on lovingkindness, compassion, empathetic joy, and equanimity will help us to feel better about ourselves.  Specific to mudita, if we learn to feel and share in others' joys, we then have many people helping us to feel happy, and they are doing it without our making them feel they should!  It's like the students who park outside my house to "share" my wireless internet connection (because I don't password protect it).  They get what they want just by being near someone who has it.  You can be happy just by sharing in the happiness that is going on all around you all day.  Finally, that itch can be scratched, and no one has to work to reach it!

This post originally appeared on the Inderdependence Project blog.

I Had Friends on that Death Star...

I’m wearing one of my favorite ϋber-geek t-shirts (shown to the left).  It reads, “I had friends on that Death Star.”  It makes me cry.  It makes me laugh.  It reminds me that there is always another side to consider.  My point of view is the minority.

In Buddhism, we often talk about “compassion,” but it’s sometimes unclear to me what we mean by it.  The English word comes from the Latin com- (together or with) and passio (to suffer), and therefore properly means to suffer with.  This strikes me as more than simple sympathy, where we can feel pity for someone’s suffering, or even empathy, where we can understand what it is someone else is feeling.  It is a dagger through our own heart.  We share someone’s suffering.

In Buddhist texts, the word that is most often translated as compassion is Karuṇā, and could also be translated as “mercy.” Elizabeth Harris notes that compassion seems to have three aspects in Buddhist texts:

Yet central to all is the claim that karu.naa concerns our attitude to the suffering of others. In the Buddhist texts the term often refers to an attitude of mind to be radiated in meditation. This is usually considered its primary usage. Nevertheless, the definitions of Buddhist writers past and present, as well as the texts themselves, stress that it is also more than this. Anukampaa and dayaa, often translated as "sympathy," are closely allied to it.[18] In fact, at least three strands of meaning in the term "compassion" can be detected in the texts: a prerequisite for a just and harmonious society; an essential attitude for progress along the path towards wisdom (pa~n~naa); and the liberative action within society of those who have become enlightened or who are sincerely following the path towards it. All these strands need to be looked at if the term is to be understood and if those who accuse Buddhist compassion of being too passive are to be answered correctly.

Psychologists note that empathy has both cognitive and emotional aspects to it.  We can cognitively understand someone else’s situation and why it may be difficult without having empathy for it.  To have empathy, we need also to have some understanding feeling that is compatible with the other person – we have to be able to see things from their point of view for a while.

It is surprisingly difficult to take someone else’s point of view, actually.  I have a little demonstration that I like to do in my college classes.  I get two volunteers from the class to come up front, and I make them sit back to back.  I give them each a baggie with about 10 or 12 Lego pieces in it.  The pieces are all distinctly different from each other – different shapes, sizes, and colors.  I tell one of the students to build whatever he or she wants but to describe it along the way so that the other student can build exactly the same thing.  The other student is not allowed to speak, ask questions, or make any noise – just to listen and build the same thing.  This really should not be that hard… it’s only 10 easily identifiable pieces.  Yet, in over 10 years of doing this exercise, the students have NEVER built the same thing.  This demonstrates how deeply egocentric we are.  When I see something, it seems so intuitively understandable to me that I can’t even guess how you might see it differently. 

Perhaps this is why compassion is one of the four “divine abodes.” We need to go beyond ordinary seeing to truly be able to understand someone else’s point of view.  But even the ability to see from someone else’s point of view may only get us to empathy.  What makes compassion different from empathy?

My current perspective on this question gets back to the Latin roots.  If we truly “suffer with” someone, we (1) begin to understand their perspective, (2) we feel what they are feeling, and (3) most importantly, we gain the motivation to reduce or end the suffering. 

Let’s be honest.  How many of us American Buddhists found our dharma practice deepened as a result of some trauma, loss, or other painful event?  Suffering brings with it the desire to end suffering (c.f., Brahmana Sutta and here).  This motivational aspect is one of the real benefits of suffering.

Compassion brings with it the motivation engendered by suffering.  In contrast, sympathy doesn’t require action – it just acknowledges someone else’s suffering.  Compassion, that is, suffering with someone, makes us want to do something.  It can help set us on the path to end suffering for others.

Image sources here and here.  This was originally posted on the Interdependence Project blog.

Cynicism and the Three Pillars of Zen

I enjoy visiting New York City, a city famed for its cynicism.  In fact, being a New Yorker is largely equated with being a cynic.  Cynicism is not confined to one group of people, however.  In fact, it often seems that cynicism is culturally celebrated to the point that it is almost considered an art form.  In contrast, consider skepticism.  Instead of an art, skepticism is at the heart of science.  We do not want to believe anything until we have some reason to believe it.  This appears to be very similar to the Buddhist view, that you should not believe things just because someone told them to you, but instead to trust your own experience.  So what is the difference?  Shambhala senior teacher Ethan Nichtern once gave a talk that discussed this distinction, which I largely summarize here.

 In the Japanese Zen tradition, it is said that there are three pillars of an approach to life that can bring us understanding and balance.  The first of these is dai-gidan, which is often translated as "great doubt."  Doubting has immense power. It allows us to remain curious and to consider multiple alternative perspectives.  This is deeply important because as soon as we think we understand something, we stop paying attention.  We then miss the truth about it because nothing is ever as simple as our minds try to make them.  Once we think we think we have the answer, we stop questioning.   Once we understand something, we grow bored with it.  Consider the example of your family.  Perhaps you have had the experience that your parents and siblings treat you similarly year after year, not realizing how much you have changed.  This is one danger of thinking that we "know" something.  Great doubt is so valuable because we can continue to pay attention to see what we haven't seen before.  It helps us to keep from closing off our minds because we believe that we are "right" (and everyone thinks they are right, even though the truth is that we are almost always wrong... but that is a subject for another post).

Doubt is clearly valuable, but on its own it is shallow.  The second pillar is dai-shinkon, or "great faith."  These two seem contradictory, don't they?  How can one have both great doubt and great faith?  The faith of Buddhism is not the blind faith that many religions have (such as the Christian faith I was raised in – where one is simply asked to believe certain things without any particular reason and without questioning them).  As Sharon Salzberg states in her book Faith, faith is better thought of as a verb than as a noun.  Faith isn't something you have, it's something you do.   Therefore, the great faith is a faith in the power of scrutiny – it is faith that the power of genuine curiosity and openness will lead you to something valuable.  It is a faith in your own experience. 

So what is cynicism?  It is great doubt without great faith.  Think about something you have been cynical about.  In my life, I have often been cynical about romantic relationships and marriage.  When you are feeling cynical, what types of things do you think about?  You think harsh things, often bitter things.  You often blame someone (perhaps even yourself, which can be a good thing).  You may say very clever things that express your cynicism (as examples, the US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger once said, "90% of politicians give the other 10% a bad name," or American writer Ambrose Bierce defined love as "a temporary insanity, curable by marriage.").  These witty cynical sayings betray three deeper issues – there is a deep hurt or disappointment underneath, there is a sense of helplessness about the situation, and there is a desire to regain control (or at least to appear to have some control).  But if we do not temper the doubt without faith, then we will not see the opportunities to change the situation.  In fact, if I am always cynical about romantic relationships, this would be likely to scare off many people with whom I could have had a good relationship. 

As a university professor, I am surrounded by smart people and people who wish to appear smart.  One thing I have witnessed countless times is that people are often critical of things simply as a way to appear smart.   Imagine going to a movie with some friends and after seeing the movie you ask your friends what they thought of it.  If one says that he liked it because the characters developed in a believable way and another says that he didn't like it because he thought the plot was too simplistic, we will usually feel that the second person thought more deeply about the movie and somehow has a smarter opinion.  It is funny that we value criticism so much, but it is very human.  Humans have what is called a "negativity bias."  We overvalue negative information relative to neutral or even positive information.  For example, if you are considering what type of car to buy and you hear one positive thing about a type of car and one negative thing, you will make your decision based far more on the negative information than on the positive information.  In fact, you will likely override five positive things if you hear one negative thing! (Baumeister, Bratslavsky, Finkenauer, & Vohs, 2001) It is actually very easy to criticize things and people.  So why do we think that criticism demonstrates something smart, when everyone can do it without actually knowing anything?  Therefore great doubt is not sufficient.

Great faith by itself, however, is no better.  If all we have is a deep belief in our own experience and thoughts, we will be arrogant.  We will have a tendency to become fundamentalists, where we think that our way of believing is the only possible correct way.  We will think that we are "right" and we will dismiss other's ideas, thoughts, feelings, and beliefs.  This way of thinking will not bring us happiness, only conflict.

Faith cannot simply be equated with belief, however.  Faith must mean that we are searching.  Faith implies a questioning, and that we believe/have faith that we will be able to make progress. We will find a truth.  But is this Truth with a capital "T?"  Only if we forget great doubt.  Great faith without great doubt is blind belief that we have found Truth.  Yet our own experience teaches us that truths change constantly.  Who we are is constantly changing.  The world and all the people in it are constantly changing.  Our relationships with ourselves, each other, and even with God are changing.  In fact, we often become cynical because some Truth turned out not to be as permanent as we had hoped.

How is skepticism different from cynicism?  It is great doubt in balance with great faith.  We do not hold tightly onto any capital-T truth, although we constantly seek truths.  We understand that our conception of truth may change as we learn more, and we believe that our seeking will be useful.  We have faith that we can trust our experiences, yet we doubt that we have ever learned everything that we need to.  I might even go so far as to claim that skepticism is a type of wisdom.  It is wise to rely on what you have learned, but to know that you do not yet know everything there is and are therefore going to make mistakes. 

Great doubt and great faith are only two of the pillars, and although they bring a balance they do not bring progress.  The third pillar is dai-funshi, often translated as "great effort."  This is the effort needed to keep questioning, to keep exploring, to keep from becoming cynical.  Cynicism takes no effort, which is one of the reasons why it feels so good.  It's a way of feeling in control of something that we aren't in control of without putting in any real effort. 

Great effort is what moves us back and forth along the balance between doubt and faith.  It is easy to believe we are right.  It is easy to stop being curious.  It is easy to rely on the prejudices and stereotypes we have.  In fact, the reason we have these prejudices is often beneficial much of the time. 

Consider this story:  You know a girl whom you think of as your best friend.  You like to confide in her, to tell her your secrets.  You feel that you can always rely on her to stick up for you.  But you learn that she actually always tells your secrets to other people and makes fun of you behind your back.  It would be foolish to continue to consider her as your best friend.  On the other hand, if she has a history of betraying your trust, then it is to your benefit to change your idea of her.  But if you now assume that she is likely to be unkind to you, you will probably treat her very differently.  This may make it harder for you to be friends again in the future. 

We like to put labels on people.  We give them labels such as friend, enemy, Republican, Democrat, liar, stupid, funny, etc.  The problem isn't that we have the labels.... the problem is that we believe the labels to be Truth.  People are more than what we see.  Reality is always more complex than we perceive and remember.  As long as we believe in the label, we will always miss seeing the real person.  If someone has stopped being our friend, as long as we believe that she has become an enemy, she cannot become our friend again.  It is hard to hold both points of view at once – that she often acts unkindly, but maybe she might act kindly sometimes too.  This is where great effort is needed.

Reference: Baumeister, R. F., Bratslavsky, E., Finkenauer, C., & Vohs, K. D. (2001). Bad is stronger than good.  Review of General Psychology, 5, 323-370.  This post originally appeared on The Interdependence Project blog.  Images sources here, here, here, and here.

What Do You Mean, "You're Welcome?"

I was recently in France and Spain, trying pathetically to at least speak the bare minimum of niceties in each country’s language.  This brought me face-to-face with some of the differences in phrasing, and potentially some differences in meaning.  In America, we’ve all been taught to say “You’re welcome” when someone thanks us for something.  In fact, most of us have learned this polite response so well that it’s almost a nervous tic.  We say it automatically, with little thought other than perhaps a vague feeling that we should say it.  Yet, it is a surprisingly remarkable phrase, especially when contrasted with the equivalent phrase in other languages. 

Buddhism teaches us to examine the routine aspects of our experience, especially those we do habitually or automatically.  It also teaches us that our intentions matter, which become especially interesting to consider for habitual responses.  Do they even have an intention once they’ve become automatic?

When we say “you’re welcome,” it can be perfunctory, with no intention and little attention, other than to complete a ritual or to be perceived as gracious and polite.  Yet at its core, this is a profound statement of intention.

In many other languages the corresponding phrase is dismissive.  “De nada” in Spanish, “Ne rien” in French, “Nincs mit” in Hungarian, “Bú kèqi” in Chinese, and even “No worries” in Australian all basically mean “It’s nothing, don’t mention it, it’s no problem.”  This approach can certainly be gracious, but it also seems like it could be taken as not paying attention.  It ignores what might have taken genuine effort - It doesn’t acknowledge intent.

In contrast, “you’re welcome” demonstrates intent.  It offers the other person freedom to act.  If I welcome you to my home, I am setting you free in it. I am giving you access, and am not guarding or protecting or clinging to it.  This seems to me to be a profound intent to let go, to allow, and to honor the other beings.  It doesn’t cling to the idea of a certain outcome.  In this way, “you’re welcome” seems very different from “It’s nothing.”  Although we often say it with very little intention, we could change that.  With a small amount of effort, we can pay attention to this little letting go with compassionate intent.

Examining the differences between these meanings, however, is only one approach to consider.  How are these ways of saying it similar?  They all seem to demonstrate an understanding of emptiness (shunyata) and non-self.

De nada.  It’s nothing.  I see the gap.  There is no necessary action required.  There is no outcome needed.  There is nothing to cling to (even if I have an intention of lovingkindness).

No matter which phrase we use, it expresses an openness to whatever is occurring and will occur, without worrying about what I need to do next.  I am not feeling indebted to you, nor do I expect something from you.  When we say “it’s nothing,” “no problem,” “you’re welcome,” can we see the emptiness we’re pointing toward?  Can we have the intention to allow the moment to unfold without our control, trusting in the inherent fecundity of the emptiness?

(This article was first published on the Interdependence Project Blog.  Image sources not by the author are here and here.)