Read Into the Heart of Life Online
Authors: Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo
Tags: #General, #Religion, #Buddhism, #Rituals & Practice, #Tibetan
Into the Heart of Life (10 page)
We have this incredible potential as human beings—we have buddha nature—but look what we do with it. This is the underlying truth of compassion—it is when we realize the enormity of our dilemma, and how so few people are really sincerely interested in finding a way out. Even when they think they are. They may want to find a way out, but there are so many other things happening. Maybe tomorrow, they say. Opening to this underlying truth is to open to true compassion, and this is not mere pity or idiot compassion.
In England in the early 1960s, I became a Tibetan Buddhist of the Kagyu tradition. And so I was very happy to meet Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, a Kagyu lama. He came to England with Akong Rinpoche. Trungpa Rinpoche was going to study at Oxford University, but when he first arrived he stayed with a middle-class family. They invited me and my mother to go and meet him, which we did. In those days, of course, there were very few people interested in Tibetan Buddhism. This was in an era when mostly Theravadin Buddhism was practiced, and Zen and Tibetan Buddhism were looked on with suspicion. Trungpa Rinpoche didn’t have many friends. The two Kagyu lamas arrived and they were put in Oxford and then what—there was John Driver, who was a Tibetan scholar who was there to help them, but they had very few friends. As a result, one weekend they would come to visit us in London and at the next weekend my mother and I would go to Oxford. In this way we got to know them quite well.
Trungpa Rinpoche was very interesting because he was nothing like what I imagined a lama should be. And yet I felt he was the real thing. I didn’t know quite why, but I had met several lamas by this time, and I felt that somehow he had a certain quality which the others did not have.
And then Trungpa Rinpoche said to me one day, “Well, look. You might not believe this, but actually in Tibet I was quite a high lama and I never thought it would come to this. But please, can I teach you meditation? I must have
one
student!”
So I said, “Okay, if you feel like this.”
None of us imagined that he would go on to have such an incredible influence on introducing Tibetan Buddhism to the West, and with such brilliance. Because in those days, his English was very limited; he struggled to express concepts beyond the range of his language. But he ended up with a facility in English that was so brilliant and innovative. He used the language to convey what he needed to express.
Tibetan lamas are educated to be extremely traditional. What is emphasized in their training is memorization and the ability to reproduce the words of former masters eloquently. Your own thoughts are not really appreciated unless they mirror the thoughts of the lineage lamas. Innovation is not appreciated on the whole. It’s fascinating to see how many of the younger Tibetan lamas have taken their understanding of the Dharma and interpreted it anew for the very different minds which they meet in the West. I think it shows their sheer brilliance and the depth of their genuine understanding of the Dharma. They are offering their own genuine realization through extraordinary words which have no equivalent in Tibetan. And of course Trungpa Rinpoche led the way.
It is also interesting to see what happens when some of these lamas who are very innovative in English go back to speaking in Tibetan. Many of the younger Tibetans like to listen to English-language teachings—they can actually relate to them much more than to the more traditional Tibetan ways of expressing Dharma.
When lamas come to the West, where ceremonies are at a minimum, they are able to express whole other levels of their personality which normally wouldn’t come out of them in a more traditional framework. Trungpa Rinpoche showed this very much. Because he had the karma to go to the West, a whole different expression of Dharma was given birth. It is pretty amazing what one person can do.
Q: There is this constant feeling of wanting to make an effort and yet still not really making enough effort. It is very difficult to really have enough compassion for myself, too.
JTP: Oh, absolutely. I think it is very important that we start where we are. When the Buddha taught loving-kindness and compassion—which we radiate to our loved ones and to people toward whom we feel fairly neutral and to those with whom we have problems and difficulties—he always emphasized that we have to start by giving compassion to ourselves. Ultimately, of course, we have to go beyond the ego and realize the nature of the mind. But in the meantime, in order to help us on the path, until we are at that state of pure awareness, we need to have an ego which is cooperating. We need a cooperating ego. Therefore we need to have a sense of self-esteem before we start breaking down the ego.
Shantideva, a great seventh-century Indian pandit, says that there is a huge distinction between pride and arrogance, which is a negative emotion, and self-confidence, which is essential on the path. The Tibetans translated the word
bodhisattva
, one who strives to obtain enlightenment out of compassion for all beings, as meaning an enlightened spiritual hero. We have to believe in ourselves, and in our own potential; we have to cooperate with ourselves, and encourage ourselves, and not be an obstacle on our own path.
So in the beginning we need to have an ego which is well adjusted, an ego which isn’t always undermining our efforts. We don’t diminish ourselves—that’s not the point. That just creates a wounded, unhappy, desperate ego. It is an expression of ego when we’re always pulling ourselves down, deprecating ourselves—thinking only about the worst in ourselves, and never encouraging ourselves by thinking of the good within us, our enormous potential for goodness.
We have to realize that this is the time. We don’t know where we will be in our next life. This is our opportunity, now. And we can do it. So please—all of you—give a lot of time and attention to how to take your daily life and use it as your path. So that at the end, when you come to die, you can look back and think, “Well, this has been a life worth living.” Maybe you are not radiating lights from a lotus twenty feet above the ground! But you have made some progress with this life. And that is something of benefit to you and to others.
There is a story of Drukpa Kunley, who was a great master, a yogi in the Drukpa Kagyu lineage. He went to Lhasa, to the Jowo Rinpoche statue, which is the most sacred statue in Tibet. It represents Shakyamuni Buddha.
Drukpa Kunley was very moved. He bowed down to the Buddha image and said, “You and I started out at the same time, but you attained enlightenment and I am still here in samsara. What is the difference between us? The difference between us is that you made the effort, and I am lazy.”
And that goes for all of us. Why are we still stuck in samsara after all these lifetimes? Because we make excuses. Because we don’t make the effort in the right direction. Patience and perseverance is the name of the game.
5
Renunciation
R
is
nge jung
.
Nge jung
expresses the sense of definitely leaving a place. It means to get out. “Renunciation” does not have the same connotation in Tibetan as it does in English, in which there may be pain attached. In English, for example, you would say, he renounced his fatherland; he renounced his wealth; he renounced his patronage. There is always a sense here of giving up, but with a kind of pulling up and out by the roots. In other words, “renunciation” gives the sense of regretfully turning one’s back on something which is desirable. Therefore, in Buddhist circles, when someone says, “You have to renounce something,” everybody makes a face and says, “Uggh!”
The Tibetan sense of “renunciation” is a little different. For example, if you were to tell your children that they have to give up playing with their toys, they would find it very painful. But as children grow up they lose their fascination for these toys. They outgrow them. Leaving their toys behind does not seem like “renunciation” to them; it’s just a matter of growing up. Likewise, in the spring and summer when the trees are full of leaves, there is resistance if we try to pull a leaf from a branch. But when autumn comes, the leaves spontaneously and of themselves part from the tree. Renunciation is closely aligned with this sense of parting. Outwardly it may seem like one is giving up something, and there might even be pain, but inwardly, interest in these things has been outgrown. Things fall away naturally.
In the 1960s and ’70s there were Westerners who left for India to look for “spiritual truths.” And on that journey there were those who came from affluent and well-endowed families. They had a lot to give up. They slept in dirty hotels, ate quite inedible food, and with joy, because they were getting so much more in return. It did not seem to them that what they were giving up was of value.
When the Lord Buddha left his palace and all his wealth and family, there was not a twinge of regret. I am sure the only thing he did feel was a pang in his heart for the welfare of his wife and young son. But he was going toward spiritual liberation, which is so much vaster, so much greater than anything he was leaving behind. Even the loss of his small son paled before all that there was to gain, and not just for himself, but for all beings. Some feminists get quite upset with the Buddha for having left behind his wife and small son, but had he not renounced his princely life, then for a start, we would not be inquiring into the nature of our lives in this way.
In our life we have to set values. What really matters to us in this life? If we don’t ask ourselves such questions, we just meander; we just try to keep comfortable. In order to have a definite direction, we need to set a purpose for ourselves. We need to ask ourselves, What would be a life well lived? Once we have set our purpose, we have to work out what things lead us along on that path and what things are merely distractions.
Many people ask how enlightenment can be achieved. And a few, very few, ask how they may develop genuine renunciation. Such questions are like asking how one may grow a bodhi tree in one’s heart. Now in order to grow a bodhi tree properly, we need first to prepare the ground. We have a plot of land, and that is called our heart, our heart center. As with any other plot of ground in which you are trying to grow a plant, first you have to protect it.
We may protect the ground of our heart through the observance of five basic ethical principles, or precepts. I am sure that the majority of us know these basic principles of living in this world harmlessly—not taking life, not taking what has not been given, not lying, not engaging in sexual misconduct, and not taking intoxicants. Not taking life includes not only human beings, but animals, fish, and insects; not taking anything that has not been given to us includes returning anything that we have borrowed, such as books, DVDs, and so forth. The precept on sexual misconduct means being responsible for one’s sexual conduct—not using any person in any exploitative way, not engaging in any kind of sexual relationship which could cause any possible harm to anybody at any point in time. The precept on intoxicants arises because they usually affect the mind. When people are under the influence of alcohol and drugs, they can become violent and abusive. Compassion and the loving aspects of our nature are ignored. After all, Buddhism deals with the mind—how one may become its master rather than its slave.
Let us look at the precept about speech, because we are very affected by the speech of others. It is not just the words we say but the tone in which we say them. Often when there are fights and disagreements people part from one another because of words. Standing back from oneself and just listening as one speaks—not judging, but just listening as though one were outside oneself—is a very skillful practice. Our words are a very important part of our conduct. Which means our words should be truthful. And they should be kind and non-divisive. Our words should not set one person against another. There is no need to indulge in meaningless talk and gossip; there is no need to create hurt and disharmony. We have this wonderful gift of language; let us treasure it and be responsible for spreading harmony and happiness among all people, especially our colleagues and our family. These precepts are not commandments. They are a form of training we undertake to help us naturally bring our conduct and speech into conformity with that of an enlightened being.
So now we have made a fence around our garden. But we must also consider the ground itself. In general, this ground has hardly been worked for many years. It is full of good and bad habits, and it is full of judgments and prejudices which have never been queried. It is full of absorption in
me,
and full of things that are
mine.
And the ground is full of memories that we have never seriously sorted through.
When you want to travel lightly, carrying everything on your back, you sort through all your things. You have to decide what is essential and what is not essential. You have to make clear choices. And so it is with all the clutter and junk that sits in the mind.
In traditional texts, the idea of renunciation, of
nge jung,
is closely associated with the idea of leaving one’s homeland, because these ideals are based on the traditional Buddhist view that we should go from home life to the homeless life and henceforth wander. If you read traditional texts, like
The Words of My Perfect Teacher
by Patrul Rinpoche, you know that it is regarded as a sine qua non of the spiritual life that the first thing you do is leave your home and wander off. You leave behind home, family, friends, possessions, and so forth, and away you go. Naturally, many people, not least Tibetans, read that and ignore it! The most they manage is to move in to the local monastery and arrange for support by their family. But foreigners when they read these books take such views very seriously and become quite alarmed. Because they have no intention of leaving behind their family, friends, and country, they feel that they have failed before they even started. But it is not things or people which are the problem—it is our attachment to things and people.
The point is not so much outer renunciation, leaving home and family; what we need to work on is inner renunciation. Genuine renunciation comes when we outgrow our fascination with and involvement in worldly things—when we outgrow what had once seemed so important to us.
When I first became Buddhist, I was in London in the early 1960s. I didn’t know any other Buddhists. I read a text that said we had to renounce the world, and I thought, “Right.” I was eighteen years old. Promptly I packed up all my clothes, handed them to my mother and said, “You give them away.”
As I did not know what Buddhist renunciants looked like, I got this dress made, which had a hole for my head to go through and two holes for my arms and was just gathered around the waist. It was a bit like a Greek tunic. I wore flat shoes, pulled my hair back, and wore no makeup. I went round like this for several months. Eventually I discovered that there was a Buddhist society in London, and so my mother and I went to visit. The Buddhist society in London was full of middle-aged, middle-class ladies, none of whom was wearing a Greek tunic. But they were wearing high heels and makeup! Since I assumed they were more experienced than me, I thought maybe I had made a bit of a mistake somewhere!
“What a pity I gave away all my clothes!” I said to my mother. My very wise mother handed me the key to her wardrobe, and inside it I found all my clothes.
I had never been anywhere in my life until I first went to India in 1964. In those days, you did not really have backpacks. You had bags made of canvas or leather that you carried by the handles, which made them very heavy. I knew that where I was going, Dalhousie, was up in the mountains, which meant I would face cold weather. I also knew that India was hot. So I tried to pack for both. After folding my two long thick nightgowns made of warm flannel, I reached for my two pretty gingham ones that also went all the way to the ground. Before I left, someone gave me two very pretty little nylon nightgowns, and so I took those, too. In one bag I had six nightgowns.
Disorganized, in total disarray, the garden of our mind contains some very precious plants, but mostly it is all overladen with junk. And so we have three choices: we could live in the garbage dump, and leave it at that. Or we could say, “Aha! Garbage dump,” and begin to pull out the pieces of garbage one by one, looking at each piece: “Oh, that is interesting!” But of course this takes a long time, and in fact, since the amount of garbage we have been accumulating is endless, it will take us an endless amount of time to throw it all out, especially as more keeps coming in! Our third option is to recognize our garbage as mulch, as compost, and in this way feed the precious plants.
In our nunnery we have a lot of vegetable peelings and tea leaves and other material which we need to throw away. The only sensible thing to do with it is to create a compost heap. Initially, when the nunnery was founded, the girls just threw it outside, and it ended up as a great big smelly disgusting hill. So we invited an expert to teach them how to make compost properly. The essential points consist of aerating it and putting in little worms, but I won’t go into detail here. It makes a good analogy, though, to dealing with the rubbish in our minds. Because if we just leave it there, building up and accumulating, we end up living in the middle of a garbage heap, within which we try to make a little space for ourselves to feel at home. And of course our society does not help at all, because practically everything it contributes is just more garbage. So the point is, instead of allowing all of it to become just this solid, compact load of junk, we need to aerate it. If it can be aerated through pure awareness, then of itself, without any effort from our side, the garbage turns into this very friable and highly fertile compost which can then be used to grow our bodhi tree.
People think if something is very difficult or complicated it must be good, but often it is the simplest things which are best. But because something is so simple, we don’t believe it. Truly, even our most advanced yogis say that their practice is really very, very simple.
All true spiritual paths deal with how to dissolve this small sense of self to open to something which is so much vaster, whatever we may call that. For example, St. Paul said, “It is not I who moves and speaks, but Christ who moves in me.” But in the meantime, ironically, we also need—while we are living in our relative world, in our conceptual mind—to become friends with this sense of ego as an aid on our journey. Ultimately, the ego does not exist. At least, it does not exist in the way we see it. But in the meantime, when we say we have to overcome the ego, this does not mean that we can overcome it by beating it to death.
In the beginning, as we embark on our inner journey, we need to become at ease with ourselves, gain confidence in ourselves, and in this way, slowly, we can see through the duplicity of our minds. One of the most important aspects of the Buddhist path is the cultivation of the mind called meditation. The following is a simple but effective method suitable for most practitioners.
Meditation
There are three parts to meditation, and they are easy. They are simple.
Step one